“What if it’s important?”
“If it is, it’s important to Tinker, not to me.”
She rose from the bed and pulled down its covers. “I bet you let phones ring.”
“Sometimes.”
“The TV won’t bother me if you want to turn it back on,” she said, removed the polo coat and draped it over the back of the room’s other chair. She was wearing only a brassiere and panties, which Haynes thought were probably less revealing than the standard bikini. She slipped into the bed and drew the covers up to her chin.
“Good night, Mr. Haynes.”
“Good night, Miss McCorkle.”
He rose, switched off the room lights and sat back down. He continued to sit in the dark, recalling in detail everything he had seen and heard that day, especially his encounter with his former stepmother, Letty Melon. He had just reached the point where he had mistaken the pool of blood for engine oil when he heard Erika McCorkle stir and ask in a soft but wide-awake voice, “Aren’t you ever coming to bed?”
“Right away,” said Granville Haynes.
Chapter 21
In his fourth-floor room at the Madison Hotel, which offered an unspectacular view of Fifteenth Street to the north, Tinker Burns listened, the phone to his right ear, the good one, as McCorkle, lying cheerfully, said that Erika had just called from a gas station between Berryville and Leesburg to tell him that because of the snow she and Granville Haynes wouldn’t make it back to Washington until two or three in the morning.
“Well, thanks for letting me know,” Burns said, put the phone down and turned to the pair of seated men whom he knew only by their work names of Mr. Schlitz and Mr. Pabst.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Burns said, resumed his seat in a wingback chair and leaned forward enough to rest elbows on knees. After clasping his hands together, he spread a look of deep interest across his face, aiming the interest first at Schlitz, then at Pabst.
“Since you guys didn’t get very far before the phone rang, I wonder if you’d back up and start from the beginning?”
Pabst looked at Schlitz. “Where’d I start?”
“With the horse.”
“Right,” Pabst said and nodded a head that seemed a shade less wide than his nineteen-inch neck. The rest of Pabst was also broad and thick, although not very tall. Probably five-eleven, Burns guessed, still using feet and inches to measure height despite his more than four decades of exposure to the metric system.
Pabst frowned as he tried to recall what he’d already said. The frown wrinkled a pale forehead below a shock of hair so blond it looked almost white. He wore the hair long—too long, Burns thought—as if to compensate for his nearly invisible eyebrows. Below the faint brows were eyes that seemed to be fading from pale sky blue into rain gray. They were set too close to a tiny nose that Burns suspected of having stopped growing when Pabst was five or six some thirty years ago.
“Yeah, the horse,” Pabst said. “Well, we get there, like I already told you, about six in the morning when it’s still dark, and park in the barn. Then this horse starts kicking up a fuss and screaming or whatever horses do —”
“They neigh,” said Schlitz.
“Okay, he’s neighing and kicking with his hind feet and when he gets tired of that he rears up and tries to use his front feet to duke it out with us. So the last time he goes up and comes down, I shoot him.”
“Right between the eyes,” Schlitz said with a strange wide smile. “Hell of a shot.”
Although Schlitz, like Pabst, had a tree-trunk neck, he also had one of those reflexive all-purpose smiles that show too much gum and are used to express pleasure, rage, pain, hope, fear, mirth, approval and sometimes nothing at all.
Tinker Burns had seen such smiles in the Legion and knew that they often belonged to nut cases. He remembered two particular Legionnaires, both borderline sociopaths, who had died two days apart in terrible agony, each of them gut-shot, their all-purpose smiles firmly in place.
In addition to the smile, Schlitz came with popped brown eyes that were divided by a nose that went straight, then left, then straight again. Above was a tangle of thick black curls frosted with gray, while down below, at the face’s bottom, was a jutting chin that Burns thought you could hang your hat on.
“So you shot the horse, huh?” Burns said to Pabst.
“Yeah.”
“That was dumb.”
“He was about to wake up the whole fucking neighborhood.”
“The nearest neighbor is half a klick down the road.”
Schlitz smiled the all-purpose smile. “He’s still dead, Mr. Burns.”
“So he is,” Burns said. “Go on.”
“Well, after I shoot him,” Pabst said, “we go in through the back door.”
“Still dark out?”
