Thoughts caroming around like balls on a pool table...
She said, “He was going to kill me.”
“Going to kill us both,” he agreed. “Violent fellow, your husband. What do you figure makes a man like that?”
“The gun was pointed right at me,” she said, improvising nicely. “I thought I was going to die.”
“Did your whole life flash before your eyes?”
“You saved my life.”
“You’re probably wondering how to thank me,” he said. He unfastened his pants, let them drop to the floor, stepped out of them. A shadow of alarm flashed on her face, then disappeared.
He reached for her.
It was interesting, he thought, how rapidly the woman adjusted to new realities. Her husband — well, her partner, anyway, and for all he knew her husband as well — her guy was down for the count, on his way to room temperature. And she wasn’t wasting time mourning him. Off with the old, on with the new.
“Oh, baby,” she said, and sighed theatrically, as if her passion had been real, her climax authentic. “I knew I was hot for you, Hank. I knew that the minute I saw you. But I didn’t know—”
“That it could possibly be this good,” he supplied.
“Yes.”
“It’s Jerry being dead that does it,” he told her. “Lovemaking as an affirmation of our own aliveness. He’s lunch meat and we’re still hot to trot. Get it?”
Her eyes widened. Oh, she was beginning to get it, all right. She was on the edge, the brink, the goddamn verge.
“I liked the bit with the bartender,” he said. “Kevin, right?”
“The bartender?”
“You got it,” he said, and grinned. “ ‘Oh, Kevvie, I haven’t got any money, so how am I going to get a little drinkie-poo?’ ”
“I don’t—”
“He phoned you,” he said, “after he got a peek at my wallet. He probably thought they were all fifties and hundreds, too.”
“Honey,” she said, “I think all that sweet love scrambled my brains. I can’t follow what you’re saying. Let me get us a couple of drinks and I’ll—”
Where was she going? Jerry’s gun was unloaded, he was sure of that, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a loaded gun stashed somewhere in the place. Or she might just open the door and take off. She wasn’t dressed for it, but he already knew she cared more for survival than propriety.
He grabbed her arm, yanked her back down again. She looked at him and got it. It was interesting, seeing the knowledge come into her eyes. Her mouth opened to say something but she couldn’t think of anything that might work.
“The badger game,” he said. “The cheating wife, the outraged husband. And the jerk with a lot of cash who buys his way out of a mess. How about you? Got any cash? Want to buy your way out?”
“Anything you want,” she said.
“Where’s the money?”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“You know,” he said, “I think I’ll have more fun looking for it myself. Make a game of it, you know? Like a treasure hunt. I’m pretty good at finding things, anyway. Got a sixth sense for it.”
“Please,” she said.
“Please?”
Something went out of her eyes. “You son of a bitch,” she said. “It’s not a game and I’m not a toy. Just do it and get it over with, you son of a bitch.”
Interesting. Sooner or later they let you know who they are. The mask drops and you see inside.
His hands went around her throat. “Jerry got a broken neck,” he said. “Strangulation’s not as quick. How it works, the veins are blocked off but not the arteries, so the blood gets in but it can’t get out. Remember those Roach Motel ads? Thing is, you won’t be pretty, but here’s the good news. You won’t have to see it.”
Jerry’s gun was unloaded. No surprise there.
Jerry’s wallet had a couple of hundred in it, and so did Lori’s purse, which suggested the ATM wasn’t down after all. And a cigar box on a shelf in the closet held more cash, but most of it was foreign. French 500-franc notes, some Canadian dollars and British pounds.
He showered before he left the house, but he was perspiring before he’d walked a block, and he turned around and went back for her car. Risky, maybe, but it beat walking, and the Olds was wonderfully comfortable with its factory air. He’d always liked the sound of that, factory air, like they made all that air in Detroit, stamped it out under sterile conditions.
He parked down the block from the Side Pocket, waited. He didn’t move when Kevin let out his last customers and turned off most of the lights, gave him another five minutes to get well into the business of shutting down for the night.
He was a loose end, capable of furnishing a full description. So it was probably worthwhile to tie him off, but that was almost beside the point. Thing is, Kevin was a player. He was in the game, hell, he’d started the game, picking up the phone to kick things off. You knocked down Jerry and Lori, you couldn’t walk away and leave him standing, could you?
Besides, he’d be expecting a visitor now, Lori or Jerry or both, showing up with his piece of the action. What kind of finder’s fee would he get? As much as a third? That seemed high, given that he wasn’t there when it hit the fan, but on the other hand there was no game if he wasn’t there to deal the cards.
Maybe they told Kevin he was getting a third, and then cheated him.
Guy in Kevin’s position, he’d probably expect to be cheated. Probably took it for granted, same way as Kevin’s boss took it for granted that not all of the money that passed over the bar wound up in the till. Long as the bottom line was high enough, you probably didn’t mind getting cheated a little, probably figured it was part of the deal.
Interesting. He got out of the car, headed for the front door. Maybe, if there was time, he’d ask Kevin how they worked the split. Good old Kevvie, with that big grin and all those muscles. While he was at it, why not ask him why they called it the Side Pocket? Just to see what he’d say.
You Don’t Even Feel It
She found them at the gym, Darnell in sweatpants and sneakers, his chest bare, Marty in khakis and a shirt and tie, the shirt a blue button-down, the tie loose at the throat. Marty was holding a watch and Darnell was working the speed bag, his hands fast and certain.
She’d been ready to burst in, ready to interrupt whatever they were doing, but she’d seen them like this so many times over so many years, Darnell working the bag and Marty minding the time, that the sight of them stopped her in her tracks. It was familiar, and thus reassuring, although it should not have been reassuring.
She found a spot against the wall, out of his line of sight, and watched him train. He finished with the speed bag and moved on to the double end bag, a less predictable device than the speed bag, its balance such that it came back at you differently each time, and you had to react to its responses. Like a live opponent, she thought, adjusting to you as you adjusted to it, bobbing and weaving, trying not to get hit.
But not hitting back...
From the double end bag they moved to the heavy bag, and by then she was fairly certain they had sensed her presence. But they gave no sign, and she stayed where she was. She watched Darnell practice combinations, following a double jab with a left hook. That’s how he’d won the title the first time, hooking the left to Roland Weymouth’s rib cage, punishing the champion’s body until his hands came down and a string of head shots sent the man to the canvas. He was up at eight, but he had nothing left in his tank, and Darnell would have decked him again if the ref hadn’t stopped it.