Mystery Tribune / Issue Nº7: Fall 2018

ISSUE NO. 7

MysteryTribune

FALL 2018

MysteryTribune

P.O. Box 7638, New York, NY 10116 / email info@mysterytribune.com

To subscribe go to mysterytribune.com or call 347 770 1361

Publisher and Managing Editor

Ehsan Ehsani

Associate Editor

Jerry Holt

Cover Illustration

Nahuel Bardi

Design and Art Direction

Leo Lipsnis

Subscriptions and Advertising

Rachel Kester

IT Manager

Jack Rodriguez

Contributors

Max Allan Collins, Reed Farrel Coleman, Ragnar Jónasson, Michael Anthony, Lance Mason,

Justin Bendell, Alison Preston, Charles Salzberg, Joe De Quattro, Bern Sy Moss, Richard

Risemberg, Michael Smith, Hector Acosta, Charles Perry, Patty Maher, Milica Staletovic,

Nathan Colantonio, Linda Kristiansen, Philip Kanwischer, Cara Hunter

Contents

ISSUE NO. 7

FALL 2018

Editor’s Note

Ehsan Ehsani

Publisher and Managing Editor

One of the distinguishing factors of Mystery Tribune, and something which I am really proud of, is the fact that we are truly a global magazine. As an example, so far all our cover designs have been created by renowned non-American artists and our photography and art section receives and features thought-provoking collections from all over the world. Even the process of developing the physical issues happen in three continents.

Diversity and welcoming niche point of views have always been a cornerstone of our work and we are happy to see that our readers and subscribers enjoy it too.

Fall 2018 edition of Mystery Tribune is no different from previous issues in this sense: Ragnar Jónasson, the bestselling Icelandic author of Detective Ari Thor series, has sent us a short story which we highly recommend. We think you will also be delighted to read the new Moe Prager story from Reed Farrel Coleman who needs no introduction.

When it comes to photography, we have a lot of Canadians in this issue: The dark and mystical work of Patty Maher is truly fascinating to view. Nathan Colantonio and Philip Kanwischer have also provided us with a great showcase of their surreal art. The issue also features the work of Linda Kristiansen from Norway and Milica Staletovic from Serbia which you should not miss.

You can also enjoy a preview of the new Mike Hammer graphic novel along with an interview with Max Allan Collins who brought this new title to life.

Mystery Tribune is a one of a kind magazine and that, in part, is because of the support of loyal readers such as you. We hope you enjoy our Fall 2018 edition and come back for more in 2019 when we will release our special anniversary edition.

Fiction

The Devil

Always Knows

A Moe Prager Story

by Reed Farrel Coleman

I  lied. That everyone lied or shaded the truth to fit their lives’ narratives was of no comfort to me. Maybe that was just an aspect of my Jewishness. The guilt associated with nearly everything. Thanks, Mom . The truth was much harsher and had nothing to do with my religion or my parents. There was simply nothing to comfort me after my divorce. What’s the line from the Elvis Costello song? It’s the words that we don’t say that scare me so. It was one of those lies of omission that blew up my marriage, a time bomb of words unspoken. The seeds of the lie were sewn in the late ‘70s. I was lost in those days. A lot of people were lost back then, but again, I took little solace in being a fellow traveler of the lost.

Son of Sam had one last victim nobody knew about — me. On August 11 of ’77, I had just returned from special assignment, working crowd control at David Berkowitz’s arraignment. In my absence, two things happened at the ugly concrete box known as the Six-O precinct on W 8th Street in Coney Island: the floor had been waxed for the first time in a year and someone had carelessly tossed a piece of carbon paper onto it. The cops who witnessed my final step in uniform say my knee twisted in such a way that even Gumby would’ve winced. That they were nauseated by the noise my knee made as every piece of connective tissue holding it together snapped, crackled, and popped. The reason I had to rely on other people’s accounts is that my head smacked against the floor as I went down that I didn’t come to until I opened my eyes in the ER at Coney Island Hospital.

But the lie that disappeared the twenty years of my marriage, isn’t the lie at the heart of this. I mean, I’ll tell you about that lie, too, about the words I didn’t say until it was too late and Schrodinger’s cat was already out of the box ... or not. The lie I’m talking about here, now, is the one I have repeated many times in my career as a PI. It goes like this — I don’t do divorce work. Never have and never will. Never, huh? What I’m admitting to you is that I did divorce work. One time. Then again, I only ever slipped on a piece of carbon paper one time. One time counts. If I believed in God and he talked, I’m pretty sure he would tell you that only once isn’t much of an excuse. Think of how much heartbreak and pain would be drained from the human experience if we could take back all of our only-onces.

I didn’t like Herm. He was a bully who enjoyed shoving his wealth in your face.

Herm Carter was a corporate client of ours. A client of the wine business I owned with my big brother Aaron. When I was lost back there in the age of Plato’s Retreat, Studio 54, the Ramones, and EST — Erhard Seminars Training, not Eastern Standard Time — my brother threw me an anchor. It had always been his dream to go into the wine business. Foundering as I was, I grabbed the anchor and hitched my wagon to his dream. For many years, that decision was one of those only-onces I would have taken back. Now I’m less certain of that. Age will do that to a man, make him less certain of all the things he was once as sure of as the rising of the sun.

I didn’t like Herm. He was a bully who enjoyed shoving his wealth in your face. He was one of those people who equated cost with quality and money with class. But business isn’t about liking your customers. It’s frequently about taking their money and biting your lip so hard you bleed iron into your mouth. Herm owned two high end restaurants, a catering hall, and had his fingers in all sorts of dirty pies. So it was with great suspicion that I eyed him when he showed up at Red, White, and You, the wine store Aaron and I owned in Greenvale on Long Island. That’s just south of the Gold Coast. Neither Gatsby nor Daisy ever walked in, but there was so much wealth in the area the air was tinted green ... at least it felt that way to a poor schmuck from Brooklyn like me.

Herm had Marlboro man good looks. He was the kind of bastard who got handsomer as he aged. When his full head of neatly coifed hair turned gray, it went soft white/silver gray, not that dull shade of industrial steel wool. The lines on his face deepened, emphasizing the square lines of his jaw and lending him an undeserved aura of gravitas. He was perpetually tanned, highlighting his dark blue eyes and perfectly white teeth. He always made sure to wear exquisitely tailored clothing in just the right shades to enhance what nature and his personal trainer had given him. Still, he couldn’t help but ruin the affect by wearing so much gaudy, ridiculous gold and diamond jewelry that he might just as well have hung a flashing neon sign around his neck. And truth be told, I was glad to see gravity and Herm’s excesses were finally winning the battle and that he was beginning to fray at the edges. There was a detectable roll of fat hanging over his beltline. His blue eyes were weary and shot red with blood. It was all I could do not to click up my heels.

One of Herm’s few saving graces was that he did most of his business with us over the phone or by fax. The other was that he preferred dealing with Aaron. So it was odd when he parked his new, Hey-look-at-me-I’m-over-here-OVER-HERE-red Ferrari F355 in the fire lane outside the store.

Sorry, Herm, I said, but Aaron’s not in today.

He gave me an impatient sneer. I’m here to see you, Moe.

About?

You’re a licensed PI, right?

You already know that, Herm, or I take it we wouldn’t be talking.

He didn’t like that and hesitated. His demeanor said he wanted to find a way to bully me. Maybe condescend to me. He was a man whose breath smelled of condescension.

I did his bullying for him. Here’s where you threaten to take your business somewhere else if I don’t do as you ask.

That pushed him from impatience to something else. His face screwed itself up into an ugly thing that revealed his true nature. But he caught himself and put his human being mask back on. He even laughed at himself.

I like your brother, but I respect you. You don’t like me very much.

Wrong, I said. I don’t like you at all.

He was undeterred. I need your help. He took several photos out of the inside pocket of his blazer, sliding them across the counter to me. My wife. I think she’s cheating on me.

Of course, my opinion of Herm was so low that I wondered how any woman would have stayed married or faithful to such a pretentious asshole. But when I took a careful look at the woman in the photos, I was struck dumb. She was beautiful, ungodly so. I had only ever met one woman with looks like that and, by revealing her husband’s crimes to her, I had abetted in ruining her life. One lesson my part time work as a PI had taught me was the belief that the truth always made things better was utter crap. Sophistry, pure and simple. The truth often made things worse, much worse. Unless Herm’s wife was a saint, a fool, or willfully blind, she would need no help in discovering her husband’s true nature.

She’s gorgeous.

She is.

I don’t do divorce work. There it was, the lie. I figured I’d trot it out for show to see if Herm would fold and just go away.

He didn’t. I don’t want a divorce. I want to save my marriage. Christ, help me, but I think I’d kill myself without her in my life.

I know looks are superficial things and we’re supposed to believe it’s what’s on the inside that matters and that we shouldn’t objectify people and... Life is so full of shoulds and shouldn’ts, enough to choke on. Sometimes we need to be honest with ourselves and admit there are certain levels of beauty which, if only for a little while or from a distance, nullify all those what-we’re-supposed-to-believe-ins.

It wasn’t unearthly beauty or cheating that ended my marriage to Katy. Like I said, it was a thing I didn’t say. Four words, five syllables, to be precise: I found your brother. I should have told Katy immediately, in 1978. But once I didn’t say them and a