When the doorbell rang, Tuesday, the eleventh of July, around three in the afternoon, it wasn't Freddie who Elizabeth Louise was thinking about at all. She had a pregnant daughter-in-law, and that was who was on her mind as she walked through the house, unaware of the vibration as another big jet went over, and opened the front door.
A pretty girl was on the stoop. I hope she isn't a Jehovah's Witness, Elizabeth Louise thought, and said, "Yes?"
"Hi, Mrs. Noon," the girl said. "I'm Peg Briscoe. I've been living with your son Freddie for a while."
Elizabeth Louise had heard the name, from Freddie and from his brother Jimmy (another scamp), and Peg Briscoe seemed calm and cheerful here on the stoop, but nevertheless Elizabeth Louise's first thought was that Freddie was in trouble again. "What is it?" she said. "Does he need bail money?"
"No, no, nothing like that," the girl said, laughing. "Freddie's fine."
"That's a relief. Come in, come in."
So she came in, leaning against the open door for a second as though she'd lost her balance, but then righting herself and moving out of the way so Elizabeth Louise could shut the door.
"Iced tea?"
"That'd be nice," Peg Briscoe said, and uninvited she walked back to the kitchen with Elizabeth Louise, saying, "What a nice house. Freddie's told me about it."
"Has he?" Pouring iced tea for them both, she said, "Where is Freddie these days? Keeping himself out of trouble?"
Peg laughed again; she was clearly an easygoing girl, the right type for Freddie. "Keeping himself out of sight, anyway," she said.
"Probably the best we can hope for. Let's sit in the living room."
They sat in the living room, and sipped their iced tea, and the shadows went over the house, and Peg said, "Freddie wanted to come see you, but he's in a complicated situation now—"
"Trouble?"
"No, not at all. That's what he wanted me to come tell you. The situation he's in is really awfully difficult to explain."
"Is he sick?"
"No. He isn't sick, and he isn't in jail, and he isn't wanted for any crime, he's just in a . . . a complicated situation. So that he has to go away and he has to be kind of alone. Mostly alone."
"You mean, a quarantine?" Elizabeth Louise was getting scared.
"No, honest," the girl said. "He's not sick. It's kind of a problem, but it isn't terrible. It took me a while to adjust, but it's gonna be okay now. He came and helped me when I was in trouble, and he didn't have to, and I realize we need each other, we've got to be together. So I want you to know I'm gonna stick with him, he can count on me."
She'd said that with such assurance and sincerity that it was as though she were saying it to Freddie himself. Elizabeth Louise found herself feeling reassured, even though everything Peg Briscoe had said so far was so vague and incomprehensible that she shouldn't be feeling reassured at all. She said, "Where's Freddie now?"
"Waiting for me, not far from here." A jet went over, and when it was gone Peg gestured upward and said, "We're gonna take a plane. Haven't decided where yet."
"He's on the run?"
"No, Mrs. Noon," Peg said, and laughed at her. "You keep thinking Freddie's in trouble."
"He usually is."
"Not this time. Not ever again." Peg got to her feet. "I'd better go. He's waiting for me, he just wanted me to tell you not to worry, even though you won't be seeing him anymore. And please tell the same to his brothers and sisters, especially Jimmy."
Elizabeth Louise also rose. "Well, give him my love," she said. "And I hope things work out for him. And if he gets the chance, he should come say hello himself."
"When we get where we're going," Peg said, "I'll make him write you a letter. Or at least a postcard."
They walked back to the front door, and as Elizabeth Louise opened it she felt something, some movement of air, some aura, some weird experience that frightened her all over again, and she said to Peg Briscoe, in the open doorway, "He isn't dead, is he?"
"I'm alive, Ma."
Peg Briscoe smiled a slightly nervous smile, said, "He's fine. 'Bye," and pulled the door shut.
Did I hear that? What was it?
Elizabeth Louise opened the door and watched Peg Briscoe cross the sidewalk to a little old green car. As Peg opened the driver's door, the passenger door opened by itself. She got in and shut the driver's door and the passenger door shut by itself. She waved and smiled, and drove away, and another wide-body jet's shadow crossed over Elizabeth Louise and the house.
This one she noticed. She looked up, as the shadow went by. One of those would be Freddie, with his nice girlfriend. From now on, it could be any one of them, going over. One of those shadows is Freddie.
PRAISE FOR
DONALD E. WESTLAKE AND S M O K E
"Explaining what happens in a Donald Westlake novel is like reading a recipe for meringue instead of eating the results. . . . I strongly suggest you buy a copy now and squirrel it away for emergency use the next time you find yourself stuck in an airport lounge with a departure time of maybe. The bartender may resent the fact that you're too busy laughing to order another drink, but you'll definitely feel better in the morning."
— New York Times Book Review
"Westlake is a consummate pro. . . . SMOKE is one of his best books in years."
— Washington Post Book World
"This is one of the funniest books I've read in a long time. The dialogue is outrageous, the situations implausible, the humor nonstop. Freddie is the most likable fictional scamp you're likely to ever encounter."
— San Francisco Examiner
"More effective than a nicotine patch, and much funnier."
— San Jose Mercury News
"Glorious Westlake comedy. . . . Full of hilarious characters, crackpot conversations and narrative sleight of hand."
— Publishers Weekly
"A funny mystery writer. . . . Only Westlake could have come up with this one."
— Larry King, USA Today
"No one's touch is as quixotically cockeyed as Westlake's, no one can keep you chuckling as continuously."
— Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Rousing . . . full of fun. . . . The anti-tobacco satire hits square on the mark."
— Kirkus Reviews
"Westlake's delightful and absurd new novel . . . delivers the laughs. No one can turn a phrase or pen a comedy caper like Westlake."
— Detroit News and Free Press
"Full of chuckles . . . SMOKE is deft entertainment."
— Booklist
"Donald Westlake is very funny and weirdly enlightening."
— Newsweek
"Westlake [is] establishing himself as one of the hippest, coolest, funniest mystery writers out there."
— New York magazine
"Mystery connoisseurs will feel driven to rush to their nearest bookstore for a copy of SMOKE."
— Mostly Murder
"Donald E. Westlake [is] the Noel Coward of crime. . . . He displays an excellent ear for bitter-salty urban humor, composed of equal parts of raunch and cynicism."
— Chicago Sun-Times
"Donald Westlake keeps showing me people I'd like to meet."
— Rex Stout
"Westlake tosses the sand of petty frustrations and human fallibility into the well-oiled machine of the thriller."
— TIME
"Westlake is among the smoothest, most engaging writers on the planet."
— San Diego Tribune
"A glorious Westlake comedy."