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The author's short mysteries have appeared in Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, Mysterical-E, Mouth Full of Bullets, Detective Mystery Stories, Crime and Suspense, Great Mystery and Suspense Magazine, Crimson Dagger, Web Mystery Magazine, Silver Moon, Dana Literary Society's Online Journal, among others. He is a two-time winner of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine's "Mysterious Photo" Contest.

Murder, Ad Lib by Charles Schaeffer

"Stop what you’re doing!" The boss’s voice. Insistent in a loud whisper. It was only my third day on the job. I eased up on the throttle of a '57 Chevy that had been towed in the day before. Hans (Junior) Getz, owner of "Acme Gas, Auto Repair Our Specialty," had something else in mind. Of course, when you're fresh out of stir, on parole, toiling for minimum wage––like I was––you listen up.

Acme Gas and Auto Repairs, a shabby oasis, squatted at a desolate crossroads in New Mexico. One leg stretched out like a ribbon, vanishing on the eastern horizon; the other sloped upward north of the Rio Picacho toward the Capitan Mountains. Hans had patched together a bare-bones living in this Hell's half-acre back country. He had even rigged the gas pumps to squeeze a few extra pennies a gallon out of gullible customers caught cruising on fumes in the boondocks. When I rode up on my Harley and signed on board at slave wages, it made his day.

"Got an emergency coming in," he hissed, as he popped through his office door into the repair bay. I don't know who pinned the "Junior" on him. I don't call him that. It's Herr Hans, thank you very much. But not to his face.

I slid out of the Chevy to find his sweating, round, apple-cheeked Teutonic face just four inches from mine, sputtering orders. "It's a Global Armored Car," Hans whispered. "They're in the driveway. They detoured from the main road, hauling cash from the Community Bank in Roswell to Alamogordo. Engine's overheating, and the driver and guard want to get moving pronto."

Acme Auto Repair was the only gutbucket shop within fifty miles. And I was the only grease monkey. Got my bona fides at the State Prison. No, that doesn't mean I'm all thumbs with spark plugs. Hans hired me on trial, after canning my predecessor. "After a week we'll see how it goes," he said, smug with having a compliant parolee in his clutches. "But it's minimum wage. No special benefits, and no social security payment to screw me up with government red tape."

I had almost gotten over the stomach-churning reality that I had put in nine years on a bum murder rap. What I hadn't been able to stomach was putting in eight to ten at six bucks an hour––and having Hans Getz yank me around like some pimply-faced teenager.

At that moment, Hans rushed out front, pumped at catering to armored-car business. I could see him hit the button, rattling up the garage door and waving the monster, military-like vehicle into the bay. Steam spouted like Old Faithful from its radiator. Low on coolant, I guessed. Maybe a busted water pump.

The driver got out. "How long?" I heard him ask of Hans. "We're on a tight schedule."

Who isn't? I thought. I had to use the bathroom. When I came out, the armored-car pair huddled in the office with Hans out of sight of the truck. I raised the iron-heavy hood and stuck my face in the hot steam. Maybe even a busted radiator. I checked out the obvious choices as fast as I could, slipping onto the seat to check the heat gauge. Surprise, there was a steering wheel lock with the key laying on the floor. I guess they used it if both men left the truck during a delivery. Made sense. I shoved it out of the way in a gap between the door and seat on the passenger's side.

The office door burst open and helpful Hans, under full steam himself, headed in my direction, no doubt with new hurry-up orders. Surprise. He pulled me to one side of Global Armored's distressed whale, a side hidden from the pair's line of vision.

"Listen up," he hissed. "These guys are carrying major loot. And they're trapped right here in my garage. I overheard them gabbing. Their radio contact to the main office is all static and they're out of cell phone range." He held out the .45 he kept stowed under the counter in case anyone was dumb enough to try a stick-up on him. The thought struck me: a big, red metal fly caught in a gray cinderblock web.

"You gotta help," he snapped, with an even wilder look in his eyes. He'd been pulling on the schnapps, as usual, all morning. "This is the ticket for both of us out of this hick crossroads. As far as they know, I'm here alone. So we can surprise them.”

"They'll have the whole cop world after us," I said.

He dismissed me with a wave of the pistol. "No time for talk. You gonna go along and split $500,000 or spend your life in two-bit jobs? I'll make the decision easy. Play along or I'll make sure your parole officer thinks you planned the job. Punk like you got nothing to lose."

I couldn't argue with the logic. But what about actually collecting from Hans? Somehow I didn't like the odds. Did he have my interests at heart? Or did he need a recently-graduated mechanic with extracurricular skills?

"Fill the radiator with fluid. It'll be good enough for where it's going," he snapped.

"I'll get some electrical cord to tie them up," I said.

"Yeah, and towels to blindfold and gag them," Hans growled.

I started back to the office with the wire. Two shots exploded. I jumped and ducked. I snuck a peek through the greasy window between the office and repair bay. Hans was holding his .45. The two Global employees lay on the littered floor. I shoved through the open door.

"The tall one made a move for his gun," Hans said, shrugging. "Gave me no choice."

Or me, either. Now an accomplice first class.

"Put them in the back of the truck," Hans commanded, morphing into a figure of even grimmer efficiency. I was wondering what was next from his overheated mind. But this was no time to question the will of Hans (Junior) Getz. I could easily be on the next train to Buchenwald.

I figured Hans knew where he was going almost from the minute the armored truck limped in. With me, the reluctant draftee, he laid out the rest of his ad lib battle plan. "I'll drive the truck out the little-used Sanchez Road," he said. You follow in my Honda trailing me––but not too close––to the dirt road that leads to an abandoned barn on the old Escabardo farm. We'll squirrel the cash under the barn floor, ditch the armored car. Wait till the heat's off. And it's hola, Mexico."

He slipped into the guard's coat and put on his cap. "If anyone spots us, it'll look all official-like," he said smugly. "Keep your distance on the road so nobody links us up."

Hans hung the big red "closed" sign in the office window, scooted behind the armored car's wheel and motioned for me to wait for a few minutes and pick up the trail. Then he dropped into gear and drove toward Sanchez Road, looking like Rommel on the way to Tunis. I clamped my gaze on the rearview mirror as I wound along the narrow road, passing Mescalero Ravine, eventually cresting a hill until I spied Hans stopped at a rutted dirt lane.

"We'll have to use the armored," he called out. "The car'll get stuck in the ruts." He instructed me to hide the Honda behind a row of low-growing trees, and then to join him in the front seat of the armored vehicle for the rib-rattling trip down the lane to the barn. He hopped out, entered the barn, stuffed the cash bags under the floor, and clambered back in the armored, which he backed up the lane to Sanchez Road.

Hans turned to me. "You noticed that ravine on the way up here," he said. "That's where we'll dump this heap. Follow me in the car."

Five miles later, I pulled up behind the stopped Global truck, its engine idling and starting to blow steam again. Hans had parked on the shoulder parallel to a steep drop-off. He had peeled off the guard's coat and cap and tossed them into the vehicle.

I got the drift. The armored car and its occupants would soon be going over the edge, courtesy of gravity. Another thought struck me. If bodies are headed for oblivion, can I be far behind? "Mind if I get my cigarettes?" I asked. "They cost a fortune these days." I quickly reached into the truck cab out of his sight, grabbed the steering wheel lock and clamped it in place.

"Those butts could kill you, you know," he snickered. "But I can't wait that long." Pointing the gun at me, he said, "Hop in. You'll be taking a little joyride with the late employees of Global. I'll toss in the gun just as you go over. But think of it this way. You'll get full credit for the heist. You're wearing gloves. So no prints to confuse the yokel cops."

My time in stir had taught me a few things. One was not to expect much from your enemies and a little less from your benefactors.

I feigned a surprised look for Hans and cautioned him to withhold fire. Pointing to the truck, I said, "Better have a look inside."

He scowled and crept toward the driver's window, fixing me in his sights. "Stalling won't get you out of this," he said. "Unlock the thing. Now."

"Anything you say, Junior." What did I have to lose by calling him that now? I fumbled deliberately for a minute or so as he shuffled impatiently in the dust and heat of July.

Neglected instincts from the prison yard kicked in and I could sense the exact distance he stood behind me, even pick up the smell of the schnapps on his breath. I unhooked the steering wheel lock, then reared back swiftly, spinning in the same motion. I brought the metal instrument down hard on his skull before he could get off a shot.

He crumpled to the ground, his arm with the pistol flung out to one side. I looked down at him, trying not too hard to repress a thought inspired by the wheel lock. "Now, I know why they call it 'the club'."

I hoisted Hans behind the wheel, tossing the gun in behind him. "Why not?" I said to an unhearing Hans, as I fastened his seat belt. "I think it's the law in this state––or should be." I guessed when the cops eventually blunder by, they'll have their work cut out trying to figure why the dead perp is sitting in an armored car out of gas by the side of the road.

I was backing out of the truck's cab, when Herr Getz's body jerked violently. His leg kicked out, knocking the truck into gear, and I toppled backwards onto the dirt shoulder. The vehicle's steering wheel was turned just enough to the left to guide the metal elephant over the edge.

I watched it tumble and crash over the rocks below, spewing up a cloud of dust as it rolled out of sight behind the piñon pines. Wondering why I hadn't bothered to check his pulse, I backed the Honda on to the asphalt, got out and brushed away tread marks on the dirt shoulder.

I drove the Honda back to Acme Gas and Auto Repairs and poked around for anything that might tie me to Hans. Thanks to his paranoia about government red tape, the only trace of my brief stay was a scribbled note with my name and my working hours he had logged. He had shortchanged me by two.

The Global outfit posted a big reward for return of the money, but nobody ever responded. Oh, the cops questioned me, after my parole officer confirmed that I had a trial job with Herr Getz. But hadn't I overslept on the day in question and turned up three hours late? And hadn't I found the "closed" sign and the owner's car parked outside. Who was to say otherwise? Not the cops, anyway.

A week later I left my one-room apartment, kicked the Harley to life and headed for Santa Fe. I waited out the year, working odd jobs, and keeping a low profile. The DA finally closed the case, officially pinning the heist and shootings on the late Herr Getz, who must have hidden the cash, in the DA's learned judgment, before mysteriously plunging off the road in a hijacked truck.

It was hard to quarrel with his logic. A week later, in a rented SUV, I retraced the trail down the rutted lane to the barn and retrieved the cash. You could call it reparations for a bum murder rap nine years ago. I did. My first purchase was airfare to Madrid, with a connection to Malaga. Your money goes a lot farther in Spain these days.

THE END