The train pulled into a station stop.
The doors hissed open.
She watched the passengers coming on. She did not expect anyone even remotely resembling her two Hispanics to board. The doors hissed shut again. The train was in motion.
It was two-thirty-five when she got off the train uptown on The Stem and began walking northward toward the river. She was certain that they knew where she lived, had undoubtedly followed her from there to the school.
As she approached Silvermine Oval now, her eyes swept both. sides of the street ahead. Her handbag was slung on her left shoulder.
Her fight hand rested on its open top, hovering over the butt of the Walther.
Nothing.
She kept walking.
Entered the Oval, came around it. Nanny pushing a baby carriage in the bright sunshine. Such a lovely day. The weight of the gun in her bag.
Around Oval and onto Harborside. The small park across street from her house. Potential danger there. A approaching on the park side of the street. Short wearing a tan sports jacket. Little mustache under hi nose. Charlie Chaplin lookalike. Went on by, in his own thoughts. She scanned the park entrance Nothing.
1211 Harborside was just ahead, on her left. one on either side of the street, not a sign of in the park. A pigeon fluttered overhead, glided ov the park fence, settled on the walk inside the gate She approached the building and fished into her for her keys, the back of her hand brushing against the Walther. Found the keys, unlocked locks on the door, came into the entryway, secured the locks behind her. She was wearing Chanel ripoff, blue skirt and blue jacket with a ruff.
Unbuttoning the jacket, she went to answering machine, saw that she'd had messages, and pressed the playback button.
"Honey, it's me.”
Willis's voice.
"Did you make dinner reservations for toni Because I didn't, and it's Saturday night, and have a hell of a time this late. I kind of feel Italian, don't you? Do you think you could Mangia Bene? I'm at the lab, I should be around four-thirty, see you then, love ya.”
She looked at her watch.
Ten minutes to three.
"Hello, Miss. Willis, this is Sylvia Bourne, I'm the real estate person you were talking to Thursday night, at the open house? Oliphant Realty?
The co-op? I wonder if you and Mr. Hollis have had a chance to think about that penthouse apartment? I'm sure the sponsor would entertain a bid lower than the three-fifty, if you'd care to make an offer. Let me know what you think, won't you? It's negotiable. I know I gave you my card, but here's the number again.”
As she reeled off the number twice, no less Marilyn wondered why no one could ever get their names straight. It would be worth getting married just so they'd have only one name to worry about.
"Hello, Marilyn?”
A woman's voice.
"It's Eileen.”
Eileen?
"Burke. If you've got a minute, can you give me a call? At home, please.
Few things I'd like to discuss with you. Here's the number.”
Marilyn listened to the number, writing, thinking this had to be mental telepathy. Yesterday she'd thought of calling Eileen about a gun, and today Eileen was calling her. The difference was that today she already had a gun. And she still wasn't sure Eileen liked her very much. So why call me? And, Conversely, do I like her enough to call her back?
First things first, she thought.
Mangia Bene.
She found the number in her personal dire dialed it, said she was calling for Detective Willis why not a little P.D. muscle on a Saturday night? and asked if they could take two of them at ei o'clock.
Unconsciously, she looked at her w again. Three o'clock sharp. He'd be home in an and a half. She waited while the marre d' his reservations book, clucking his tongue all while. Finally, he said, "Si, Signora Willis, two you at eight, we look forward to seeing you then Willis again.
She cradled the phone, debated calling right that minute, get it over with, decided she rather bathe first. Slinging her shoulder bag, went upstairs to the third floor of the house.
They were waiting for her in the bedroom.
V
She went for the gun.
She went for it at once, not a moment's hesitation, right hand crossing her body and dipping into the open mouth of the bag, fingers curling around the grip, gun coming up and out of the bag, forefinger inside the trigger guard, thumb snapping off the safety, gun leveling to - He was on her in an instant.
The big one.
Moving swiftly across the Persian rug on the parqueted floor, past the canopied bed and the love seat upholstered in royal-blue crushed velvet.
He was an experienced street fighter, he did not grab for the gun, the gun was where the danger was. He came up on her left side instead, ducking inside the gun hand and throwing his shoulder against her chest before she could pull off a shot. She stumbled backward. He hit her full in the face, his huge fist bunched. She felt immediate pain, and brought her left hand up at once, forgetting the gun, the shrieking, cupping her nose, pulling her hand aw. covered with blood. He took the gun out of her as if taking a toy from a naughty child. She he'd broken her nose.
The pain was Blood poured onto her hand, blood dripped throu her fingers, blood stained her blouse and the front her jacket, blood spattered onto the Persian rug, wondered abruptly if the stains would come out, pain, where was the gun?
He was grinning.
Big fucking gorilla standing there grinning she held back the screams that bubbled into throat, the small gun in his huge hand, King standing on the Empire State Building airplanes.
"No more of that," he said in Spanish, grinnin The other one, the handsome one, was into the bathroom. She kept her eyes on the ugly the one who had hurt her. He did not know there also a switchblade knife in her bag. She would his throat the moment she had a chance. handsome one came out of the bathroom.
"Here," he said in Spanish and handed her one her good bath towels.
White. With the initials monogrammed on it in curliqued lettering fit royalty. Gold on white. She did not want to stain good towel. But she was bleeding all over the She put the towel to her nose.
"Noses bleed a lot," the ugly one said in Spanish, as if making a comment on the weather.
The other one merely nodded.
"Do you have a license for this gun?" the ugly one said in Spanish, and laughed.
She said nothing.
Held the towel to her nose, trying to stop the flow of blood. Nothing to do for the pain. The pain shrieked and shrieked. She kept her teeth clenched to keep from screaming. She would not scream. She would not reveal her terror. She would wait for the proper moment, and then go for the knife. Cut him.
Hurt him the way he had hurt her. And then go after the other one, the handsome one.
"Answer him," he said.
In Spanish. They were both speaking Spanish, assuming she understood, recognizing that if she was in fact Mary Ann Hollis, then she too would speak Spanish, she had learned Spanish in that fucking Mexican hellhole and had polished it on her knees in Buenos Aires. She pretended not to understand.
Stupidity, she realized. The initials MH were on every towel in the bathroom.
"Did you hear me?" the handsome one said.
"Answer him!”
“I don't understand you," she said in English.
"She doesn't understand us," he said in Spanish, "so knock out all her fucking teeth.”
The big one moved toward her, turning the gun up in his hand, flipping it so that the butt was in position. He was grinning again.
"No," she said.
"No what?" the handsome one said.
In Spanish.
"No, don't hit me," she said.