“What’s the matter?”

“Get—get out, please,” she said as if her teeth chattered.

“How about you?”

She opened the door on her side and jumped out. I got out my side and left the door hanging open, the keys in the lock. She came around the back of the car and as she got close to me I could almost feel her shaking before she touched me. Then she leaned up against me hard, thigh to thigh and breast to breast. Her arms went around my neck.

“I am being very foolish,” she said softly. “He will kill me for this—just as he killed Stein. Kiss me.”

I kissed her. Her lips were hot and dry. “Is he in there?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

“Nobody else—except Mavis. He will kill her too.”

“Listen—”

“Kiss me again. I have not very long to live, amigo. When you are the finger for a man like that—you die young.”

I pushed her away from me, but gently.

She stepped back and lifted her right hand quickly. There was a gun in it now.

I looked at the gun. There was a dull shine on it from high moon. She held it level and her hand wasn’t shaking now.

“What a friend I would make if I pulled this trigger,” she said.

“They’d hear the shot down the road.”

She shook her head. “No, there is a little hill between. I do not think they would hear, amigo.”

I thought the gun would jump when she pulled the trigger. If I dropped just at the right moment—

I wasn’t that good. I didn’t say anything. My tongue felt large in my mouth.

She went on slowly, in a soft tired voice: “With Stein it did not matter. I would have killed him myself, gladly. That filth. To die is not much, to kill is not much. But to entice people to their deaths—” She broke off with what might have been a sob. “Amigo, I liked you for some strange reason. I should be far beyond such nonsense. Mavis took him away from me, but I did not want him to kill her. The world is full of men who have enough money.”

“He seems like a nice little guy,” I said, still watching the hand that held the gun. Not a quiver in it now.

She laughed contemptuously. “Of course he does. That is why he is what he is. You think you are tough, amigo. You are a very soft peach compared with Steelgrave.” She lowered the gun and now it was my time to jump. I still wasn’t good enough.

“He has killed a dozen men,” she said. “With a smile for each one. I have known him for a long time. I knew him Cleveland.”

“With ice picks?” I asked.

“If I give you the gun, will you kill him for me?”

“Would you believe me if I promised?”

“Yes.” Somewhere down the hill there was the sound of a car. But it seemed as remote as Mars, as meaningless as the chattering of monkeys in the Brazilian jungle. It had nothing to do with me.

“I’d kill him if I had to,” I said licking along my lips.

I was leaning a little, knees bent, all set for a jump again.

“Good night, amigo. I wear black because I am beautiful and wicked—and lost.”

She held the gun out to me. I took it. I just stood there holding it. For another silent moment neither of us moved. Then she smiled and tossed her head and jumped into the car. She started the motor and slammed the door shut. She idled the motor down and sat looking out at me. There was a smile on her face now.

“I was pretty good in there, no?” she said softly.

Then the car backed violently with a harsh tearing of the tires on the asphalt paving. The lights jumped on. The car curved away and was gone past the oleander bush. The lights turned left, into the private toad. The lights drifted off among trees and the sound faded into the long-drawn whee of tree frogs. Then that stopped and for a moment there was no sound at all. And no light except the tired old moon.

I broke the magazine from the gun. It had seven shells in it. There was another in the breach. Two less than a full load. I sniffed at the muzzle. It had been fired since it was cleaned. Fired twice, perhaps.

I pushed the magazine into place again and held the gun on the flat of my hand. It had a white bone grip. .32 caliber.

Orrin Quest had been shot twice. The two exploded shells I picked up on the floor of the room were .32 caliber.

And yesterday afternoon, in Room 332 of the Hotel Van Nuys, a blonde girl with a towel in front of her face had pointed a .32-caliber automatic with a white bone grip at me.

You can get too fancy about these things. You can also not get fancy enough.

27

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