home.'
Emily crossed her fingers and held them high.
Chris dialled Kathleen Fane's number.
And waited for somebody to pick up on the other end.
Dobyns reached the street. In the pale glow of the mercury vapour lights, he stood taking polluted air deep into his lungs and getting himself ready to walk inside the bookstore.
A pimp and a hooker passed by. The pimp was obviously upset with the heavily made up black woman. He had gripped her tight by the elbow and was shaking her as they moved toward a Caddy convertible.
Until now, he had not confronted the unspoken reason he was going into the bookstore.
The reason the knife was lashed to his leg.
The bookstore.
Inside.
Marie Fane.
Now.
He went inside.
Even from the threshold, he could see how neatly- lovingly-the store was laid out. Tidily categorised, all the books fitted perfectly into their pockets.
'May I help you?'
She was no great beauty but she was very pretty. One of those attractive, earnest looking girls boys actually seem to prefer to great beauties.
'Just looking for some old John Steinbeck novels, I guess,' Dobyns said casually.
She had a nice body, the right combination of roundness and leanness.
'You'll find that to your right behind you in American literature.'
He watched her carefully. He could see that his gaze upset her slightly, that she didn't know how to interpret it.
'Do you sell a lot of him?'
'Not a lot,' Marie Fane said. 'Mostly
'That's my favourite.'
'
'Right. You ever read it?'
'Yes. I loved it. Especially the ending. It was so sad.'
He saw her earnestness again. The simple but almost moving way she talked about the novel. The fact that she found it so sad told him a lot about her. She was a sensitive and intelligent girl.
Now, she seemed even prettier to him.
'When he puts the mouse in his pocket,' Dobyns said. 'That's the part I always remember.'
The girl nodded. 'He was a great writer.'
'I guess one of the novels I'm looking for is
'It'd be in the Steinbeck section if we did.'
He'd been trying to lure her out from behind the cash register. He didn't want to grab her up front. Too near the door. Too close to somebody walking in on them. Or seeing them struggle through the glass front door.
'Thanks,' he said, and walked back to the American literature section.
Richie ended up walking around the block to smoke his cigarette. Even in a run down neighbourhood such as this one, spring was meant to be enjoyed.
At first he was a little nervous-drunks and homeless people had the most baleful eyes on the planet-but soon enough he relaxed and appreciated the soft sweet breeze and the aromatic sprays of apple blossoms and dogwood that bloomed on a nearby hill.
He felt pure exhilaration. He'd never before trusted anyone enough to tell them the story about his father. For months now he'd had this secret crush on Marie but he hadn't ever expected it to lead to the kind of relationship where you talk, really talk, to somebody.
His problems hadn't gone away. There still wasn't enough money at home. His mother still looked worse and worse each day. Attending college still seemed a dimmer and dimmer hope for him. But even given all this, the fact that he'd unburdened himself with Marie made him feel as if he now had an ally. Somebody on whom he could rely.
He had a friend.
He had walked four blocks from the bookstore without even realising it. On one corner was an adult bookstore where two winos with paper bags covering their wine bottles sat hassling customers as they came out the door, apparently trying to panhandle some cash. On another corner was a Hardee's, a brilliant glowing white against the darkness and gloom of this neighbourhood. And on the third corner sat a small stone Catholic Church. He wasn't sure why, but he felt like going over there, mounting the stairs and going inside to sit in the quiet shadows and watch the votive candles flicker green and yellow and red in the darkness. Even though he wasn't sure he even believed in a personal God anymore, the prospect of sitting in church always cheered him. He'd spent many such hours following the revelations about his father.
He decided it was time to start back, pick up the Blizzards, and head for the bookstore.
He took out another cigarette and got it going. He probably wouldn't have another one for an hour or two.
When the light turned green, he crossed the street.
8
There was something about the man. She wasn't sure what. The odd thing was that he should unnerve her when other types of customers didn't. He was well dressed, well spoken, and certainly friendly enough. At least outwardly. But while he physically resembled the majority of the university related customers, still there was something troubling about him.
The man remained in back, looking at Steinbeck novels. She opened the lid on the box and peered down at the.38. At least that's what Brewster had called the weapon. A.38. For all she knew it could have been a.45 or an.889 or some other crazy number. Small, silver, smelling now of cleaning solution and oil, the gun lay waiting for her to pick it up. Brewster had shown her several times how it worked. She would, she felt, have no trouble firing it.
She reached down. Touched it. Despite the fact that guns made her nervous and uncomfortable-and despite the fact that on the debate team she always wanted to take the pro gun registration side-feeling the gun now gave her a measure of self-confidence. She occasionally took out her father's gun at home and held it, felt the grip clutched in her palm, felt her finger on the trigger. Much as she might try to deny it, and despite her feelings about registration, holding a handgun gave her a certain self-confidence.
She looked down the aisles. Empty.
The man had disappeared. Her heart began to pound. Where had he gone?
'Hello,' she said. 'Hello.'
On the dusty air of the old building, her voice sounded strained and very young.
'Hello. May I help you find something?'
Nothing.
Where had he gone?
Was he hiding?
