cologne. It smelled familiar, though.
He frowned and flicked on the lights.
There was Quentin’s bed, freshly made. Next to it, a night table. On the night table, something glittered. Saint recognized it at once.
It was one of Livia’s earrings. One of the Harry Winston earrings he’d given her, in his best friend’s bedroom.
He staggered back, almost as if he’d been punched in the gut.
Livia. And Quentin. It couldn’t be.
But it was. He knew it for certain now, just as all at once, he knew what that familiar smell was. He picked up a pillow off the bed and inhaled, just to be certain.
Livia’s perfume.
A car pulled up in the driveway. Saint went to the window.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Daddy’s home.”
The front door opened, and then shut.
Howard Saint pulled the switchblade from his pocket and started down the stairs.
Howard wasn’t at the club yet, John had said, which was a good thing, because Glass needed a few minutes here to unwind. He couldn’t call his friend at the police department till morning, but he could find out if the kind of trace he was thinking of was technically possible. He had another friend who knew all there was to know about cell phones, about how they worked. Glass would grab a drink to steady his nerves, and call him before heading out again.
He hung his jacket up on a chair, put his gun down on the kitchen table, and went into the living room to fix himself a martini.
“Evening, Quentin.”
Glass almost jumped out of his skin.
Howard Saint stepped out of the hall and into the room before him.
For a second, Glass was too surprised to speak.
“Howard? What are you doing here?”
“Jim Bowie,” his boss said.
Right then, Quentin saw the knife in his hand, and thought: What the fuck? “Excuse me?”
Howard clicked the blade open. “Jim Bowie—the river-boat gambler, who died at the Alamo. When a man accused him of cheating, they went ashore to a whorehouse, threw the furniture out, and stuck a knife, like this—” He held up the switchblade “—in the floor. Whoever walked out got the money.”
Quentin couldn’t think of a thing to say, except: “I didn’t know that, Howard.”
“It’s true.” Saint looked around the room. “Our only problem? Too much furniture.”
“Howard, I’m not following this.”
The smile disappeared from Saint’s face.
“I’m accusing you.”
“Of what?”
“Cheating.”
“I’ve never taken a cent from you.”
His boss took a step forward.
“Where were you going to do it next week? Back at the Wyndham Hotel?”
“Who? What are you talking about, Howard?”
“You,” Saint said slowly, “and the whore.”
“The whore. What . . . Howard, you’re not making any sense.”
Saint threw the knife down—thwack—into the hardwood floor.
It vibrated a moment, then went still.
What the hell was going on here? Howard was mad, beyond mad, he was honest-to-God livid, and Glass had no idea why.
“You’re good. You are good, Quentin. You might have had a stage career. Maybe in the next life.” His expression hardened. “Take the knife, Quentin. Or I will.”
“I’m not touching it. I don’t—”
Howard took the knife.
“This isn’t funny.” Quentin began backing up.
“It’s not supposed to be.”
Saint lunged forward and cut him on the arm. Glass looked down and saw blood soaking through his shirt.
“Howard! What—”
“How long have you worked for me? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Saint lunged forward again. Quentin dodged.
His boss caught him with an elbow, right across the face. Bone shattered: Glass cried out in pain and disbelief.
His nose. Howard Saint had just broken his nose.
Saint rushed him again, slamming him into the wall, pinning him there with his body while he drew his knife arm back.
Quentin twisted to one side, barely avoiding the blade, and struck his boss square in the side with a fist. Saint staggered back, stunned.
“Howard, for God’s sakes! Have you lost your mind?”
“You were my brother,” Saint gasped. “I gave you everything. Denied you nothing. It wasn’t enough?”
He charged again. They grappled like wrestlers: with his left arm, Glass held back the knife in Saint’s right, their other two hands locked together, fingers intertwined, each straining for an advantage.
Slowly, Glass felt his fingers begin to bend.
Howard was strong, Quentin realized. Too strong.
He looked up. Saint’s face was inches from his.
“Please. Don’t.”
Saint only smiled, and bore down harder.
The blade of the knife pricked Glass’s chest. Quentin gasped and pushed it away.
“My Livia?” Saint bellowed, his face red with rage and concentration. “My Livia?”
Glass almost—almost—laughed. Was that what this was about? Saint thought he was fucking Livia?
“No.” He shook his head. “Livia and me—Howard, no. What did she tell you? It’s not true—I swear. . . .”
Saint growled at him.
The blade poked into his chest. Glass looked down and saw blood pool up around the tip.
The tip vanished within him, and pain shot through his system.
“Ah.” Glass moaned. “Don’t do this.”
Saint pressed. The knife went in deeper.
Glass tried to free his other hand: Howard wouldn’t let go.
“Howard . . . no. Howard. You’re—”
The knife went into the hilt.
Glass coughed, and tasted blood.
This wasn’t happening. This was not happening.
He looked into Howard Saint’s eyes.
“Please,” he managed. “Please. You’re killing me.”
Saint’s expression didn’t change.
All of a sudden, Quentin couldn’t breathe.
“Why—tell me . . .” he wheezed. “Howard.”
“Livia,” Saint said. “My Livia.”
Quentin blinked. He felt his body go limp.
And then he felt nothing at all.
