The two men argued constantly. They favored different football teams. Their taste in food was wildly different (lamb chops versus corned beef). When MacKenzie took up golf, his partner was suddenly playing tennis, pointing out that golf was just a game while tennis, in addition, was good exercise. But Dolan, even with his so-called exercise, was overweight. MacKenzie, on the other hand, was trim, but Dolan always made remarks about the hairpiece MacKenzie wore.
It was impossible. A Scotsman trying to do business with an Irishman, MacKenzie should have known their relationship would never work. But at the start, they'd been rival builders, each attempting to outbid the other for construction jobs and losing money in the process. So they'd formed a partnership. Together they were more successful than they'd ever been independently. Still trying to outdo each other, one would think of ways to turn a greater profit, and the other would feel challenged to be twice as clever. They cut costs by mixing too much gravel with the concrete, by installing low-grade pipes and sub-spec insulation. They kept special books for the IRS.
MacKenzie-Dolan Enterprises. Oh, the two of them were enterprising all right. But they couldn't bear to talk to each another. They tried to solve that problem by dividing work so MacKenzie ran the office and Dolan went out trouble-shooting. For a time, that did the trick. But after all, they had to meet to make decisions. Although they saw each other less, they saved their tension up and aggravated each other more.
To make things worse, their wives became good friends. The women were constantly organizing barbecues and swimming parties. Both men didn't dare argue at these get-togethers. If they did, they heard about it later from their wives.
"I hate that guy. He bugs me at the office, and he makes me sick at parties."
"You just listen to me," MacKenzie's wife said. "Vickie Dolan's my friend, and I won't have your childish antics ruining that friendship. I'll be sleeping on the couch tonight."
So both men braced their shoulders, staring toward the distance or peering inside their highball glasses (Scotch opposed to Irish whiskey) while their wives exchanged new recipes.
What finally caused all the trouble was that Dolan started making threats. "I wonder what the government would do if someone let them know about your special way of keeping books?"
MacKenzie replied, "And what about the sub-spec plumbing and the extra gravel in the concrete? You're the one responsible for that."
"The judge would simply fine me," Dolan quickly answered. "Now the IRS, that's a different kettle. If the tax man knew you were keeping separate books, he'd lock you in a dungeon where I'd never have to see your ugly puss."
MacKenzie stared at Dolan and decided there wasn't another choice. He'd tried to do the right thing, but his partner wouldn't sell. His partner even planned to turn him in and take the business for himself. There wasn't any way around it. This was self-defense.
***
The man was waiting at the monkey cage. A tall, thin, friendly-looking fellow, he was young and blond. He wore a tailored, light-blue jogging suit. He was eating peanuts.
At the water fountain, leaning down to drink, MacKenzie glanced around. The zoo was crowded. Noon, a sunny weekday. People on their lunchbreaks sat on benches, munching sandwiches. Others strolled among the cages. There were children, mothers, old folks playing checkers. MacKenzie heard tinny music from an organ grinder, muffled conversations, strident chattering and chirping. He was satisfied that no one paid attention to him, so he wiped some water from his mouth and walked over to the monkey cage.
"Mr. Smith?" MacKenzie said.
The young man didn't bother turning. He just chewed another peanut, and MacKenzie feared that he was speaking to the wrong man. After all, the zoo was busy. There were other men in jogging suits. Besides, no matter what the newspapers said, it wasn't easy finding someone who would do this kind of work. MacKenzie had spent several evenings haunting low-life bars before he even got a lead. Once, someone had thought he was a cop and threatened to break both his legs. But hundred-dollar bills were good persuaders, and at last he'd had a conversation on a pay phone. He'd have done this job himself, but after all, he needed an alibi, and what was more, he readily admitted, he didn't have the courage.
Now he'd made a mistake and approached the wrong man. Apparently, the man he was supposed to meet had decided that the meeting was a trap and he wasn't going to show up. As MacKenzie moved to leave, the young, blond fellow turned to him.
"Hey, just a second, Bob."
MacKenzie blinked. "Mr. Smith?"
"Just call me 'John'." The young man's smile was brilliant. He held out the bag. "You want a peanut, Bob?"
"No, I don't think — "
"Go on and have a peanut." The young man gestured amiably with the bag.
MacKenzie took a peanut. As he ate, he didn't taste it.
"Sure, that's right. Relax, and live a little. You don't mind if I call you 'Bob'?"
"As long as we can get this settled. You're not what I expected."
The young man nodded in agreement. "You were counting on a guy in a tight suit with a scar on his face."
"Well, no, but — "
"And instead you got a young man who looks like he ought to be surfing. I know exactly what you mean. It's disappointing." He frowned sympathetically. "But nothing's what it seems today. Would you believe I was a business major? As hard as I tried, I couldn't get a job in management, so now I'm doing this."
"You mean you're not experienced?"
"Just take it easy, Bob. I didn't say that. I can handle my end. Don't you fret. You see these monkeys?"
"I don't… What does…"
"Take a look at them."
MacKenzie turned in puzzlement. He saw a monkey in a tree, masturbating.
"No, I don't mean that one, Bob. Just watch this."
When the young man threw some peanuts, all the monkeys scrambled, fighting for them.
"See, they're just like us. We're all scrambling for peanuts."
"Well, I'm sure that's very interesting, but — "
"All right, you're impatient. I'm just trying to be sociable. But no one takes the time." The young man sighed. "So what's your problem, Bob?"
"My partner."
"He's stealing from the kitty?"
"No."
"He's fooling with your wife then?"
"No."
The young man nodded. "Bob, I understand."
"You do?"
"Of course. It's very simple. What I call the 'marriage syndrome'."
"What?"
"It's like you're married to your partner, but you hate him, and he won't agree to get divorced."
"That's incredible."
"Excuse me?"
"You're right. You do understand."
The young man shrugged and threw a peanut toward the monkey who'd been masturbating. "Bob, I've seen it all. My specialty is human nature. So you don't care how I do it?"
"Just as long as it's — "
"An accident. Precisely. You recall my price when we discussed this on the phone?"
"Ten thousand dollars."
"Half now, and half later. Did you bring the money?"
"In my pocket."
"No, don't give it to me yet. Go over. Put the envelope in that waste container. A few seconds from now, I'll walk over and stuff this empty bag in. When I leave, I'll take the envelope."
"His name's Patrick Dolan."
"The particulars are with the money?"
"As you wanted."
"Then don't worry, Bob. I'll be in touch."
"Hey, wait a minute. Afterward, I don't have any guarantee that — "
"Blackmail? You're afraid I'll extort you? Bob, I really am surprised at you. That wouldn't be good business."
***
Dolan left the hardware store. The afternoon was glaringly hot. He wiped his brow. He squinted. There was someone in his pickup truck.
A young man eating corn chips. Blond, good looking. In a jogging suit.
"O
f all the — "
Dolan stalked across the parking lot. He reached the truck and yanked the door open.
"Hey, buddy, that's my truck you're — "
But the young man turned, his smile disarming. "Hi, Pat. You want some corn chips?"
Dolan's mouth hung open. Sweat trickled from his forehead. "What?"
"The way you're sweating, you need salt, Pat. Have some corn chips."
Dolan's jaw went rigid. "Out."
"Excuse me?"
"Out before I throw you out."
The young man sighed with disappointment. Tugging down the zipper on his jogging coat, he showed the big revolver bulging from its shoulder holster.
Dolan felt something in his stomach drop. He blanched and stumbled backward, gaping. "What the — "
"Just relax now, Pat."
"Look, buddy, all I've got is twenty dollars."
"You don't understand yet. Climb on up here, and we'll talk a little."
Dolan glanced around in panic. No one seemed to notice him. He wondered if he ought to run.
"Don't try to run, Pat."
And, relieved of that decision, Dolan quickly climbed inside the truck. He ate the corn chips he was offered, but he couldn't taste the salt. His sweaty shirt was sticking to the truck seat. He kept squinting toward the bulging object underneath the jogging coat.
"Pat, here's the thing" the young man told him. "I'm supposed to kill you."
Dolan straightened so hard that he bumped his head against the ceiling. "What?"
"Your partner hired me. You're worth ten thousand dollars."
"If you think this is a joke — "
"I think it's business, Pat. He paid five thousand down. You want to see it?"
"But that's crazy!"
"Pat, I wish you hadn't said that."
Dolan flinched. The young man reached inside his jogging coat.
"No, wait a minute! Wait, I didn't mean that!"
"Pat, I only want to show you the note your partner gave me. Here. You'll recognize his writing."
Dolan glared at the note. "It's just my name and my address."
"And your description and your habits. See, he wants your death to seem an accident."
And Dolan finally accepted that this wasn't a joke. His chest heaved with sudden rage. His face went red. "That dirty bastard! Why, he thinks he's so damn smart! He's always bitching at me!"
"Temper, Pat."
"He wears that crummy hairpiece, and he wants to buy me out, but I won't let him have the satisfaction!"
"Pat, I understand. It's like the two of you are married, and you want to make him suffer."
"You're damn right I want to make him suffer! I put up with him for twenty years! So now he figures he can have me killed and take the business for himself? That sneaky, rotten — "
***
"Bob, I'm afraid I've got bad news for you."
MacKenzie almost spilled his Scotch. He turned. The young man stood beside him, eating popcorn at the bar.
"Don't tell me you botched the job!" MacKenzie's eyes went wide with horror. He glanced quickly all around as if expecting he'd be arrested.
"Bob, I never got the chance to start." The young man picked at something in his teeth.
"My God, what happened?"
"Nearly broke a tooth. These kernels aren't all popped. I ought to sue — "
"I meant with Dolan!"
"Keep your voice down, Bob. I know you meant what happened with him. No one cares if someone breaks a tooth. They only care about themselves. A shame. Do you believe in competition?"
"What?"
"Do you support free enterprise, the thing that made this country great??
MacKenzie felt his knees go weak. He clutched the bar. "I do," he muttered weakly.
"Then you'll sympathize with my position. When I went to see your partner — "
"Oh, my God, you told him!"
"Bob, I couldn't simply kill him and not let him have a chance to make a bid. That wouldn't be American."
MacKenzie started trembling. "Bid? What kind of bid?"
"Don't get excited, Bob. We figured he could pay me not to kill him. But you'd just send someone else. So what we finally decided was that he'd pay me to come back and kill you. He offered double, ten grand now and ten when you were shoveled under."
"He can't do that!"
"But he did, Bob. Don't go simple on me now. You should have seen his face. I mean to tell you he was angry."
"You accepted what I offered! You agreed to take my contract!"
"But a verbal contract isn't binding. Anyhow, you're in a seller's market. What I'm selling is worth more now."
"You're a crook!"
The young man's face looked pained. "I'm sorry you feel that way."
"No, wait. Don't leave. I didn't mean it."
"Bob, you hurt my feelings."
"I apologize. I don't know what I'm saying. Every time I think about that guy — "
"I understand, Bob. You're forgiven."
***
"Pat, you'll never guess what Bob did."
At the railing, Dolan shuddered. He was watching as the horses thundered toward the finish line. He turned. The young man stood beside him, chewing on a hot dog.
"You don't mean you told him."
"Pat, I had to. Fair is fair. He offered double our agreement. Twenty grand now, twenty later."
"And you've come to me to raise the price?"
"They're at the stretch!" the track announcer shouted.
"It's inflation, Pat. It's killing us." The young man wiped mustard from his lips.
"You think I'm stupid?" Dolan asked.
The young man frowned.
"That I'm a moron?" Dolan asked.
"Excuse me, Pat?"
"If I pay more, you'll go to him, and he'll pay more. Then you'll come back to me, and I'll pay more. Then… That's my limit! I'm not paying!"
"Fine with me, Pat. Nice to see you."
"Wait a minute!"
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"Of course, there's something wrong! You're going to kill me!"
"Well, the choice is up to you."
"The winner is — !" the track announcer shouted.
Horses rumbled by, their jockeys standing up to slow them. Dust drifted over the crowd.
"Dammit, yes, I'll pay you," Dolan muttered. "Do it this time. I can't sleep. I'm losing weight. I've got an ulcer."
"Pat, the race is over. Did you have a bet?"
"On number six to win."
"A nag, Pat. She came last. If you'd asked me, I'd have told you number three."
***
"You'll never guess what Pat did, Bob."
***
"You'll never guess what Bob did, Pat."
***
Dolan stopped beside MacKenzie, looked around and sighed, then sat on the park bench.
"So you figured you'd have him kill me," Dolan said.
MacKenzie's face was gaunt. "You weren't above the same temptation."
Dolan spread his hands. "Self-defense."
"But I should sit back while you sic the IRS against me?"
"That was just a joke."
"Some joke. It's costing me a fortune."
"Hey, it's costing me as well."
"We've got a problem."
They nodded, feeding bread crumbs to the pigeons.
"I've been thinking," Dolan said. "The only answer I can see — "
" — is both of us will have to kill him."
"Only way."
"He'll bleed us dry."
"If we pay someone else to kill him, the new guy might try something cute as well."
"We'll do it both together. That way, you can't point the blame at me."
"Vice versa."
"What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"
They glared at each other.
***
"Hi there, Bob. How's tricks, Pat?" The young man smiled from behind MacKenzie's desk. He munched a taco, go
ing through their records.
"What the hell is this now?"
"But he claimed that you expected him," the secretary said.
"Never mind. We'll deal with this."
"Just shut the door."
They stared at him.
"Hey, fellas, I've been going through your records. They're really a mess. This skimping on the concrete. And that sub-spec insulation. I don't know, guys. We've got lots of work ahead of us."
A drop of taco sauce fell on the records.
"Us?"
"Well, sure, we're partners now."
"We are?"
"I took the money you gave me. I invested it."
"In what?"
"Insurance. You remember how I said I was a business major? I've decided this sideline doesn't suit me. So I went to a specialist. The things a graduate's forced to do to get a job these days."
"A specialist?"
"A hit man. If the two of you decide to have me killed, you'll be killed as well."
MacKenzie's chest felt stabbed. Dolan's ulcer burned.
"So we're partners. Here, I even had some cards made up."
He handed one across, a greasy taco stain along one edge. MACKENZIE-DOLAN-SMITH. And at the bottom: CONTRACTORS.
I don't often use humor in my fiction. The story you just read is one of the exceptions. You'll come across a few other examples later. In contrast, this next story, "Black Evening," has no trace of humor whatsoever. Dark and disturbing, it is more in the tone of "The Dripping." Part of a series of stories about houses, it first appeared in a 1981 anthology called Horrors, edited by Charles L. Grant, and marks the beginning of a long association with Charlie. A skillful fiction writer, he also edited some of the most influential dark suspense anthologies of the seventies and eighties, including the much-praised Shadows series. Part of the reason I didn't write any short fiction from 1971 to 1981 is that I couldn't find a market for the type of stories I wanted to write. When I learned about Charlie's anthologies, I discovered I had a soul mate. Many of the stories in this collection appeared in publications that Charlie edited. Along with numerous other writers of dark suspense, I'm indebted to him.