The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel by Charles L. Grant Read Free Book Online Page A

received thus far for his
efforts had been grunts and a maddeningly professional, don’t
worry-about-it smile.
    She said her name was Trudy. Officer Iverson.
Fair hair in a thick braid at the back of her head, a minimum of
makeup, not much of a figure though he’d fought not to wince when
she’d shaken his hand.
    A footstep behind him, but he didn’t turn. If it
was one more goddamn neighbor asking one more damn fool question,
he would scream; he would tear off someone’s head; he would print
up flyers and pass them around so they’d leave him the hell alone
while his land died around him.
    The footstep passed on.
    Iverson rose, dusted her knees, tucked the bag
into a pocket of her tunic. “That should do it.”
    He waited.
    She glanced around, shaking her head helplessly.
“Tell you the truth, Mr. Bethune, I haven’t the slightest idea what
this is all about.”
    “Well, it has to be some kind of poison,” he
insisted, as he had when she’d first arrived, not ten minutes after
he’d called the station. “Things — plants, I mean — just don’t die
like that, not that fast, not practically overnight, for god’s
sake.” He looked for sympathy; she gave him a shrug. “Somebody did
it. It didn’t happen by itself.”
    Lips pulled, almost a smile. “We’ll let you know
as soon as we can.”
    “When?”
    “I don’t know. We’ll call.”
    Hands waved impotently. “And what am I supposed
to do now?”
    She passed him, paused, bowed her head for a
moment before patting the place where the bag had disappeared. “Mr.
Bethune, all I can say is, don’t try to plant anything new in any
of those places until we can find out what was used to destroy your
flowers.” Her tone told him she didn’t think this was a police
matter at all; his expression told her that this many plants cost
one hell of a lot of money, which postmen don’t have to throw
around, in case she hadn’t noticed. “Give us a call on Monday
—”
    “Monday!”
    “— and maybe we’ll have your answer. Take it
easy.” A last look. “Good thing nobody’s pet was around.”
    Right, he thought; it’s only a damn flower,
hell, at least it’s not a dog, god forbid.
    After she disappeared around the corner, he went
inside and sat in the kitchen until he couldn’t stand it anymore,
walked through every room until he wanted to scream, grabbed his
wallet from the dresser and walked to the Brass Ring just after it
opened. Molly wasn’t on duty yet, and for that he was grateful. He
didn’t think he could stand her commiseration, her sad smiles, or
her off-the-cuff psychology lectures.
    He drank slowly until supper, walked extra
carefully across the street to the Luncheonette, had a sandwich and
strong coffee, waited until he was sure he wouldn’t fall, then
returned to the bar.
    Drank while he listened to Oxley explain to a
newcomer the finer points of playing darts without putting a hole
or two in one’s foot.
    Stared at the walls, the ceiling, swiveled
around and looked out at the street. But the faces passing by were
indistinct, grey, and he turned away to watch the bartender wipe
off the tables.
    He blinked several times, quite slowly, and
tried to release his breath, suddenly caught in his lungs.
    “Hey,” he said quietly to the glass in his
hand.
    and he’s a creep, a so-called man who talks
to stupid goddamn flowers
    “Hey.”
    nothing but goddamn weeds
    In order to keep from bolting, and screaming, he
placed money and glass on the bar with exaggerated deliberation,
waved his usual farewell and strolled outside, where he leaned
immediately and heavily against the wall when the sun blared in his
eyes and set a painfully slow dervish working in his head. Not
good. This wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. He had to be sober when
he . . . no, maybe he wouldn’t go to the police. To Iverson the
Iron Bitch, who would most likely tell him that words don’t mean
much when they’re grumbled in a bar, and they certainly weren’t