stood with one hand on a stuck-out hip, the other on the doorframe.
“Hello,” she said. She looked past me at the gardener. “Who’s this, Bradley?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” he said in his dignified voice. “He was looking for Mr. Maxine.”
She looked at me. “Stan’s not here. He was, but he left just a few minutes ago.” She smiled. “Could I help?”
“I don’t—”
“Come on in anyway,” she invited, turning to let me see the profile. She stood straight, belly flattened a little too much, as if she were holding it in. I could see the rounded edge of her rib cage.
I went past her into the house. It was very cool inside. The living room was wide and deep and shady, decorated and planned by an expert to seem as casual as a chew of tobacco. There was a patio beyond wide French doors, with gaudy lawn furniture.
“I’m Gerry,” she said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. She was barefoot. “Are you a friend of Stan’s?”
“Yes. Are you?”
That got her. She laughed charmingly, a laugh that put dimples at the corners of her mouth. “I sure am,” she said.
A sudden gash of sound startled me. It was a booming bass voice rolling out a piece of something from an opera. The singing was excellent, though loud enough to wrinkle glass. It ended as abruptly as it had begun. I looked around in bewilderment.
“What was that?”
Gerry shrugged. “Bradley. You saw him outside. He’s going to be an opera singer.”
“What does he do around here?”
“Oh, he works for Stan. He’s sort of a gardener and chauffeur, and he keeps an eye on the place. Spends most of his spare time taking singing lessons. He breaks out like that all the time. I’ve got used to it. The neighbors complain, though. The people next door moved away because their cocker spaniel went around shaking all the time and wouldn’t eat.”
“Could you tell me where I might find Stan?” I asked her.
She tossed her head, putting fingers to her hair. She slid a look at me I wasn’t supposed to see. It totaled me up like an adding machine.
“I suppose he went back to the office. He’s president of Marlin Linen Supply Company. You didn’t tell me your name.”
“His name’s Pete Mallory,” Stan Maxine said.
Neither of us started guiltily. Maxine was standing in the doorway to the dining room looking at us. Gerry glanced at him casually.
“I thought you were gone, Stan.”
Stan mopped his misting dark face with a pink handkerchief. He wore a cream-colored suit, dull orange dress shirt with a black tie, and black suede shoes. His hair was tumbling on his forehead and he waved it back into place with fingers that trembled slightly.
“I, ah, I forgot my stomach medicine, sweetie,” he said. His moist, moody eyes kept swinging back to me. There were acne scars on either cheek, and the knife scar at one corner of his mouth held his lips slightly apart and got in the way of his speech when he talked rapidly, which was most of the time. There was a congested look on his face as he suppressed a stomach rumble.
“It’s probably upstairs,” Gerry offered, swinging one small foot briskly as she sat on the arm of the sofa.
“Yeah,” Stan said. “Probably. Listen, honey, would you mind going into the kitchen and maybe stick the dishes in the washer while Mallory and I talk private?”
Gerry grimaced unhappily.
“Just for a minute or two, honey,” Stan coaxed. She picked up a pair of slip-on shoes and walked slowly toward the dining room. When she was close to Maxine she looked back at me and a smile touched one corner of her mouth. Maxine’s finger flexed, but he continued to look at her fondly. When she had shut the door to the dining room he took three big strides toward the sofa, his face pinched with fury, snatched up a big square pillow, turned and flung it at the closed door.
“I’m gonna catch you one of these days, you little tramp!” he said fiercely under his breath. I didn’t quite smile at him. Stan always made the slightest movement seem incredibly difficult to achieve, throwing his whole body into a wink, a word, a gesture. I’ve never seen him still for longer than half a minute.
“She’s cute as a speckled pup,” I said. “When did you marry her?”
“She’s not my wife,” he said, turning his constant sneer on me. His hair had fallen out of place again and he pushed it violently off his forehead. Since I had known him he had shaved his sideburns. It was an improvement, but Stan needed lots more of them. His teeth gleamed inside the slight gap between his lips.
He looked around the living room, then took a prescription bottle from his coat pocket, uncapped it, sipped some of the rich creamy liquid. He looked like it hurt him to drink it. When he had had enough he replaced the lid, dropped the medicine into his pocket.
“About eighteen, isn’t she?” I said. From what I’d seen of Gerry she could be that young, or she could be ten years older. It was hard to tell.
“That’s none of your goddam business. Gerry just looks young. She’s been around.” He eyed me narrowly. “I thought I’d never have to look at you again,” he said. “What did you come back for, Pete?”
“Pick out a reason you like,” I told him, wondering if he’d heard about the mail Macy had been getting.
“I don’t like none of ’em.” He walked around the sofa twice, then sat down, his anxious fingers finding a cigarette to play with. “You got a reason for coming here?”
“I want to know which one of your boys is a chunky little customer with a sky blue hat and a white band.”
He put the cigarette in a corner of his mouth. “Why?”
“I ran into a shotgun ambush last night on my way into town. He was the triggerman. An hour ago somebody rigged a bomb in my car. There was enough dynamite hooked up to the starter to blast me to Key West. It may or may not have been the same lad. When I find him I’m going to blow his face right out from under that beautiful hat.”
Stan put his head back and laughed. I could see gold in his teeth. “He’s not mine. I never knew you were coming. My boys wouldn’t goof the job twice, either.”
I reached down and jerked him off the sofa by the front of his coat. He swung a wild fist at me. I stepped out of the way of it and grinned at him. His hands patted the rumpled coat. I had an eye cocked for a gun but apparently he didn’t carry one. His bad skin reddened. He stuck out a trembling finger at me.
“You don’t shake me up no more, Pete,” he spit out, forgetting the good English in his haste. “I’m big now, Pete. I snap my fingers, I got two-three guys to blow your gut out. Sure, I know why you’re back. But you came too late. Macy’s on his way out. I’m the new man in town. You stay away from me or maybe I will arrange a party for you. Don’t mess with me.” His eyes were dull with hate. He jerked a thumb at the closed door to the dining room. “Don’t mess around her!”
I looked at him until I thought he might try to slug me again. Then I walked toward the front door. I went up the two steps into the hall, then looked back at him. He had the pink handkerchief out again.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said casually. “Maybe Macy’s through. But like you said — I’m back.” I was just popping off. But his shoulders hunched and he looked at me with one glassy eye. There was murder in it. The other was almost shut in rage. He drew back a little and his mouth opened and his neck swelled.
I opened the door and went outside, but not before I heard him shriek childishly, “I hate your goddam
Three blocks down the street I saw a familiar figure in red pants hiking briskly along. When she heard the Buick approach she turned and gave me the thumb expectantly. So I pulled over and she hopped in.
“I thought you were doing the dishes,” I said.
