Out of My Head
Peter Gallay





Joe Mahoney

Murder's Just Another Name For Homicide

Chapter One
    It was a cold, blustery day in Chicago, the kind where the wind coming off the lake slices through you like a chain saw through an ice sculpture. But that was Chicago, so what did I care? I was in Los Angeles, sitting in my office listening to the news on the radio. The Air Force had just completed a bombing raid on the Ruhr Valley, levelling a German steel mill and a couple of ball bearing factories. Angela Merkel was furious. But that was her problem, I had other things on my mind. The rent was coming due and I hadn’t had a client in a month. If something didn’t turn up soon, I’d have to resort to desperate measures, like robbing a bank or getting a job. As I was weighing the alternatives, there was a knock on the door. Before I could say “entrez vous, sil vous plait,” the door opened and in walked this gorgeous babe. Did I say gorgeous? I’m being modest. Tall, blonde, sexy—she was all those and more. It was one of those times I regretted not owning a thesaurus. I turned off the radio and turned on my considerable charm, opening with a line that never fails.
     "Hi there," I said.
     "What is that—some kind of line?" came her reply. I could tell this dame was a match for me.
     She sized up the office, taking in the second-hand desk, the wooden swivel chair, the Atwater-Kent radio, the hat rack with the fedora hanging there, the name etched on the window behind my desk:
    
     (Sign painter was Israeli. Someday I'll have to get that straightened out.)
     The babe had a real sense of style. "This place looks like a movie set from the thirties," she said.
     She'd nailed it. "You have a good eye. They filmed most of The Wizard of Oz here."
     She sat down and crossed her legs. They were long and elegant, like a flamingo's, but shaped better.
     "You're Joe Mahoney, the lawyer."
     "Yes, I know. And you?"
     "Fine, thanks."
     I could see she was no pushover.
     "Let me rephrase that. How do you feel?"
     "Rita Einstein. Pleased to meet you."
     "Einstein? Any relation?"
     "Oh, I don't see how. I've only just met you. I mean, wouldn't we have run into each other at Thanksgiving or a family reunion or something?"
     Definitely no relation.
     "Mr Mahoney," she went on. "I read about you in this article in People Magazine."
     "What article is that?"
     She pulled a rolled-up copy of the magazine from her purse and opened it to a marked page and read the title.
    "'Lawyer Loses Fifty Cases In A Row.'"
     "That's an old article. I'm up to seventy-five now. What can I do for you?"
     "Improve your record. I want to hire you."
     A live one! I decided to play it cagey.
     "I'll have to check my calendar and see if I have room for any new clients."
     As I reached for my appointment book, she said, "I'm prepared to give you a five thousand dollar retainer."
     I didn't bother with the book. "I just had a cancellation."
     "I suppose you'll need to know some facts about the case," she said. I told you she was sharp.
     "Well," I said, "I could do it the hard way, but I'd have to charge you extra."
     Obviously budget-conscious, she laid out the facts. "I have reason to believe I'm going to be arrested for murder."
     "Murder!" I have this habit of repeating the word murder every time I hear it. It's an OCD thing.
     "It's all a terrible mistake. I couldn't murder anybody. I wouldn't hurt a fly. You have to believe me!"
     "Murder!" I said. (See explanation above.) And I would have believed her, but at that very moment, a fly landed on my desk and she whacked the hell out of it with the magazine, adding a victorious "Got you!"
     "So who did you murder?"
     "My husband." Which she quickly amended to, "I mean, that's who they're going to accuse me of murdering."
     "Maybe we'd better start from the beginning."
     She was accommodating, I have to admit. "All right. 'What is that—some kind of line.' 'You're Joe Mahoney, the lawyer.' 'I read about you in People Magazine. "Lawyer Loses Fifty Ca—"'"
     "Never mind." I cut her off. "Maybe we'd better start from the middle. Your husband's dead, I take it."
     She looked heavenward for a moment, considering. "Gosh I hope so. Otherwise I'm out the five thousand bucks I promised you."
     "Tell me about him."
     "His name was Malcolm Einstein. He was a ninety-seven year old invalid and a multi-millionaire."
     "Every woman's dream," I observed.
     "Exactly. Of course, people thought I was just after his money. But that wasn't it at all. In fact, when I first met him, I didn't even know he was rich."
     "Where was this?" I asked.
     "At an art auction. He had just paid seven million dollars for a Picasso sketch."
     "And you didn't know he was rich?"
     "For all I knew it was his last seven million. He could've been tapped out."
     I couldn't argue with that logic.
     She went on. "But it wouldn't have mattered. From the moment we saw each other, we knew. He told me later, he had a fifth sense about it too."
     "You mean sixth sense."
     "No, he couldn't hear. We were married a few weeks later."
     "How did his family feel about this match?" I wondered aloud.
     "You know that part in the ceremony where they say if anybody objects let him speak now or forever hold his peace?"
     "Yes."
     "They had to use parliamentary procedure to accommodate everyone."
     "I don't wonder."
     "But we didn't care what anybody said. Let them scoff. All that mattered was that we were young—and old—and in love. In the end we showed them all. We were blissfully happy together."
     "How long were you married before your husband's death?"
     She briefly counted on her fingers. "Altogether, about six hours."
     "Someday you'll have to tell me the secret of your success."
     "Be honest with each other and never go to bed angry."
     "Mrs. Einstein, how did your husband die?"
     She turned away, embarrassed, then said in a small voice, "How can I put this ... he died ... in the saddle."
    "Well," I said reasonably, "a man his age has no business horseback riding."
     Rita gave me a look that said I was no Einstein, either. Then the penny dropped.
     "Oh, I get it. Bareback."
     "The police think I intentionally used the sex act to induce a heart attack. Can you imagine such a thing?"
     "Give me a minute, I'm trying."
     "I didn't do it, Joe. I hope you believe me."
     "Well, I would like to examine the murder weapon."
     She ignored the shoptalk. "I knew my husband had a bad heart. I went out of my way to be gentle with him. I took every precaution to keep him from getting too excited. If you don't believe me, you can ask Greta and Yolanda."
     "Greta and Yolanda?" (Strangely enough I have OCD about the names Greta and Yolanda, too. What are the chances?) "Who are Greta and Yolanda?"
     "The two hookers I brought along."
     Her story was really getting interesting when, wouldn't you know it, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. A voice bellowed, "Open up. It's the police."
     Rita rushed around to my side of the desk and grabbed my shoulders. "They've come for me!"
     I gave her a quick feel then reassured her. "I'll handle this."
     I walked toward the door and shouted, "How do I know you're the police?"
     "Come on," the bull said, "quit stalling. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It's up to you."
     I didn't want any trouble. "Okay, okay, the easy way."
     I reached for the door knob and was almost knocked off my feet when the cop came crashing through, splintering wood in all directions.
     "Hey," I shouted as I jumped out of the way. "I said the easy way!"
     "That was the easy way," he replied. Then he saw the look on my face. "Didn't you know that?"
     "When I was on the force, that was the hard way."
     "Oh, no, they changed it to the easy way a couple of years ago. Sorry, buddy." He handed me the disembodied door knob then turned to Rita. "Mrs Einstein, I have some news for you. The coroner's report came in. Your husband didn't die of a heart attack. He died of a lethal injection of poison."
     "Poison!" I repeated.
     "That's what I said, buddy. You got OCD or something?"
     With that, he picked up Rita's purse from the chair where she'd left it and pulled out a hypodermic syringe. "Care to explain this?"
     She played it very cool. "Yes, it's mine. I'm a heroin addict."
     "Don't play innocent with me," he snarled. "There's something else. As your husband lay dying on the floor, he managed to scrawl a message into the grain of the carpet."
     "Oh," I said, "like in Charade." I have to admit I was showing off. I happen to be an expert on Ned Glass movies.
     "Yeah," he said, "but what he wrote just might possibly implicate the missus here."
     With that he reached into his inside pocket and produced a large square of carpeting. He held it out to Rita.
    "Care to read it aloud?"
     She read, "'To whom it may concern. My wife is the one who murdered me. Sincerely, the late Malcolm Einstein.'"
     The cop slipped behind her, handcuffed her hands behind her back, and gave her a quick feel.
     "I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."
     As he led her out, she called to me.
     "Joe, will you help me?"
     "Don't worry, baby. I'm on the case. Oh, one more thing. How did your husband make his money?"
     "He was a used car dealer."
     Well, that answered my next question—did he have any enemies? They were gone and I was left to consider the situation. I didn't know whether I believed her or not, but I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I'm just a sucker for a pretty face. Maybe it was the five grand she offered me. Or maybe I once had a kid sister who married a 97 year old millionaire who turned up dead on their wedding night and she was tried and convicted and put away for a long stretch and I didn't lift a finger to help her and now I was going to make up for it. No, that's too contrived. It was the money.

End of Chapter One



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