Страница 111 из 170
"You'll do as I say," Letitia Kendall said.
"Aw Jesus." Shifty Malloy whined. "Jesus Christ."
Then a dainty foot in a green satin pump stepped into view. I blinked. Felt like I'd been hit by a train, throat was burning, couldn't take a deep breath, and I couldn't even squirm. My hands were tied back and my feet felt like lead blocks. She bent down, the dame in green, and she wasn't wearing her pretty face anymore. The smear of crimson on her lips was fresh, and she wiped at it with one white, white hand as her other hand came down, snagged a handful of my suit coat and shirt, and hauled me up like I weighed nothing.
"You have to cut off the head," she said. "It's very important. If you don't, you won't get any more."
Malloy was sweating. "Got it. Cut off the head."
"Use a shovel. They do well." Her head tilted a little to the side, like a cat's considering its prey. "It is very important, Edward, to cut off the head."
If I could have opened my mouth, I might have said that asking Shifty Malloy to decapitate someone was like asking a politician to be honest. I knew the bum. Malloy might shoot a man in the back, but he was squeamish about cockroaches, for Christ's sake.
"All right, already." Malloy stepped into view, and his ridiculous little pasted-on moustache was limp as a dead caterpillar with sweat. He raised the gun, a serviceable little derringer, and put it to my forehead. "You might wa
"Just do it." Letitia gave me an impatient little shake. My feet dangled like a puppet's. "I have a party to attend tonight."
When I came back from the war some bum asked me what the worst thing about it was. I told him it was the goddamn food in the service. But the worst thing in the war was the not knowing, in the smoke and the chaos, where the next bullet was coming from.
The only thing worse than that is knowing where it's coming from, and when that gun is to your head and nothing comes out of your crushed and dry throat but a little sound like nuh-nuh-muh.
Then the world exploded.
"Wait until I get around the corner," I said, handing her the file. "Then go home. You're a standup dame, Dale."
"For Christ's sake." She slid down in the seat, as if afraid someone would see us parked here. "Call me Sophie, Jack. How long have I worked for you?"
"Three years."
Kept me on time and kept that office from going under, too.
"I deserve a raise." Her pulse was thumping again. Like a rabbit's. The thirst was back. It scorched the back of my throat like bile from the worst hangover ever, and it smelled her. Chanel and softness and the steak she'd cooked, and my fingers twitched like they wanted to cross the air between us and catch at her dress. It was a pretty blue dress, high in the collar and tight in the waist, and she looked good.
Never noticed before how easy on the eyes Miss Dale was. Yeah, I'm an unobservant bum.
"Go home, Sophie." It was getting hard to talk again, the teeth were coming out.
Shophie, I mangled her name the first time I ever said it. "You're a doll. A real doll."
"What are you going to do?" She had never asked me that before. Plenty of questions, like,
where did you put that file and do you want coffee and what should I tell Boyleston when he calls about the rent? But that particular one she'd never asked.
"I'm going to finish the Kendall job." I slid out of the car and closed the door softly, headed down the street. She waited, just like I'd told her, for me to reach the corner. Then the Ford's engine woke and she pulled away. I could hear the car, but the biggest relief came when I couldn't hear her pulse anymore.
Instead, I heard everyone else's. The drumbeats were a jungle, and here I was, the thirst burning a hole in me and the rain smacking at the top of my unprotected head. I flipped up the collar of my coat, wished like hell a bottle of Scotch could take the edge off the burning, and headed for Chinatown.
You can find anything in Chinatown. They eat anything down there, and I have a few friends. Still, it's amazing how a man who won't balk when you ask him to hide a dead body or a stack of bloodstained clothes might get fu
That's what butchers are for. And after a while I found what I was looking for. I had my nineteen dollars and the thirty in pin money from Miss Dale's-
Sophie's-kitchen jar. She said I was good for it, and she would take it on her next paycheck.
I would worry about getting her another paycheck as soon as I finished this out. It might take a little doing.
After two bouts of heaving as my body rebelled, the thirst took over and I drank nearly a bucket of steaming copper, and then I fell down and moaned like a doper on the floor of a filthy Chinatown slaughterhouse. It felt good, slamming into the thirst in my gut and spreading in waves of warmth until I almost cried.
I paid for another bucket. Then I got the hell out of there, because even yellow men will stop looking the other way for
some things.
It's amazing what you can do once a dame in a green dress kills you and pins you for murder.
The next thing I needed was a car. On the edge of Chinatown sits Be
"Shut up." I peeled a ten-spot off my diminishing bankroll and held it in front of him, made it disappear when he snatched at it. "You never saw me, Be
He grabbed the ten once I made it reappear. "I
never goddamn see you, Jack. I never wanta see you again, neither." He rubbed at his stubble, the rasp of every hair audible to me, and the sound of his pulse was a whack-whack instead of the sweet music of Sophie's. How long would his heart work through all the blubber he had piled on?
I didn't care. I drove away and hoped like hell Be
But still, I worried. I worried all the way up into Garden Heights and the quiet manicured mansions of the rich, where I found the house I wanted and had to figure out how to get twelve jerrycans over a nine-foot stone wall.
The house was beautiful. I almost felt bad, splishing and splashing over parquet floors, priceless antiques, and a bed that smelled faintly of copper and talcum powder. There was a whole closetful of green dresses. I soaked every goddamn one of them. Rain pounded the roof, gurgled through the gutters, hissed against the walls.
I carried two jerrycans downstairs to the foyer-a massive expanse of checkered black and white soon swimming in the nose-cleaning sting of kerosene-and settled myself to wait by the door to a study that probably had been Arthur Kendall's favorite place. I could smell him in there, cigars and fatheaded, expensive cologne. I ran my hands down the shaft of the shovel while I waited, swung it a few experimental times, and tapped it on the floor. It was a flathead shovel, handily available in any garden shed-and every immaculate lawn needs a garden shed, even if you get brown or yellow people out to clean it up for you.
I'm good at waiting, and I waited a long time. The fumes got into my nose and made me lightheaded, but when the Packard came purring up the drive I was pouring the last half of a jerrycan, lit a match and a thin trail of flame raced away up the stairs like it was trying to outrun time. Even if her nose was as acute as mine she might not smell the smoke through the rain, and I bolted through the study, which had a floor-length window I'd been thoughtful enough to unlock. Around the corner, moving so fast it was like being back in the war again, hardly noticing where either foot landed as long as I kept moving, and the shovel whistled as I crunched across the gravel drive and smacked Shifty Malloy right in the face with it, a good hit with all my muscle behind it. He had gotten out of the car, the stupid bum, and he went down like a ton of bricks while Letitia Kendall fumbled at the doorhandle inside, scratching like a mad hen.