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“That’s right.”

She gave him another swallow of Scotch. “I thought she was just conflicted about — you know, people watching. And with a black, which she did a couple of times, that would be kind of hard for a congressman’s wife, right? That’s why nobody knew where she lived. She didn’t come to a party of mine because she was being careful. Armand had to give her a shot one day to quiet her down. She wasn’t scared of sex. She was scared, period.”

“Of what?”

“I said I’m thinking aloud. Do I want to deliver the girl to that shitty husband? The answer could be no.”

“You can’t deliver her unless you know where she is.”

“No, I mean, do I want to? For Tucker to get the kind of publicity you were talking about, she has to go all the way. The Big Sleep, baby. For the last scene, she has to stop hallucinating and understand what they’re doing to Mr. Clean. Remorse! She’s got this self-destructive thing anyhow — ask her doctor. So she gets in a car and slams into an abutment at ninety miles an hour. And whose fault? Not Tucker’s! Baruch. Frankie. Beethoven on the sound track for the finish. Wrap it. — I don’t mean she’d do it! I mean Tucker would arrange it, and that’s how it would look! If you aren’t following, are you trying?”

“Is this part of your psychic feeling, or do you have anything to go on?”

“Will you stop trying to put me down?” she said crossly. “I’m good at reading character, I really am. She’s a Taurus. There’s a toughness there. She knew what she was doing. It was hard for her but she gritted her teeth and did it, of course with some help from the drug industry, legal and illegal. The more I think about it…”

She probed her cheek with her tongue and looked at Shayne speculatively.

“Here we start lying,” he said.

“Not at all. I remember that jolt Armand gave her. I think it was Darvon. It takes off the edges, and you get a better perspective. That was the day he was shooting a wheel. You know, four people? When you’re into Darvon, you ask yourself, does it matter? After we finished the shot, the guys took off and we stayed on the bed, Gretchen and me, smoking and generally, you know, grooving. She said various things. How she didn’t like men. In contrast to me, because I’m omnivorous, if that’s the word.”

“That means you eat everything.”

“Everybody.” She was becoming more playful as she spun out the story. “And she let something go, I wish I could remember the words. Husbands will kill you every time. They’ll kill you. She’d moved out on him, but if he ever caught up with her—”

Again, as so often tonight, Shayne had the feeling that he was watching a performance, in a role that hadn’t been defined by the playwright and still needed considerable work.

“She had good reason to be nervous,” Shayne said. “Tucker hates pornographers, and I don’t think that’s just a gag to get space in the papers. By making a dirty movie, she’s trying to hit him where it hurts. Stay out of it, Maureen. You’re outclassed. There are other people involved besides Tucker. Frankie Capp. Somebody shot his dog tonight, so he wired a bomb to the ignition of my car, on the chance it might have been me. But I’ve been dealing with people like Capp for years, and we go off fairly even.”

She interrupted. “I know Frankie, and he doesn’t impress me. Who else? I mean, I want to know, you still might persuade me.”

“Some people from Los Angeles. Pussy Rizzo is the name I have. You’ve been phoning an LA number, and maybe you’re the one who brought them in. Then there’s a congressman I don’t know much about, except that he has a certain amount of seniority, which gives him leverage.”

“Named what?”

“Barnett Pomeroy.”

Shayne’s own psychic powers were limited to what he could see and hear, but the change in the girl’s face told him that she knew the name, and it alarmed her. She walked quickly away, to make her adjustments without being watched.

“You know him,” Shayne said.

“Heard of him,” she said without turning. “From Chicago, right? What’s he doing here?”

“They brought him in for the convention. Tucker didn’t want to tell me much about him either.”

“Leverage. Oh, yes. If Barney makes a phone call to the winter White House they’ll move in an airborne division. Outclassed? Maybe I am. But when I see an opportunity to solve all my problems, I think I owe it to myself—”

“We aren’t necessarily on opposite sides.”

“Yes, we are. Yes, we are. There are a million things you don’t know.”

She turned back, her face showing that she had come to a decision. “If I was going for the money against that competition, I’d need your help. But the hell with it. What good’s money if you get in a car and it blows up under you? So I’m back to my original thing, leave you here and let the maid find you. I’ll have to put the tape back on your mouth. Sorry. Unless you hold still I’ll have to clout you again. And you don’t want that, because I wouldn’t know how hard to do it. I’m a beginner.”

She turned again, sharply, at the sound of feet on the gallery. An instant later, a knock came at the door.

“Maureen.”

It was a statement, not a question: a man’s voice. She had been thinking about giving Shayne another mouthful of Scotch. The bottle flew out of her hand and landed on the bed, spurting whiskey. She whirled on Shayne, using both hands to tell him to be silent.

“Come on, come on, wake up,” the voice said, and the doorknob rattled.

She pulled at Shayne’s shoulder, indicating that he should propel himself to the connecting door. Her mouth was a straight tense line. He nodded toward the table.

“Wallet.”

Two quick steps took her between the beds. Change spilled on the floor. Shayne rolled back on his elbows and pumped hard. He worked himself to the doorway and through it. She was a step behind.

She shut the door carefully and locked it.

CHAPTER 11

“Cut me loose,” Shayne whispered.

Shayne, as usual, had been carrying a Swiss knife. She snapped out one of the blades and sawed the strips of linen binding his wrists. He took the knife and freed his ankles. They had made the bandage too tight, and he winced as he stood up.

“Who are they?” he said in the same soft whisper.

“Trouble. From the coast.”

He slid his hand inside her robe. Her heart was working hard, so her alarm was probably real. She put her hand on his and pulled it hard against her, then gave him a wry look, partly a smile.

“Money, who needs it?”

With a metallic clatter, the door to the next room slammed open.

“Maureen, goddamn it,” a voice said.

Shayne and the girl, touching, listened at the door. One of the things she had brought with her from the other room was a.38 revolver. She let him take it. He broke it open. There were two rounds, one under the hammer.

One of the men in the next room came back after checking the balcony. “Nobody.” He had a high-pitched, nervous voice, a faintly Germanic accent. “What happened with the bitch? Her car is downstairs.”

The other’s answer came slowly. “She was hot to do it. It was her idea. I came three thousand goddamn miles.”

“Somebody was smoking a butt in here, and it’s recent.” A moment later: “Pussy. Look at this here. Blood.”

On the other side of the door, the girl looked at Shayne’s forehead, where she had slugged him with a bottle. The same voice said, “Let’s get out of here. It’s off, isn’t it? We can’t do it without her.”

“Let me think for a minute. When did you talk to her?”

“Not since six thirty. Look at the bed, somebody’s been rolling on it. Do you think Frankie or them—”