The Next to Die

role.”

“So—in a way, she owed you her career.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Tom replied. At least he wouldn’t say it on national TV.

“So tell me, Tom,” Buckman said, moving even closer to him until their shoulders touched. “Can I call you Tom?”

He nodded. “Certainly, please do.”

“So tell me, Tom,” he whispered. “How did you feel when you shot that ungrateful bitch in the head?”

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Dayle said, heading into the kitchen with Dennis.

She wore jeans, a black pullover, and no makeup. She didn’t plan on going outside the apartment today. She was the reluctant star of The Story on Page One. This morning, her “rental mental” surveillance man had a lot of company—at least a dozen reporters gathered in front of her building. But Dayle wasn’t talking with anyone—not even her own public relations people. She decided to let Dennis handle them. That was why she’d asked him to come over this morning. “I hope I didn’t screw up your Saturday with Laura,” she said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“She wanted to go to the mall,” Dennis said. He took a mug from the cupboard, then helped himself from the Mr. Coffee pot. “So I owe you big time for getting me out of it. Where’s Hank?”

“He’s at his place. I’m staying home today. I don’t need him.” She moved aside the newspaper she’d been reading. “In fact, Hank’s one reason I wanted to talk with you today. That bodyguard you mention, your friend, Kojak—”

“Kovak,” Dennis said, sipping his coffee. “Ted Kovak. He’s a real pro. Nice guy too. Want me to set up an interview?”

Dayle nodded. “You read my mind.”

Dennis glanced down at a story in the newspaper she’d been reading: AIDE TO LEIGH SIMONE COMMITS SUICIDE.

“Must have been rough,” he said.

“Huh, you don’t know the half of it.”

“Did Estelle talk?”

“What?”

“Did she tell you anything?”

Dayle stared at him, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Before she killed herself, did Estelle tell you anything?”

Dayle hesitated. It was an innocent question, but he seemed to be asking it for someone else. Dayle shook her head. “Um, no, it’s just like the newspaper said, Sean Olson and I came in and found her in the bathroom.”

Frowning, Dennis shook his head. “Too bad.”

Dayle was thinking about what Estelle had said: They’ve probably already gotten to somebody close to you…. Dennis had been working alongside her for over three years now; she trusted him. Then again, Estelle had been with Leigh Simone twice that long.

“Dennis, do you like working for me?” she asked.

“You’re the bane of my existence,” he said over his coffee cup.

“I’m serious,” Dayle said. “I want to know if you’re happy with me. I know I piss you off sometimes. Do you ever want to get even?”

He laughed. “Get even? What? Dayle, I happen to love working for you.” Dennis cocked his head to one side. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Dayle muttered. “Nothing at all. Forget it, honey.”

The limousine glided down a street where palm trees adorned meridians, and gates didn’t quite obscure views of immaculate lawns and seven-figure houses. Inside the limo, Tom listened to a tape from that afternoon at Maggie’s. The man calling himself Hal Buckman smirked during Maggie’s harangue: “…See you in the movies, Tom…. You’re pathetic, you really are.”

“Oh, here it comes,” he whispered.

“And you’re an uncaring bitch,” Tom heard himself growl.

“My God, you stupid—”

The loud gunshot cut her off. Tom winced at the sound of her body hitting the kitchen floor. He hadn’t heard that when it was really happening.

Hal Buckman pressed a button on the armrest, and the tape stopped. He took off his sunglasses, then cleaned them with a handkerchief. “We had her under surveillance for three weeks,” he explained. “We planted eight thousand bucks’ worth of bugging devices in her place. Lucky for you, we had enough time to get back in and collect it all before the police came to check out your handiwork. Otherwise, we’d be pretty upset with you, Tom.”

“‘We?’” Tom asked timidly.

Buckman smiled, and puffed his chest out a bit. “Have you ever heard of SAAMO, Tom?”

He shook his head.

“Good,” Hal said. “You’re not supposed to hear of it. SAAMO stands for Soldiers for An American Moral Order, and we have chapters all over the United States. We’re the good guys, Tom. We’re going to clean up this country, make it a decent place for our children.” Buckman glanced out the car window. “Maggie McGuire’s son is a sexual deviant. He has AIDS, thanks to his homosexual lifestyle. Some folks think that’s mighty sad, but certain individuals get what they deserve.”

“What does all this have to do with me?” Tom asked quietly.

“You gave Maggie McGuire what she deserved, Tom. Here’s a lady—and I use that term lightly—who appeared on the cover of People magazine, saying how proud she was of her queer son. She was endorsing deviant behavior. This is a war we’re fighting, Tom. Maggie McGuire was the enemy, preaching her propaganda. We wanted to stop her somehow, but you took care of that for us.” He slapped Tom on the shoulder. “You fixed her—for good.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Tom argued. “I—I still don’t understand any of this. What do you want with me?”

“You’re a good shot, Tom. You obviously know how to handle a gun from all those great westerns you made. You sure hit the bull’s-eye with Maggie McGuire. We might need you to silence another morally corrupt actress.”

“Who?” he murmured.

“She’s a big name, Tom. That’s all you need to know right now. We’ll give you the details at the appropriate time. We have a very exciting plan. We’ll need you to do some acting too. I think you’ll enjoy it. Of course, you’re in no position to refuse. But we’d like to have your enthusiasm nevertheless.”

“But I’m not a killer,” Tom whispered, shaking his head. “What happened with Maggie was an accident.”

“What happened with Maggie was practice,” Buckman said.

“Well, how do you expect me to pull it off?” Tom asked. “I’m not a hit man, for God’s sake. I’m seventy years old!”

“You’re seventy-six, Tom. And we’ll tell you in due time how you’ll pull it off. You’ll like this plan, I guarantee it.”

The old scrapbook had been poised on his lap for nearly an hour. It felt heavy—and useless. Tom glanced out the limousine window as they drove past his neighborhood Thrifty Mart. They were taking him home.

“I know you’re confused,” Hal said, with a gentle smile. “We’ll tell you more within the next couple of days. In the meantime, don’t do anything foolish, or worry about the police. They still don’t know who killed Maggie McGuire. Our men who retrieved the equipment from her house did a very thorough job of wiping away evidence. You were sloppy, Tom. Your fingerprints were on her counter. But they’re gone now. You should thank us, Tom, you really should.”

“Thank you,” Tom muttered obediently.

The limo slowed down as it approached his apartment building. Tom sighed. “You went to a lot of trouble to—to procure me for this job. What happens if I refuse? What if I surrender to the police,