Trading Death

Trading Death

By Dick Green (excerpt)

That afternoon I spent time in Towson, going to the bank, visiting with a broker friend in his office, throwing speculations back ad forth about the ups and downs of trades. Pessimism clouded the market. When I pulled up to the house, an unfamiliar car was parked beside June’s. I found her in the living room having a drink with Dean Carter. He stood and shook hands. A strong grip, a tentative smile. Blond hair gave him a Scandinavian look.

“I stopped by to hear more about the lights in the Wyatt house. I ran across a county cop who’d been to see you. He knows I’ve had a gun stolen, a few minor things. It’s too bad our houses are out of sight of each other.”

June brought me a Beam on the rocks. “Have you been in the house?” I asked him. “Walked through the property?”

“I’ve been around the outside of the place. Walked to the edge of the woods behind it. Here there’s a ravine somewhere back there.”

I told him about seeing tire tracks alongside the back porch.

Trading Death. Photo by Elena

“Oh, those,” he said. “I saw a pick-up there about a month before you moved here. I think I heard some heirs were finally picking up stuff from the place.” He put down his glass and rose to leave. “Anyway, while I’m still around, let me know if you need help – I told you I’m selling.” We shook hands, he smiled and looked across his shoulder.

Something in his pale eyes when he looked at June alerted me. It could have been anywhere between tenderness and desire.

“He asked a lot of questions,” June said. “About your trading. Said he didn’t think he’d want to risk it. Wondered if I thought you should get out – before a wave of bad luck hits.”

her smile was cynical, as if we needed his warning. She stood at a window, watching Carter turn his car around and drive up the road toward his house. A dispassionate expression crossed her face as if she were judging him.

“He’s been through sad times. Losing his wife. It must have been terrible for him. I mean, nothing he could do.”

I wondered why he hadn’t asked me about my online trading.

We saw a light moving behind windows across the road that night.

The next afternoon, a case of beer in my trunk I was driving along a road near our house, when I was sure I spotted a car following me. A dark car, shiny grille. I’d first noticed it outside of Towson. I couldn’t decide what to do. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to lead him right up to the house where June was, so I pulled over and braked. I stared into the rear view mirror, watched the car stop behind me, the door open. Breathed a noisy breath.

Lucas walked up to the passenger door, raincoat buttoned against wind, and knocked on the pane. I unlocked the door, and he slid onto the seat beside me. I glared at him, asked why he was following me. Looking puzzled, he said he’d realized he was behind me a mile or so outside of Towson. Was on his way to see me. Was just as glad to talk to me here, without June listening.

“I won’t futz around,” he said, his face grim beneath afternoon light. “I need a loan. Ten thousand.”

“Jesus! Sharon said you’d stopped playing.”

“How can I? It’s my living. No riskier than yours.”

I thought he might not be far off.

“There’s pressure,” he said.

“Sharon’s bailed you out before. She’s broke.

Published in September 2000, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery magazine.