became an earthquake and they could no longer push back the moment and she pressed him against her and stroked him into her and their whimpers became cries and time was suspended.
He reached out in the darkness, touched the unsettled air, tried to relive that moment, and he knew he could never, would never, overcome the addiction of
And now, on the edge of sleep, he realized that it was that window, slightly ajar, that had also created his uneasiness. He knew —
He set the alarm clock in his head for 11 A.M., folded his hands over his chest, and started counting backward from ten. He was in a deep sleep before he got to four.
COMPLICATIONS
He awoke five minutes before eleven and lay on the floor staring at the shadows whirling on the ceiling above the fan, listening. Since Los Boxes, Hatcher’s hearing was acute; he could hear a cockroach as it scratched its way across the floor, Down the hail, he heard the elevator door open and close, the sound of two people walking along the carpeted hallway, heard the door to the adjoining room open, the rustling of hangers in the closet, the muffled dialogue with the bellhop, and the door closing.
He knew Sloan very well. He would order lunch — cold cuts and booze from room service — then take a shower before announcing his arrival. Sloan liked his booze and showers.
Hatcher waited until he heard the room service waiter come and go and the shower turn on, then got up, dressed and, using a set of hooked lock needles, picked the lock on the door between the rooms. When he entered Sloan’s room, Sloan was in the shower, humming to himself.
Hatcher crossed the room and reached under the pillow, took out Sloan’s .45, dropped the clip and ejected the shell in the chamber. He put the pistol back, went across the room and stood behind the bathroom door. He waited until Sloan was finished. The boxy man came out naked, toweling his hair. He strolled toward the bed, still humming some aimless tune.
Hatcher moved the door slightly so it made a creaking sound.
Sloan moved instantly, jogging slightly to his right, then switching directions before he dived for the bed.
‘Too late, you’re dead,’ Hatcher whispered.
Sloan sighed and slid down to the floor. He turned to Hatcher. The lopsided grin that was his trademark spread across his lips. It was like the old times, an old gambit, a game they had played through the years. But Sloan did not misread it. Hatcher had learned early in the game never to let personal feelings get in the way of the job; it clouded the judgment. This was Hatcher’s way of telling him that the job came first, regardless of how he felt about Sloan. It was not a sign that Hatcher had forgiven Sloan or that he trusted him, Betrayal was too high on Hatcher’s list of unforgivable sins for that.
Hatcher stepped out of the shadows and threw the clip and the round on the bed. ‘You’re not as quick as you used to be. And how many times have I told you, you’ve got to stop putting your piece under the pillow. It’s like putting a diamond necklace under the mattress. It’s the first place anybody looks.’
Sloan reloaded his gun and replaced it under the pillow. ‘Reverse psychology,’ he said.
Sloan stopped drying his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist, went in the bathroom, came back and stood in the doorway, slowly brushing his short-cropped hair. ‘We got a problem, laddie,’ he said casually without sacrificing his smile.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘Somebody stuck a knife in Windy Porter the night before last,’ Sloan said bluntly. ‘He’s dead.’
‘What!’
Sloan kept talking as he walked to a room service table. The room was large, with a king-size bed, rattan furniture and pastel flowered wallpaper. A vase of orchids on the dresser added more color. The balcony, furnished with white wicker, overlooked the river. A ceiling fan stirred the air, which was already getting hot and sticky.
‘According to the police, he was trying to break up a fight, if you put any faith in the Bangkok police.’
‘What really happened?’ Hatcher’s hoarse voice asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe it happened the way they say it did. I assume I’ll get the full story when I get over there.’
Sloan poured a cup of coffee and filled a water glass half full of scotch. He dropped a single ice cube in the glass and handed the coffee to Hatcher.
‘Where was he struck?’ Hatcher asked.
Sloan hesitated for a moment and, without losing his smile, said, ‘The neck. Base of the skull.’
‘Beautiful,’ Hatcher growled. ‘A classic triad hit. Breaking up a fight, my ass.’
‘I don’t think the White Palms are involved in this. What would their angle be?’ Sloan asked, sipping his drink.
‘How would I know?’ Hatcher answered. ‘I came over here looking for Cody, and now our only contact is dead and it looks like the triads are involved. Listen, Harry, you better not be playing games with me, I warned you back on the island . .
Sloan’s smile broadened. ‘Hey, don’t be so damn paranoid. We don’t know for sure it was even a triad hit. It could be just a crazy fluke.’
