I joined her at the bar and ordered two double shots of the local battery acid. Being careful, I deepened my voice and changed my accent and manner of speaking. Angelina had heard enough of my voice to identify it easily—that was the one thing I had to be aware of.
“Drink up, doll,” I said, raising my drink and leering at her. “Then we go up to your place. You got a place don’t you?”
“I gotta place, you gotta League ten-spot in hard change?”
“Of course,” I grumbled, feigning insult. “You think I’m buying this bilge-juice on the arm?”
“I ain’t no cafeteria pay-on-your-way-out,” she said with a bored lack of interest that was magnificent. “Pay now and then we go.”
When I flipped the ten credits her way she speared it neatly out of the air, weighed it, bit it, and vanished it inside her belt. I looked on with frank admiration, which she would mistake for carnal interest, but was in reality appreciation of the faultless manner with which she played her role. Only when she turned away did I make myself remember that this was business not pleasure, and I had a stern duty to perform. My resolution was wavering and I screwed it tight again with a memory of corpses floating in space. Draining my glass I followed her marvelous rotation out of the bar and down a noisome alley.
The dark decrepitude of the narrow passage jarred my reflexes awake. Angelina played her part well, but I doubted if she bedded down with all the space tramps who hit this port. There was a good chance that she had a confederate around who had a strong right arm with a heavy object clutched tightly in his hand. Or perhaps I’m naturally suspicious. My hand was on the gun in my pocket but I didn’t need to use it. We treaded across another street and turned into a hallway. She went first and we didn’t talk. No one came near us or even bothered to notice us. When she unlocked her room I relaxed a bit. It was small and tawdry, but offered no possible hiding place for an accomplice. Angelina went straight to the bed and I checked the door to see if it really was locked. It was.
When I turned around she was pointing a .75 caliber recoilless automatic at me, so big and ugly that she had to hold it in both tiny hands.
“What the hell is the racket?” I blustered, fighting back the sick sensation that I had missed an important clue someplace along the line. My hand was still on the gun in my pocket but trying to draw it would be instant suicide.
“I’m going to kill you without ever even knowing your name,” she said sweetly, with a cute smile that showed even white teeth. “But you have this coming for ruining my battleship operation.”
Still she didn’t fire, but her grin widened until it was almost a laugh. She was enjoying the uncontrolled expressions on my face as I recognized the fact that I had been out-thought all the way along the line. That the trapper was the trappee. That she had me exactly precisely where she wanted me and there wasn’t a single bloody damn thing I could do about it.
Angelina finally had to laugh out loud, a laugh clear and charming as a silver bell, as she watched me reach these sickening conclusions one after another. She was an artist to her fingertips and waited just long enough for me to understand everything. Then, at the exact and ultimate moment of my maximum realization and despair she pulled the trigger.
Not once, but over and over again.
Four tearing, thundering bullets of pain directly into my heart. And a final slug directly between my eyes.
XI
It wasn’t really consciousness, but a sort of ruddy, pain-filled blur. A gut-gripping nausea fought with the pain, but the pain won easily. Part of the trouble was that my eyes were closed, yet opening them was incredibly difficult. I finally managed it and could make out a face swimming in a blur above me.
“What happened?” the blur asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing …” I said, and stopped, surprised at how weak and bubbly my voice was. Something brushed across my lips and I saw a red-stained pad as it went away.
After I blinked some sight back into my eyes, blur-face turned out to be a youngish man dressed in white. A doctor I suppose, and I was aware of motion; we must be driving in an ambulance.
“Who shot you?” the doctor asked. “Someone reported the shots and you’ll be pleased to know we got there just in the old nick of time. You’ve lost a lot of blood—some of which I’ve replaced—have multiple fractures of the radius and ulna, an extensive bullet wound in your forearm, a further wound in your right temple, possible fracture of the skull, extremely probable fractures in your ribs and the possibility of internal injuries. Someone got a grudge against you? Who?”
Who? My darling Angelina, that’s who. Temptress, sorceress, murderess, that’s who tried to kill me. I remembered now. The wide black muzzle of the gun looking big enough to park a spaceship in. The fire blasting out of it, the slugs hammering into me, and the pain as my expensive, guaranteed, bulletproof underwear soaked up the impact of the bullets, spreading it across
