Several hours later Evan Carlyle carefully guided his Mercedes coupe down the alley behind the condo, mindful of the danger associated with this particular trip. He pulled out of the alley and into Poker Chip Lane, drove sedately through the Desert View Subdivision, then turned left onto the Strip. Negotiating the main drag of Vegas without mishap would be the final hurdle to overcome this crazy night--the night he had brought an end to his silent partnership.
Fortunately, traffic was light. Still, sports cars zipped here and there, drunks lurched along the sidewalks and into the intersections, and the Las Vegas police seemed out in force. Steady, Evan.
At last he reached the far end of the Strip, turned onto the freeway leading southwest toward Los Angeles, then gunned the Mercedes into a warm desert breeze. The car smoothly accelerated to the legal speed limit and sped through the overheated night as though relishing the experience.
Thirty minutes later, Evan left the freeway and picked up a two-lane blacktop road, heading west toward the mountains. His mind was a patchwork of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He was having trouble coming to grips with what he'd done. He'd never thought of himself as a particularly violent person, but tonight he'd behaved like a maniac.
Must get him buried and out of sight.
Uh-oh! Behind him a car pulled onto the highway. Soon it's headlights' rapid growth in the rear view mirror gave Evan something to worry about. Christ! Not a cop. Please, don't let it be a cop.
But it was.
On came the red & blue flashers, and for a moment, Evan toyed with the idea of flooring the Mercedes and making a run for it. Quickly, though, he shrugged his shoulders, pulled the car over to the side, and killed the engine. He'd have to tough it out. Besides, the officer might not notice the hastily concealed bundle on the floor of the backseat. Evan had had to hurry things in the alley. A withering blast of heat greeted Evan as he lowered the car window, the searing invasion running counterpoint to the car's chilly air conditioned interior. Sweat beaded his brow as bile rose in his throat. Steady.
The highway patrol officer was a young woman, rather pretty actually, and her demeanor was anything but threatening.
"Evening, sir," offered the officer politely. "Kinda late to be out here in no man's land, isn't it?"
"Late?"
"Well, yes, it's 3:30 in the morning."
Evan pasted-on an avuncular smile. "Gosh, I had no idea of the time."
The girl briefly flashed her light around the car, then held it steady for a moment on Evan. He could sense her quickened interest.
"What's the trouble, officer? I wasn't speeding or anything, was I?"
She cocked her head at him in an inquisitive way, like a bird after a worm. "Well--sort of. I clocked you at 70." She had a voice like Holly Hunter.
"Gee, I'm surprised."
She leaned forward, still trying to place him. "Not exactly a capital offense. But you should watch it. Say, haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
Evan froze. He tried to disarm her with a little humor.
"That's my line, isn't it?"
She laughed, but her eyes strayed to the bundle on the floor of the back seat. "I know you from somewhere. You from Vegas?"
"Uh-huh."
"Show-biz, maybe?"
"Well--"
She checked the back seat again, then stiffened. Her eyes narrowed and she stepped back from the car. "What have you got under that blanket?" Her light zoomed-in on the blanketed bundle on the floor of the backseat.
"Huh?"
"What's under the blanket?"
"Oh, that. You mean that?" Evan twisted around. A white-gloved hand had slipped out from under the blanket.
"Yes. What have you got back there?"
Evan shrugged and tried to regain his composure. Fear paralyzed him--the fear of discovery. He turned gray--for guilt!
She backed farther away. "Sir, please exit the car slowly, keeping your hands where I can see them." Her voice had thinned, edging several octaves higher.
"Are you serious?"
"Please. Just step out while I examine the back seat." Evan shivered and pushed open the door, careful to do as she said. He could see that her revolver was out now and leveled directly at him. What to do? His fingers trembled and he had trouble unhooking the seat belt. He climbed unsteadily out onto the roadway.
"Up against the car, please, hands on the hood." He did as she said.
She came up behind him and expertly patted him down. "Let me see your license," she snapped. "And take it out slow."
He complied with her request. Badly frightened, he considered the enormous stakes in this game. His mind was in turmoil. She snorted: "Cripes! I knew I'd seen you before. You're that comic, Carlyle. The guy with the dummy--Jasper.
Right?" "Yeah."
"Well, I'll be damned. Why didn't you say so? I've seen you many times on Comedy Club." The tension left her voice.
He nodded.
She laughed. "Gee, it's like that dummy's alive, like it's got a brain and all. You know?" Evan took his hands off the car and turned around. The girl was holstering her gun.
She peered into the car. "That him down there? The dummy? That his hand I see?"
Evan suddenly thought of a way out of this. Grinning sheepishly, he reached back and carefully pulled Jasper from under the blanket. "We had a fight. He lost," he explained.
"Beg pardon?"
Evan showed her Jasper's shattered corpse, the dummy's legs and arms splintered, its head sporting a deep, ragged cleft between the eyes. "He hit me," wailed Jasper. "Call a cop."
"What?" said the surprised girl.
"The bastard killed me," shrieked Jasper, pointing a splintered arm at his tormenter. "Arrest that man!"
The officer giggled and reached out sympathetic fingers, then drew them back as reality hit home. "Whew, you're good," she said, eyeing the ventriloquist with admiration. "I could have sworn he talked."
"Thanks. Compliments are always welcome."
"But--how did he get--uh--like that?"
"I told you. We had a fight. But you must never tell a soul. It’s too embarrassing."
She looked dubious.
"We're partners," Evan explained, gently placing the battered dummy on top of the rear seat and closing the door. "We've been together for twenty years. He's my silent partner.
"But, you see," he continued, "I needed to break in some new material, needed another dummy because Jasper didn't fit the new monologue. I tried to explain it to him, but he refused to go along. He got jealous, I got angry, we had words, and... well--" Evan shrugged.
From the backseat came a muffled cry: "Bullshit, he's the one who started it."
The girl was nonplussed, staring at Evan, not knowing whether to laugh or have him committed. "You had words? With a dummy? This is a joke, right?"
Evan forced his most persuasive smile. "Hell yes, but you went for it, didn't ya?"
She slapped her thigh. "Yeah, I guess so. But, tell me, what really happened. How'd he get like that?" Evan reached into his coat pocket for some show tickets. "Some punks got hold of him after the performance last night. Tore him up. Damn shame."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks. I've got a cabin back up there in the hills. Gonna spend the weekend trying to put my little pal, here, back together. He handed her the tickets. "Say, maybe you can use these."
She smiled and thanked him, asked for his autograph, then went back to her black and white. It started with a roar and he stood there in the hot wind and watched her until the Taurus's taillights finally winked out. Only then did Evan allow himself the luxury of taking a deep breath. So close. He climbed in the car and started the engine. Driving on for about ten minutes, he turned left on a gravel road that he knew would dead-end some five miles into a twisted warren of abandoned mines, remote hogbacks, and deep sandy arroyos. There was a shovel in the trunk.
The following evening Evan fixed himself a lightly-salted margarita and took it out on the condo's generous veranda. Settling-in comfortably, he picked up the late afternoon newspaper, and scrutinized the front page headline: PROMINENT FINANCIER MISSING! It was all there--two columns wide--about Abe Cohen's disappearance. The man, known as Silent Partner to the Stars, was a celebrated figure in Vegas. Police feared possible gangland involvement. Cohen, who was famous for keeping his high-interest investments in his head, and not on paper, was feared the victim of foul play. There were no leads.
Evan re-read the article, then tossed the paper aside with a satisfied grin. He thought about last night: about Cohen's shrill demand for payment, his petulant violence to Jasper, then the satisfying crunch as Evan whacked the glorified loan shark over the head with the fireplace poker.
Evan sighed and sipped his drink. Nossir, he thought with a grin, that young lady cop will never know how close she came to finding both of my silent partners under that blanket.
The story Silent Partner is Copyright 1998 by Carter Swart.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.