“The Mysterious Mr. Smith Returns” • by Bruce Bethke (Part 1)

The phone on his desk chirped.

Ed Meyerowitz paused his typing and glanced over at the phone. The call was coming in on his old personal line, and the information on the caller ID readout was so bland, so anonymous, it may as well have been a name. Him again. After all these years…

For a moment Meyerowitz considered letting the call roll over to voicemail, then sighed, punched the button for the personal line, hesitated a moment over the button for speaker mode, then lifted the receiver and put it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Am I speaking with Mister Edward Meyerowitz?”

“Smith.”

There was the slightest pause. “You don’t seem happy to hear from me.”

“It’s been a long time. I was starting to think you’d left the planet.”

“No, I’m still here. Still doing the good work.” Another pause. “Oh. You mean, like Karl.”

“One can but hope.”

Another awkward pause.

“Well,” Meyerowitz said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“I happen to be passing through Minneapolis,” Smith said, oblivious as ever. “I was hoping we could meet this evening at Le Café El—”

“They tore it down fifteen years ago. Urban renewal. There’s a stadium there now.”

“Oh. Weren’t they able to move to a new location?”

“They did, but went broke and closed during the pandemic.”

“Oh.” 

Meyerowitz waited him out. Forty years later, Smith was still no quicker on the uptake.

“Perhaps we could meet at a quiet tavern, then? Enjoy two beers together, like old friends?”

“I quit drinking twenty years ago. And besides, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a quiet bar in Minneapolis? Nothing but big-screen TVs and non-stop sports channels blaring away everywhere you go.”

“Oh.”

Meyerowitz was beginning to find Smith’s clueless pauses irritating. “I know a coffee shop in Bloomington. It’s near the airport.”

“Excellent! Give me the name and address and I’ll meet you there at—shall we say, 9 p.m.?”

“Seven works better for me. I’m not a night-owl anymore.”

“Very good! Seven it is! Now, where shall we meet?” Meyerowitz gave him the name and address, then hung up. 

And sighed again.

Seven p.m.. That gives me just enough time to shower, change, and drive over there.

Meyerowitz saved and closed the file he was working on, put his computer to sleep, pushed his chair back from his desk, and then turned around and stood up. 

Smith again. After all these years.

Feeling the need to dress for the occasion, Meyerowitz went into his bedroom and opened the closet, to pull out the clothes he would put on after his shower. A nice dress shirt? Of course. Khaki slacks? The hangar wrinkle wasn’t too obvious. My old wool jacket? He could brush the dust off the shoulders. A necktie? No, that was going too far, and it was cold outside; he’d wear a scarf. A fedora? Of course. It was December in Minnesota. Male-pattern baldness had long ago ruled out the idea of a hat being optional.

He pushed aside the clothes and opened the gun safe bolted to the wall at the back of the closet. The SIG, or the Colt? He hefted them both, then put the SIG back. The Colt Detective Special just felt better in his hands, and it was easier to conceal.

Meyerowitz lingered a moment longer over the Colt, then looked at the box of +P hollow-points on the shelf, and wondered.

Do I dare to live out the American author’s dream, and shoot my publisher? 

 

 

…to be continued…
Maybe. This is a work in progress. Let me know if you’d like to see more.