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Oakley’s legs were not working well. They tramped to the front room but it was empty; one light burned in a lonely corner. “Gone to bed,” Co
To Oakley’s dismay Co
Faint light splashed past them into the room from the open doorway and revealed the two figures naked on the bed. Louise’s head was lifted, rigid with alarm; her tawny hair glistened faintly. The room smelled of cold cream and shampoo. Oakley was strangely, oppressively aware of the odor; as he was of the frozen tableau on the bed before Frankie Adams rolled over, his feral face turning vividly scarlet. Adams said with absurd aplomb, “Jesus Christ—look who’s here. Listen, Earle, don’t get sore—even the government frowns on monopoly, hey?” He uttered a hysterical shriek of laughter that beat strident echoes around the room. Louise’s lips upturned in a cowardly apologetic half-smile; then, when Co
Oakley reached out to stop Co
His head rocked back; he fell over on his side, half under the bed. Numbed and throbbing, he reached sluggishly, squirming out from under, rolling his head to seek the others. He rolled over on his back and then he saw them above him, outlined against the open door.
They had got their feet under them somehow: Adam’s thin naked arms whipped up and broke Co
It knocked Adams off the wall. Startlingly resilient, the comedian bounced acrobatically and drop-kicked the big man, both bare feet into Co
Oakley got his legs under him. His knees trembled when he rushed past the foot of the bed and pi
Louise lay on her elbows, looking down over the foot of the bed. She made retching sounds in her throat. Adams said with stifled alarm, “Okay, okay, get off me.”
Co
Adams’ voice reached him dimly through the thudding in his ears: “Call the doctor. Quick!”
“No,” Oakley heard himself say. “Don’t call anybody.” Later he would remember that and ask himself why he had said it.
He dragged himself to his feet. Adams whispered, “Dead?” And when no one answered him, he said, “Sweet, sweet Jesus.”
In that moment Oakley glanced suddenly at Louise and caught on her features in that unguarded instant a look of savage joyful satisfaction. It was gone so swiftly he might have imagined it.
“He’s dead.” He pronounced the fact with harsh clarity. “He’s dead.”
C H A P T E R Eight
Oakley sat in Co
The muscles of Oakley’s arms and back still throbbed from the limp deadweight of Earle Co
He let the tape play through to its finish. There followed Diego Orozco’s short grunt. No one else spoke until Oakley stirred and heard his own voice issue from his chest with cool precision: “That’s why we can’t let it be known outside this room that Earle’s dead. If the kidnaper finds out I wouldn’t give two cents for Terry’s chances. Diego?”
“Sure. You’re dead right.”
Cataleptic immobility was Louise Co
Her face filled with venom. “Shut up.”
“I need to have you lucid. You’ve got to pay attention.”
“You need,” she muttered with icy scorn.
Frankie Adams stood up like an old man and pulled tight the cloth belt of his dressing gown. “A drink would help.”
“All right,” Oakley said. “But nurse it.”
Louise said, “Can’t you shut up?”
“Don’t shout,” Oakley said. “I’m not deaf.” His words had a dry rustle. Orozco went to Louise and picked up her hand and began to rub it and pat it between his big brown hams. Louise neither responded nor withdrew. Oakley left his chair and went out of the room with Frankie Adams, taking him down the hall to the dining room and standing in the doorway to watch Adams pour a shaky drink at the side bar. Adams said, “Want one?”
“No.” He wanted a clear head.
Adams said, “Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup,” and sat down on a dining chair as though genuflecting. He looked up at Oakley and added morosely, “Check, please.” His grin was a spasm of clenched teeth and drawn lips. Unable to hold Oakley’s glance he shifted his eyes away and demolished half his drink. Oakley tipped his shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms, his eyes half-shuttered.