Pelham Fell Here

By Ed Lynskey

Ex-MP and part-time gunsmith Frank Johnson finds his cousin Josh Chapman killed by a twelve-gauge shotgun. Enraged, Frank wants some answers, and fast. Was Josh involved in an arms smuggling scheme?

The mystery grows when a pair of murderous deputy sheriffs ambush Frank. Killing them in self-defense, Frank must take it on the lam while he continues his investigation.

Eventually he discovers a group of Neo-Nazis, holed up at a remote castle, who may be behind his cousin's murder. Luckily, a couple of bounty hunter pals throw in with Frank to even up the odds.

Click to enlarge

About the Author

Ed Lynskey

Ed Lynskey's fiction has appeared in Mississippi Review, HandHeldCrime, and Plots With Guns. A short collection, Out of Town a Few Days, appeared in 2004 and a novel titled The Blue Cheer is scheduled for 2006.

Excerpt

At well past five o'clock, the gun shop, a low-slung brick structure, hadn’t yet closed. A grizzly bear growled on its flat asphalt roof. A day or so after Thanksgiving, I'd clatter up a 12-foot extension ladder and trick it out in a Santa suit. Now I parked by the Grumman canoes shelved under a tin pavilion. Like a bear, I hibernated inside the truck cab using visual imagery to hatch a plan.

Okay. I'd go in and start a conversation. "Uh, hi there. I'm the gun geek. It’s Rennie, right? I’d never forget such a lovely name. Guess what? I could've attended college but opted to pursue my local options. My trade? Er, I bush-hog for the Mormons. But I'm wild out fun at dancing. What's say we go tonight?"

"What a crock," I muttered. "A royal crock."

The gun shop was less congested. The familiar smells of mineral oil and musty khaki emboldened me. At one end of the narrow shop's clutter, several out-of-state tourists were pawing through Civil War swag. Photos of trophy kills lined the knotty pine panels. Once my eyes grew accustomed, I waved at Rennie who was sorting gloves behind the ammo bins. She looked radiant in a cranberry red sweater, tight but tasteful.

"May I be of assistance, sir?" she asked me. "Oh, it's you, again."

"I'm Johnson,” I blurted out. “Frank Johnson."

"Then, how may I assist you, Mister Frank Johnson?"

"From now on, just Frank," I corrected her. "I hoped we might go somewhere tonight?"

"Sorry, Frank. My employer, Johnny Chapman, has one iron-clad rule — I can’t date the customers."

“Technically, I'm not a customer. Johnny is family, as much as I hate to admit it. He won't grouse. Trust me. I’d love to see you." I couldn’t stop myself from gushing.

Rennie allowed a weary smile. "I see. Okay. I'm at the old Shepherd place. First apartment upstairs on the right. No number on the door. Come by seven o’clock, no earlier please. Just knock. See you then, Frank."

Of course, once inside my cab, I anguished over what I’d just done. Then, I recalled Johnny's maxim how life ran short too fast. I resolved to enjoy it. A while later after a navy shower, two pats of Old Spice, I was in high stride. I hadn't dated in three years but wasn't too rusty.

Along Rogue's Road, so named because highwaymen had waylaid travelers in Colonial days, I drove by the great stand of oaks. Melrose Castle, its parapets visible poking through the treetops, was nestled therein. During the 1850s, a Scotsman, homesick for his scones and stones, funded its erection and brought over his bride. By and by, they died childless. The gothic castle by now was thought a natural part of our town. The almost imperceptible road leading to its heavy, iron-studded doors provided teen-agers a popular lovers lane.

The Shepherd place — an ex-Victorian manor on Franklin Street — was subdivided into rentals. Such desperate domiciles choked Pelham. Not that I was peering down my nose. I only recalled the proud Sears homes and shade trees once flanking these same avenues. Girls in culottes on porch gliders sipped colas through bent straws. Cannas bloomed above wrought iron fences. The swept off sidewalks lay even. The Shepherd's oldest, Ronnie, played star shortstop and I was second baseman.

Somewhere between the feed store and the black folks' washerette, a funk seized me. I'd fallen well short of the brass ring, hadn't I? This rat truck and a doublewide trailer were my sole possessions. On my first swipe by Rennie’s, I despaired. Fire escapes jutted away from the upper floor like crutches. The boxy structure's roofline sagged across the middle. Several shutters were wind-tossed. Acrid smoke came from woodstoves burning pulp pine. Back in high school, Ronnie's VW had plowed headlong into a telephone pole; his parents unloaded the house within days. I never saw them again. In my view, they were better off — any opportunity to flee Pelham held out that promise.

Early, I docked across the street. No lights warmed any ground windows. A feeble illumination from above was the bedroom where Rennie prepared. I could see her at a bureau mirror, dabbing on perfume, debating, and then leaving the top button undone. The cab was hot. I heaved tin cans, a broken shovel, and a tool chest into the bed. After unscrewing the gun rack, I shoved it under the seat. The half-empty pint of gin hid in the glove compartment.

Whistling, I tuned in nighttime radio. Jim & Jesse, Reno & Smiley, Flatt & Scruggs, and Mac Wiseman wailed those romantic ballads squeezing your heart in a pincer of woe and misery. But maybe that never happened in real life. Maybe real love could hold off woe and misery, if for a momentary stay.

Poof! The upper bedroom light extinguished. Rennie floated down, invaded the night. Minus scarf or hat, her face was recognizable from my sentry post. She came in a fuzzy parka and a short skirt. Plaid.

Turning to say something, she peered down — she wasn't alone.

Two small children trailed her out to the porch.

Stooping, she tugged tasseled stocking caps over their ears. Their miniature haloes of breath cracked the frost-bitten air. Grasping eager hands in her own, she paraded them to a Prizm. Her ruby taillights disappeared around the block.

She'd return in a few minutes — "seven o'clock, no earlier." That much I was certain about. And, of course, I could be gone. I could split right then, never see Rennie again. Gone like the fool fox on the run.

I next thought of Johnny's devious omission about the kids. After switching off the radio, I strolled across dim asphalt to the porch. Matching up a cigarette, I caught myself marveling what her children's names were just as Orion the Hunter rose up in the nocturnal sky.