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Authors: Marcia Talley
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chin. Her dad had just looked sad, like he often did.
“Not really, but we’ll do what we can.” The policeman wasn’t good at whispering. “She was damn lucky that the car didn’t hit her head on, otherwise she’d be dead, too.”
She didn’t open her eyes, and after a while, the policeman went away.
* * * *
“You’ll always be my best friend.” She had popped a handful of Cracker Jack into her mouth, and caramel sweetness had blossomed on her tongue. She crunched the popcorn as the grocery door jangled shut behind them.
“And you’re mine.” Donna dug into the box. “For you.” Sticky fingers pressed the little charm into her palm.
She peered at her hand. A boot. Perfect for the bracelet her mom and dad had given her for her birthday. “Thanks.” She shoved it into her pocket.
A grin behind a curtain of blonde hair. “Race you home.” The flash of a blue tee-shirt and coltish legs starting down Fourth.
“Hey, no fair!” She clutched the bag of potatoes her mom had asked her to get for dinner, and ran after.
At the corner, Donna glanced over her shoulder. “Come on, slowpoke!”
The car came out of nowhere.
Fast, so fast there was no time to shout, no time to even take a breath. Donna’s small body hit the hood with a thud and lifted, an egret poised for flight.
“Donna!” she screamed. Then the fender struck her left hip and side, and, for an instant, her eyes met those of the man in the car: wide, startled, scared. Then she, too, was flying, but only for a heartbeat. She fell. Her skin burned as she skidded across the asphalt, her head hitting the pavement so hard she felt as if her skull had cracked open. Pain, so much pain she couldn’t tell where it ended and she began, but she forced her head up, willed her eyes to focus.
Donna lay sprawled on the street, yellow hair against black. And red.
The car revved, reversed, and sped away. She stared at the sky, as blue as Donna’s shirt.
Remember the car.
Remember him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carla Coupe is a member of both Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Two of her short stories—“Rear View Murder” in Chesapeake Crimes II and “Dangerous Crossing” in Chesapeake Crimes 3 —were nominated for Agatha Christie Awards. Her Sherlock Holmes pastiches, “The Adventure of the Elusive Emeralds” and “The Adventure of the Haunted Bagpipes” appear in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine .
THUBWAY THAM’S INTHULT, by Johnston McCulley
I.
The orchestra ceased, the theater auditorium was darkened suddenly, and the curtain went up on the third act. In his seat in the first row of the second balcony, Thubway Tham bent forward with a great deal of interest and focused his gaze on the stage. His eyes were burning, and his jaws were set rigidly. Tham was angry, had been growing angrier every time a certain actor came upon the stage.
Now and then Thubway Tham attended a theatrical performance as a means of recreation from the arduous work of a pickpocket. Tham did not pretend to be up to the minute on things theatrical and dramatic, and when the time came for him to go to a show, Tham selected the theater he was to honor with his presence by. a certain method he had originated himself.
At the ticket agency he walked up to the counter.
“I want a theat in the thenter of the firtht row of the thecond balcony,” he said.
“What theater, man?” asked the man behind the counter.
“I don’t care what theater it ith, jutht tho you give me a theat in the thenter of the firtht row of the thecond balcony,” Thubway Tham declared.
This time the grinning agent had handed him a ticket that called for admission to see a certain male star in his latest success, “The Under Dog.”
Tham had heard the name of the star mentioned a few times and entertained the idea that he was an artist of parts; but beyond that he knew nothing of the professional rank and ability of the man and did not care about it. As to “The Under Dog,”
“Not really, but we’ll do what we can.” The policeman wasn’t good at whispering. “She was damn lucky that the car didn’t hit her head on, otherwise she’d be dead, too.”
She didn’t open her eyes, and after a while, the policeman went away.
* * * *
“You’ll always be my best friend.” She had popped a handful of Cracker Jack into her mouth, and caramel sweetness had blossomed on her tongue. She crunched the popcorn as the grocery door jangled shut behind them.
“And you’re mine.” Donna dug into the box. “For you.” Sticky fingers pressed the little charm into her palm.
She peered at her hand. A boot. Perfect for the bracelet her mom and dad had given her for her birthday. “Thanks.” She shoved it into her pocket.
A grin behind a curtain of blonde hair. “Race you home.” The flash of a blue tee-shirt and coltish legs starting down Fourth.
“Hey, no fair!” She clutched the bag of potatoes her mom had asked her to get for dinner, and ran after.
At the corner, Donna glanced over her shoulder. “Come on, slowpoke!”
The car came out of nowhere.
Fast, so fast there was no time to shout, no time to even take a breath. Donna’s small body hit the hood with a thud and lifted, an egret poised for flight.
“Donna!” she screamed. Then the fender struck her left hip and side, and, for an instant, her eyes met those of the man in the car: wide, startled, scared. Then she, too, was flying, but only for a heartbeat. She fell. Her skin burned as she skidded across the asphalt, her head hitting the pavement so hard she felt as if her skull had cracked open. Pain, so much pain she couldn’t tell where it ended and she began, but she forced her head up, willed her eyes to focus.
Donna lay sprawled on the street, yellow hair against black. And red.
The car revved, reversed, and sped away. She stared at the sky, as blue as Donna’s shirt.
Remember the car.
Remember him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carla Coupe is a member of both Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Two of her short stories—“Rear View Murder” in Chesapeake Crimes II and “Dangerous Crossing” in Chesapeake Crimes 3 —were nominated for Agatha Christie Awards. Her Sherlock Holmes pastiches, “The Adventure of the Elusive Emeralds” and “The Adventure of the Haunted Bagpipes” appear in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine .
THUBWAY THAM’S INTHULT, by Johnston McCulley
I.
The orchestra ceased, the theater auditorium was darkened suddenly, and the curtain went up on the third act. In his seat in the first row of the second balcony, Thubway Tham bent forward with a great deal of interest and focused his gaze on the stage. His eyes were burning, and his jaws were set rigidly. Tham was angry, had been growing angrier every time a certain actor came upon the stage.
Now and then Thubway Tham attended a theatrical performance as a means of recreation from the arduous work of a pickpocket. Tham did not pretend to be up to the minute on things theatrical and dramatic, and when the time came for him to go to a show, Tham selected the theater he was to honor with his presence by. a certain method he had originated himself.
At the ticket agency he walked up to the counter.
“I want a theat in the thenter of the firtht row of the thecond balcony,” he said.
“What theater, man?” asked the man behind the counter.
“I don’t care what theater it ith, jutht tho you give me a theat in the thenter of the firtht row of the thecond balcony,” Thubway Tham declared.
This time the grinning agent had handed him a ticket that called for admission to see a certain male star in his latest success, “The Under Dog.”
Tham had heard the name of the star mentioned a few times and entertained the idea that he was an artist of parts; but beyond that he knew nothing of the professional rank and ability of the man and did not care about it. As to “The Under Dog,”
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