That’s not how it was. It was morning, and sunlight flooded the room, and we made the transference from sleep to consciousness in the shadow of an instant, woke up and blinked once and left the safety of our bed. “It’s time,” I said.
We dressed quickly. I shaved, we showered, we put on our clothes and checked out of the hotel. We had breakfast in a diner around the corner, a greasy spoon something like the place where I had slung hash in New York. Grace’s Lunch on Columbus Avenue. How long ago had that been? Days? Weeks? Years? It was hard to tell, impossible to believe. It was way back, buried somewhere, over and done with.
I don’t remember what I ate that morning. I don’t even remember that I ate, but I must have. Eggs, probably. But it’s only a guess. Whatever it was, I didn’t taste it. I got through with it and Cindy finished whatever in hell she had ordered, and we got out of there.
It was a cool gray sort of morning. The streets were relatively empty, the sky overcast, the temperature more than bearable. A good day for watching a football game, something like that.
I wondered whether it would be a good day for murder.
We walked around a corner, walked a block, turned another corner and kept going. I caught sight of the house, the big frame house where everything was going to happen. The money shop.
“That’s it, Ted.”
“I know.”
The gun was in the waistband of my trousers and the jacket hid it. But I could feel it. The metal was very cold, or felt that way.
“How, Ted?”
We’d been over it a dozen times. I spelled it out for her again anyhow.
“Ring the bell, he comes to the door, I push inside. I take care of him, you come in. That’s all.”
“If there’s two of them?”
“Then he recognizes me. Then I get the drop on them. Better give me a hand if I need it. But I won’t need it. It’ll be smooth as silk. Bunkie or no Bunkie there’s not a thing for you to worry about. It’s going to be silk-smooth.”
Silence. Now we were in front of the house. Time to go in and no sense standing around outside, being seen. Easy to say. Harder to do. She was holding my hand, holding it tight, and maybe the fear she was feeling doubled my own strength. I don’t know.
“Ted—”
“Let’s go, honey.”
“Ted, no killing—”
Half-statement, half-question. She wanted to know and she didn’t want to know. I told her no killing. Hell, that was what she wanted to hear. I could always fight with her later, or just go ahead.
Or whatever.
“And no shooting. The neighbors might hear.”
“Sure,” I said. “Come on, baby.”
There was a side door, which was a break. That was the one we picked. I made her stand out of sight while I leaned on the bell. I gave a hell of a lean. If I had things figured right, Casper was still sacked out after a hard night watching the late late show on television and pouring some beer down his throat. If I could get him out of bed it wouldn’t hurt the cause any. An opponent with his eyes still closed is the best kind in the world.
“Ted—”
“He’ll be coming. Relax.”
Relax? Sure.
I heard footsteps outside, spun around and watched the mailman walk past. No mail for the unofficial bureau of engraving and printing. That was good.
Then footsteps from inside. Footsteps coming toward the door. I yanked the gun out of the waistband of my pants and flicked off the safety catch. A voice, thin as a rail, came through the door.
“Who is it?”
“Telegram.” What the hell. That’s how they always did it in the movies. I wondered what I’d do if he told me to stick it under the door. Probably tell him he had to sign for it. The movies are a great educational institution.
But he didn’t play games. He opened the door, his eyes blurry with sleep, and I put the gun in his face. That made the eyes open up some. They went wide with shock and opaque with pure terror.
“Who—”
Casper. He looked like Casper the friendly ghost. His hair was straggly and magnificently uncombed, his face said that a lot of beer went with the late show. He was a mess. A badly shaken mess.
He was wearing pajamas, a pretty simple-looking print with green predominating, and his body showed through. The bones showed. I wondered how different he would look if he were the one with the gun. Then the scared eyes would be killer’s eyes and the mouth would foam like a mad dog.
It was good, thinking that way. It kept me from feeling sorry for him.
I shoved him inside, moved in after him. I tried to decide whether to knock him out now or later. Then I remembered Craig. I had to find out if he was around.
“Be cool,” I told Casper. “This isn’t for you. It’s for Bunkie Craig. He around?”
He shook his head but his eyes said yes.
“You better play it straight,” I advised him. “Or I kill you by mistake.”
“In the bedroom.”
“Upstairs or down?”
“Upstairs.”
That was fine with me.
“Look, Mac,” he whined. “You get Bunkie, huh? Then you let me alone. I’m a right guy. I won’t get in your way.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Huh?”
I spoke to her without looking at him. I told her to come on in and she did. It took him three looks at her before he figured it out, remembered who she was, knew all at once that Craig was not the sole reason for our presence.
He became very frightened.
“Turn around, Casper.”
He didn’t want to. There’s something about putting your back to a loaded gun that is most unpleasant no matter who you are and sheer horror if you are a gutless wonder like Casper. But he made it finally, and I hit him.
With the gun. On the side of the head just over the ear. Not hard enough to crack the skull, not so gentle that he could stay awake. He fell soundlessly, doubled up and pitched forward on his face. I figured he’d be out for half an hour but I was taking no chances.
“Watch him,” I told her. “If he moves so much as an eyelash, belt him one.”
“With what?”
I looked at her. “Your shoe,” I said. “Take it off right now.”
She was a good kid and she didn’t ask questions. She took off her shoe. It had a spike heel that you could drive a tent-stake with. It was better than a sap.
“Now sit down next to him,” I said. “And hold the shoe by the toe. If he moves, hit him in the head. Not too hard but hard enough.”
Maybe it was melodrama, kneeling next to an unconscious man and all ready to hit him if he groaned. Melodrama is better than dying. We were taking enough chances to begin with. I left her with Casper and started looking for Craig.
The downstairs was a cyclone’s aftermath. Casper was a lousy housekeeper. There were beer cans all over the floor, paper plates on the tables with uneaten food still on them, general disorder throughout. I wondered how different the place must have looked when Cindy and Lori were living there. Then I thought about Lori, who was dead now. And about Cindy, who had been shacked up with Reed. Those were things I didn’t want to think about. Not now.
I found the stairs and took them as quickly and silently as I could. One of them was creaky and I cursed it silently, then kept right on going. The gun in my hand didn’t feel cold anymore. It was warm now, warm and alive and ready. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it.
I tried two doors before I found Bunkie’s bedroom. It was sort of nerve-wracking, believe me. I screwed up my courage, opened a door, and the room was empty. But when I found him I had no worries.
He was asleep.
I must have given him a bad time in New York. He was still wearing bandages and he needed a few new teeth. But on him the bandages looked good.