Dead Men's Dust

    Midstroke with his razor Rink paused, glancing at me in the mirror. 'Boy, you look like shit this morning.'

    'Gee, thanks,' I said. 'I feel like shit, too, if it's any consolation.'

    'There's a spare razor if you want to use it.'

    I ambled over to the sink and picked up the disposable razor. 'Courtesy of Harvey?'

    'Yup,' Rink said, taking another stroke at his chin. 'Keeps a stock of them for shaving his head.'

    I grimaced at the blade, checking for short bristles caught between the twin blades. 'He hasn't used it already?'

    Rink laughed. Didn't answer. I shrugged, ran the blade under the tap. Rink tossed me a can of shaving foam. I nodded my thanks at him, then stopped.

    'Problem?' Rink asked with a twinkle in his eye.

    'You've shaved off your mustache?'

    'Can't hide anything from you, can I?'

I grunted. 'That's what makes me a damn good detective.'

    Rink slapped me on my shoulder as he brushed past, heading back to the office. I washed and shaved, dried off. When I returned to the office, Rink was on the telephone to Harvey.

    'Harvey's over at Louise Blake's place. He wants us over there,' Rink said. 'He just watched a couple of guys go inside. Didn't look like they were selling home insurance.'

    'How slick did they look?'

    'Like eels in a bucket of sump oil.'

25

john telfer sat on his hotel recliner and stared at a blank canvas no more than a couple of centimeters past the end of his nose. Light from the overhead bulb filtered through the cloth, and if he stared closely enough he could make out the minute nuances of texture and pattern in the cotton weave. It was all he'd had to visually focus on for the best part of five hours. His other senses hadn't been given many stimuli, either, not since the man had forced the bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back with an electric cord torn from a desk lamp.

    He sat mute, listening for any telltale sign that his time was up, that the maniac was approaching, knife or gun ready to take his life. But all he heard was the occasional shifting of body weight on the bed across from him. Not for the first time he wondered if his captor had fallen asleep.

    He heard a soft grunt. Was it the sound a man makes as he slips into dreamland? Or more likely, the sound of one coming to a decision? Fearing he was about to find out, he straightened and craned his neck to try to shift the hood enough that he could see beneath it.

    'Sit still,' the man commanded from across the room.

    'What are you doing?' Telfer asked. His own voice was strained and distant.

    'Thinking,' answered the maniac. 'Now please be quiet and allow me to do so.'

    Telfer nodded beneath the bag. Show that I'm not a threat, he thought. But he couldn't help asking, 'What're you gonna do with me?'

    The man snorted in derision. 'What do you think?'

    Telfer's shoulders slumped. He felt like asking, Why didn't he just get on with it then? But that would be suicidal. He didn't want to die, and every second of life he could hold on to, he'd do so with all his might. He kept quiet.

    The minutes passed and Telfer went back to scrutinizing the inside of the cloth bag. He stared at the blurry cloth, lost in some still, Zenlike place. After a while, he began to rock back and forth.

    'Will you please be quiet?'

    'Unh?' Telfer asked.

    'You're humming again,' said the man. 'That same godawful tune that has no melody.'

    'I didn't realize,' Telfer said. Beneath his hood, he blinked slowly. He had no comprehension of having been humming a tune.

    'It's getting right on my nerves. Maybe I should just cut out your voice box so you can't do it anymore?'

    Telfer shook his head. 'I won't do it anymore. I'm sorry.'

    'Good. Now if you'll just give me a little peace and quiet, I can come to some sort of decision.'

    'Are you going to kill me?'

    'Probably. Only thing is, I haven't decided how yet.'

    'Thanks for being so honest.'

    He heard the man get up from the bed and walk over. Telfer's whole frame tightened in response. He made a short wailing sound, before something made him stop. He didn't want to die, but if he had to, he didn't intend shrieking like a lost soul. In defiance, he lifted his chin, exposing his throat for a quick slash. Then he blinked at the sudden intrusion of light as the hood was snatched away. The man wasn't holding a knife, but Telfer's own gun was pointed at him.

    'I've asked and asked for you to be quiet,' said the man, 'but you just can't seem to keep your mouth shut. So I've decided. What I want you to do is to keep right on talking. Okay?'

    Telfer squinted up at him. 'What do you want me to say?'