He took the.38 out of his belt holster and put it in his jacket pocket. He wanted a hand on it without flashing the gun in the open. He held the sap in the other hand.
He positioned himself back against the wall near the corner of the hallway. Anybody on the way to Valentine’s office would have to pass right under his nose.
He waited, listened.
It was after business hours, so there was a good chance nobody else had heard the shots. Maybe a couple of professors working late or maybe not. Smith shifted from one foot to the other. He didn’t like standing for long periods of time, but often it was part of the job.
He was hungry. Jesus, this was going to be a long night. First he had to wait around twiddling his thumbs while that old professor gave the boss poetry advice. Then he’d have to hang around for the reading, then make sure they got home okay. Probably wouldn’t be until midnight that he could build himself a nice pastrami sandwich on rye. Some BBQ chips too.
Smith heard footsteps coming. They were shuffling and irregular. The intruder was maybe looking around, trying to get his bearings. Smith stood rigid, hands in front of him ready with the sap.
He’d thought about ordering a pizza, but no way a deliveryman could find his way up to Valentine’s office. And he wasn’t about to leave the boss alone to make a Burger King run.
The guy was close now. Smith heard him breathing.
Smith tried to remember if there was still a MoonPie in the glove box of the car. No. He’d eaten it two days ago. He made a mental note to stash some snacks in the car. The boss had been keeping an odd schedule lately, and Smith needed to be prepared. Hunger, after all, caused distraction.
A hand came around the corner. The hand had a gun in it.
Smith brought the sap down hard across the guy’s wrist. A snap. The guy yelped. The gun flew, slid across the floor. Smith slapped a meaty hand on the guy’s forearm, pulled him around the corner.
He knocked the Harley-Davidson cap off the guy’s head, patted his coat down, and found an Old-West-style revolver. Smith smelled the barrel before sticking it in his belt, gave the guy a shake. “Who are you?”
“Jesus, my wrist’s busted.”
“I asked you a question,” Smith said.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“That’s a shame. Hold still.” Smith had him by the back of the coat.
The guy sagged, wanted to lie down. He groaned, leaned forward, and vomited.
“Christ!” Smith let go of the coat, stepped back, puke splashing on his shoes. The smell almost made him heave too.
The guy took off, running hunched over, clutching his busted wrist to his chest.
“Shit.” Smith took one step after him, planted his shoe square in the puddle of puke. His feet flew out from under him. He landed on his back. Hard. The air knocked out of him. He tried to suck in breath, but it was a long few seconds before he could breathe normally. He sat up. A raw spot on his hip where he’d fallen on his brass knuckles. He’d be sore for a week.
He gathered the pistols, limped back upstairs, wondering how he’d explain this to the boss.
Smith lumbered back into the old professor’s office. Valentine and Jenks looked at him expectantly.
But Jones read Smith’s face, saw the pistols in his hand. The boss could always size up a situation in no time. “Who was it?”
Smith sighed. “Some guy. He got away.” He dumped the pistols onto Valentine’s desk. Smith didn’t need any more guns.
“For Christ’s sake,” the old man said. “What happened?”
“I fell down.”
“What’s that on your pants?”
“Vomit.”
Jones stood, joints creaking. “Forget it. I want to hear the poetry reading. Let’s go.”
Red Zach was sick and tired of Oklahoma, farmhouses, rednecks, and being jerked around. He had to take care of this shit quick, or he’d look weak. He couldn’t go back to St. Louis without his property and Harold Jenks’s head on a stick.
But it was taking too damn long. How hard could it be to find a man in this two-bit town?
Okay, he was getting tense. He closed his eyes and began his breathing exercises. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Long, controlled breaths. It wasn’t working. Damn. He hated being on the road so long. Everything he needed was at home. His yoga workout videotapes, aroma therapy candles, the really good CD with the ocean noises. He needed all of it to keep from going nuts and getting an ulcer.
His cell phone bleated in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. “What?”
It was Maurice on the other end. He sounded strange, weak, like maybe it was a bad connection. Maurice told him to get a pencil. Zach wrote the words
“What is it?” Zach asked. “Dormitory or something?”
Nothing.
“Maurice?” Zach looked at the cell phone’s display, made sure he still had battery power. “Maurice, you there?”
Must have lost reception, thought Zach. That happened too often with these cell phones. Hit a dead patch and everything goes quiet.
forty-three
Morgan drank another martini, then walked out of the tavern and into the blizzard. Snow flew sideways, stung his face. He walked across the street bent almost in half against the wind. This was bullshit.
The snow was ankle deep, seeped into his socks. The lampposts along the main sidewalk were fuzzy blurs of light in the driving snow. It took fifteen minutes to trudge to the auditorium, a trip that usually took five. Morgan had to keep stopping and looking around to make sure he hadn’t taken a wrong turn. The campus looked unearthly and strange in the whirling mix of snow and pale lamplight.
He finally made the auditorium and ducked into the lobby, stomping his feet and huffing for air. His vodka breath burned up his throat and out of his mouth in a toxic cloud.
He heard the crowd. Morgan cracked the door to the auditorium, peeked inside. The seats were filled. He scanned the throng. Professors and administrators in the front two rows. Bored students packed the rest of the place, chatting among themselves. A paper airplane sailed from the back row. A guy in a university sweatshirt leapt up from his seat and snatched it out of the air to the scattered applause of the adjacent rows.
The freshmen. Morgan remembered what Dean Whittaker had said about filling the seats with honor school freshmen. They’d only had to come from the dorms, didn’t need to drive or hunt for a parking space.
Jesus Christ Almighty. Morgan was well and truly fucked. A crowded auditorium and no Ellis. Morgan belched, tasted vodka, felt slightly dizzy.
He had to do something. The dean and the rest of the administration were expecting something special.
Still, just to show up empty-handed was pretty feeble.
