Flesh and Blood : Guilty as Sin

by Collins, Max Allan; Gelb, Jeff

• ISBN13: 9780446690393
• ISBN10: 0446690392
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2003-04-01
• Publisher: Grand Central Pub

Summary

From glittering nightspot to the dim corner bar, the sin of lust and the crime of murder tempt rich and poor alike. Now old pros and up-and-comers among today's top mystery writers offer sizzling stories about the bad and the beautiful dying -- and killing -- for a thrill. Book jacket.

Table of Contents

Introduction: Sinful Streets	xi
Max Allan Collins
Jeff Gelb
Low Tide	1	(25)
Dick Lochte
Back O' Town Blues	26	(10)
David Fulmer
Dalliance at Sunnydale	36	(16)
Barbara Collins
The Iberville Mistress	52	(20)
O'Neil De Noux
Service	72	(16)
Gary Lovisi
The Last Reel	88	(22)
Gary R. Bush
A Delicate Mission	110	(17)
Michael Collins
Gayle Lynds
Perfection	127	(9)
Jeff Gelb
Walking to Paris	136	(5)
Rex Miller
Feel the Pain	141	(19)
Michael Bracken
Sex Crimes	160	(6)
Michael Garrett
Money-Back Guarantee	166	(16)
Marthayn Pelegrimas
Robert J. Randisi
A Hatful of Ralph	182	(17)
Loren D. Estleman
Bank Job	199	(15)
Thomas S. Roche
The Windsor Ballet	214	(22)
Deborah Morgan
Good Career Moves	236	(21)
Robert S. Levinson
Dicks Are Blind	257	(13)
James L. Traylor
Lie Beside Me	270	(15)
Max Allan Collins
Matthew V. Clemens
Mirror, Mirror	285	(9)
Catherine Dain
A Dick and Jane Story	294	(9)
Jack Kelly
The Raiders	303	(15)
Gary Phillips
The Daffodil	318	(21)
Annette Meyers
Martin Meyers
Nighthawks	339	(16)
John Lutz
Contributors	355

Excerpts

LOW TIDE

Dick Lochte

Shay studied the customer's driver's license. It had been issued by the State of California approximately two years before. It stated that the name of the woman standing across the counter was Noreen Waldman and that she'd been born eighteen years ago. Her photo indicated that in the sixteen months since she'd posed for the DMV Noreen had gone through a few changes. The brunet bangs and rosy cheeks had been traded in for a platinum rooster cut and a chalk-powdered face accentuated by jet eyebrows and purple-black lipstick. Instead of a pressed schoolgirl blouse, Noreen was wearing a boutique-tattered T-shirt over latticed black spandex tights.

The bank was located on L.A.'s Sunset Strip, an area not known for its conservative style of dress, but the girl was pushing it, Shay thought. And her orchid musk was almost as toxic as sewer gas.

But she did have a body on her. "That's a screamin' corsage," Noreen Waldman said, pointing a black fingernail at the violet flower pinned to Shay's blouse. "I'm going org just looking at it."

Shay responded with a brief, patronizing smile. She placed the ID on the marble counter and picked up the check Noreen Waldman wanted to cash. It was for the sum of fifteen hundred dollars and no cents from Aristo Escorts, Inc., made out to "Nasty Wald." Shay looked at the girl and raised a questioning eyebrow. "Nom de business," the girl said.

Trying to ignore another blast of the orchid musk, Shay turned the check over. It was properly endorsed. "How would you like it?" she asked. "In my hand."

"I mean, in what denominations, large or small?" "Like my men, big and hard."

Shay felt the blood rising to her face. She glanced at her cash drawer and saw nothing larger than hundreds. The bank had a prescribed limit to the amount a teller was allowed to keep there. The big bills were in a drawer below, near the carpet. Shay bent down and retrieved three five-hundred-dollar notes. Nasty stared at the bills on the marble counter. "Can't you find me a Grover down there?"

Trying to hide her annoyance, Shay drew back two of the bills and hunkered down again, exchanging them for a one-thousand-dollar note from the bottom drawer. Nasty smiled at her, folded the crisp bills once, then twice. Watching Shay watching her, she slid them inside the front of her tights. "My bank box," she said. "Big bills keep it nice and smooth." She touched herself. "Wanna feel?"

Shay stared at her without expression or reply. "Well, c'est la vie," Nasty said, and blew her an orchid-scented kiss.

Shay watched the girl strut to the door. "You okay?"

Taylor, the security guard, was standing at the counter in his gray uniform, holstered pistol on his hip. His ordinary, almost handsome face registered concern.

"I'm fine," she said. "Problem with Morticia?" "Nope." "Smells like a two-bit whore," Taylor said. "She's a little more expensive than that," Shay said. "Strictly low tide," Taylor said. When Shay didn't respond, he added, "You know, what's left on the beach after-" "I got it," Shay said.

He made her nervous. She hadn't seen anything about it in the rule book, but she assumed the bitchy bank manager wouldn't be too crazy about tellers yakking it up with the bank guard during business hours.

"Flower looks better on you than it did on the vine," he said, pointing to the violet bud. "It was sweet of you."

"It's called a Princess," he said. "You up for a taco at lunch?" She'd been working at the Sunset branch for only eight days. Her second day, she'd made the mistake of letting Taylor share her table at the Mucho Taco down the block. She'd thought he might be able to bring her up to speed on gossip about her coworkers and the manager, Sylvia Berg. But Taylor, a stolid man in his mid-forties whose half-day security turn was supplementing a retirement check from the army, seemed totally indifferent to office politics.

He was one of those God-and-country guys, full of talk about honor and integrity and all that happy horseshit. But he apparently had a thing for her. That morning he'd brought her the flower. A proud part-time security guard. Jesus! "No taco today, Taylor," she said. "Tomorrow?" "We'll see."

She was watching him reluctantly amble back to his position near the door when a considerably more appealing figure caught her eye. Young, wearing an expensive Italian-cut cocoa-brown suit, narrow in the waist, broad in the shoulders. Deep-tanned, with blond hair that, combed straight back, was long enough to whisk against the collar of his black silk shirt. His eyes were hidden behind very dark sunglasses so thin and smoothly curved they resembled a burglar's mask.

She was amused by the overall effect. Buccaneer businessman. He was headed toward her when, suddenly, a rumpled, bearded figure plunged in front of him clutching a deposit slip and a wad of cash. The buccaneer businessman shrugged and moved to the teller on her right. Greg something. She could remember the teller's full name if she concentrated.

But her new customer wouldn't let her. He shoved his money and deposit slip at her. "Hurry it up, honey," he said. "Got things to see, people to do." "Yes, sir," she said. "Shay."

The teller, Greg whatever, was calling her. His face was pale. Silently he showed her a slip of notepaper. His customer, the buccaneer, was smiling at her.

"What part of 'hurry it up' don't you understand?" her customer asked nastily. "Y-yes, sir. Just a second."

The neatly typed note read: "My partner is watching with gun. Take two stacks of $500 bills from bottom drawer. Place on counter. No alarm, no harm."

Greg was at his bottom drawer, complying with the request. Shay searched the room. Business as usual. Taylor stood beside the front door, pointing a customer toward the area known as the platform, where the bank's service reps sat. Sylvia the manager was absent. Probably in the alley catching a smoke. Great timing. Shay bent down and found two stacks of five-hundred-dollar bills. Twenty-five to a stack, tightly wrapped. Twenty-five thousand dollars.

"Hey, honey," her customer said. "What the hell are you doin'? I said I'm in a hurry. Chop-chop."

Then there was a softer voice, almost a whisper. "One more peep out of that hairy mouth and my partner will shoot you in your fucking head. Dig? Good boy. Now, I'll take that off your hands." Shay arose. The buccaneer businessman was standing next to her customer, his back hiding his actions from Taylor. No one else in the bank seemed to notice that a robbery was taking place. The bearded customer stood wide-eyed and frozen as the blond man added his bills to Shay's packs and slipped the combination into his inside coat pocket. Then he took a sideways step and retrieved Greg's packets.

"Thanks for your cooperation," he said quietly. "Stay chilled for five minutes. My partner will leave and nobody bleeds." He turned and calmly walked toward the door. He stumbled on the way and Taylor grabbed him and helped him regain his balance. The blond man smiled gratefully and Shay could see his lips form the words "Thanks, Officer."

Then he was gone. Shay, Greg, and the bearded customer stood like statues for about a minute, with the tension growing nearly unbearable. Then the bearded customer threw himself to the floor, shouting, "It's a robbery, goddammit!"

Faces turned their way. Taylor was the first to react, charging toward them, hand on holster. He scowled at the customer in the fetal position on the floor. "It was the guy in the brown suit," Greg said in a rush. "With the shades."

"His partner's here with a gun," Shay said. Taylor scanned the frightened and startled faces on the scattered customers. "Not likely. Hit the alarm." "Done," Greg shouted at Taylor, who was racing to the front door. "And he's got a dye pack."

A dye pack. Shay couldn't believe it. She'd pegged Greg as a total wuss. But he'd had balls enough to slip the buccaneer a dye pack along with a stack of real bills. Two to three minutes after exposure to the microwave signal at the bank doors, the dye pack would explode, covering the buccaneer with red paint, dying that long blond hair, sending blinding tear gas past those expensive sunglasses, maybe even scorching that expensive suit.

Convinced that there was no longer any danger, the bearded customer rose to his feet just as the branch manager, Sylvia Berg, approached from the rear of the bank. "What's going on?" she demanded. "We've been robbed, Sylvia," Shay said. "Dammit." The bank manager wheeled around, looking at the startled customers. "Where's my security?" "He ran off after the guy," Greg said. Sylvia pursed her lips, then turned to Shay. "Your station?"

"And Greg's." "How much?" "Twenty-five thousand," Shay said. "Twelve thousand five hundred," Greg said, adding smugly, "And a dye pack." "You were carrying that much? You know the bank's policy-" "The robber made us get it from the bottom drawer," Greg said. "He knew about the bottom drawer? I have to call Mysner."

Joseph Mysner was the bank's head of security. The bearded customer said, "You in charge?" "Yes, sir. I'm the branch manager, Sylvia Berg." "Well, Sylvia, you're out another nine hundred bucks, too. That's what he took off me." "The robber took your money, Mr....?" "Calusia. Chick Calusia. Yeah. He took my cash. And it's this broad's fault."

Sylvia's unblinking, birdlike green eyes shifted to Shay. "My fault?" "If you'd got off your ass and deposited my cash, I'd of been out of here." "Shay?" Sylvia asked. "I'm sorry. This 'gentleman' started to hand me his deposit- which was for only six hundred dollars, by the way-and that's when the robber-"

"Excuse me, sister. You move like you're being paid by the hour. I was standin' here for ten fucking minutes waiting for you to get it in gear. And the amount was nine hundred fucking dollars." "Sylvia, that's not-" "We'll discuss this in a-"

Sylvia was interrupted by the sound of gunfire from out on Sunset. All conversation stopped in the bank. People turned toward the front door, curious, afraid.

A young man with spiked hair and tattoo-covered arms banged against the door, backed up, and tried again. This time he got it open. "Call the cops," he shouted, ducking down, hands protecting the back of his partially shaved head. "There's a dude out in the street, wailin' with a gun. Crazy. Covered in red paint." Shay's heart skipped a beat.

Ignoring Sylvia and the bearded man, she rushed to the teller gate, fumbled it open, and headed for the front door. She heard Sylvia calling her name. Screw her. Shay stepped from the bank to a glare-bright, shockingly subdued Sunset Boulevard. Traffic had stopped. People were pressed against the sides of buildings. Everyone seemed to be staring at the red-dye-stained figure sitting in the middle of the street, keening in pain, hands pressed against his tearing eyes. His discarded gun was at his side.

It was the bank guard, Taylor. Taylor's eyes stung so much his mind wasn't working. One side of his chest seemed to be aflame. His eyes felt like they'd been hit by acid. He knew he was down and in trouble. He just couldn't sort out what had happened. Had he been shot? Stabbed? Maybe he could start to figure it out if he opened his eyes. But they hurt so bad. What hurt even worse was that he'd fucked up, dishonored himself. He was brought back to some semblance of reality by a woman calling his name. He recognized the voice. The beautiful teller. Shay.

"We've got to get you out of the street," she said. Car horns began to blare. He nodded. She bent beside him, guided his arm around her shoulders. "Up we go."

Even through the pain and confusion he was vitally aware of her body rubbing against his as they struggled. Then he was up. Not quite balanced, but up. She hugged his waist, her firm breasts pressing against his arm as she walked him slowly toward the bank. His eyes were wet, still burning, but he was catching up to the situation. "My gun," he said. "In the street. I'll get it in a second." "Christ! Did I shoot anybody?" he asked. "Not that I can see," she said, propping him against the front of the bank.

Blinking through the tears, he watched her blurred image run back into the street, bend down, and retrieve his gun. What a goddamned woman! And what a goddamn disgrace he was. They fired his ass, of course.

Taylor's chest was tender from the dye pack, but the skin wasn't even broken. An optometrist from the neighboring discount glasses store checked his eyes and bathed them in some kind of fluid. The burning had just about disappeared when the bank's head of security, Joseph Mysner, showed up with John Pinella, the head of American Guard Services, the guy Taylor worked for. Mysner looked like a college footballer gone to seed, big, balding, and red-faced. At about half his size, Pinella was a sleek, olive-complexioned man wearing a wrinkle-free pinstriped suit and a faintly amused smile.

Taylor sat quietly in the bank's conference room while Sylvia Berg and the two men discussed his pathetic response to the robbery. They all seemed to be on the same page: He'd fucked up royally. He couldn't disagree. When the bank reps left to "confab" with the arriving FBI agents, Pinella sighed and shook his head. "You really fucked the duck, my boy."

Taylor looked down at the bright stains on his hands. He had them under his chin, too. "Guess that's why my face is so red, huh?"

"It's the gunplay I don't get," Pinella said. "That the way you did it in the MPs? Shoot first?" The question shook Taylor. But there was no way Pinella could know about the way he did it in the MPs, no way anyone alive could. "I never took a dye pack to the chest and face before," he said. "I coulda sworn I'd been hit by incoming, Cap." Pinella liked his men to call him Cap.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Flesh & Blood: Guilty As Sin by Max Allan Collins and Jeff Gelb Copyright © 2003 by Max Allan Collins and Jeff Gelb
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.