Read Online American Quartet by Warren Adler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Warren Adler
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hat.
Moving close to the construction site, he paused, waited, listened. In the distance he heard the faint sound of an ambulance siren. It grew closer, the sound more raucous. The cacophony of construction sounds splintered the siren’s wail. He got out of the car and hiding behind a steel girder, he saw the ambulance pull up to the entrance. A group of Smithsonian guards were rushing about. Several crossed the street, skirting the construction site, going through the confused motions of a search. He snickered. The bureaucratic mind was appallingly unimaginative. Risk nothing was the bureaucratic watchword. He waited until they had dispersed, then calmly got back into the Volkswagen, put the gun in the glove compartment, and drove slowly through the traffic, accelerating only as he turned into Massachusetts Avenue, then into Twelfth Street heading north.
The BMW stood in the glaring late morning sun. Behind the picture window, the rustle of curtains told him that Louise was watching. By now, the flowers, a dozen American Beauty roses had arrived, and the note, along with the car keys in the envelope.
“With gratitude,” the note had read. Gratitude? That idea would haunt her forever. He had promised to see her that morning, as if he could not bear to be away from her. Actually, it was a half-truth. The desire for her was overwhelming, necessary and immediate. He needed her to cap the volcano.
Louise opened the door before he could ring and drew him inside, kissing him deeply. The material gift had readied her and he could sense her wetness. Behind him in a cracked vase he saw the long-stemmed roses.
He was ready. The pleasure had been there all morning, waiting, fermenting. He pushed her against the wall of the foyer and almost in one fervent step parted her panties, inserted himself and lifted her by the buttocks. Her legs closed around his waist and she shivered, contracting.
“Yes,” she cried as he pumped. He remembered Guiteau’s deadly pointed barrel. He felt her paroxysms, heard her screams in gathering crescendoes. His own pleasure lingered, gaining strength like breaking waves.
“More,” she gasped as he slid down against the wall. He turned her over roughly, rolled down her panties to her ankles, pressed against the tight small opening. She went down on her knees, helping him as she spread herself and he pounded into her. He held her viselike as she tried to squirm away from the pain.
“Am I him?” he shouted. She screamed out, incoherent words.
“Him?” feeling the eruption begin.
“Him?” he shouted again.
“Yes! Yes!”
He collapsed over her, spent, and she whimpered below him, kissing his palm. She had served her purpose. She was part of the grand design and did not question it. The forces that moved him had their own momentum, their own logic. He would never question, only obey.
7
THE eggplant was furious. Always, when the chief had berated him, his eyes were bloodshot with anger and his thick black hands shook. He had assembled the entire shift, their faces glum against the sickly green paint of the long office with its rows of mismatched desks and chairs.
He had his back to the blackboard, erased to some parody of cleanliness by one of the frightened officers, Garber, the only white lieutenant, desperately trying to serve out the last seven months of his twenty. Suddenly the eggplant whirled around to the blackboard and squeaked out a word with a nub of chalk.
Assholes.
Fiona had never seen him so angry. They must have really shoved him around upstairs. That meant special trouble for her. She had braced herself, had seen it coming, but had vastly underestimated the fury.
“Assholes,” he shouted, looking directly at her.
“You can cut the heart out of a smacked-up nigger on the strip. You can rape some honkie teenage floozie in some back alley. You can waste some hood in front of the White House. That’s okay for open cases. But if we can’t close a killing in a public
Moving close to the construction site, he paused, waited, listened. In the distance he heard the faint sound of an ambulance siren. It grew closer, the sound more raucous. The cacophony of construction sounds splintered the siren’s wail. He got out of the car and hiding behind a steel girder, he saw the ambulance pull up to the entrance. A group of Smithsonian guards were rushing about. Several crossed the street, skirting the construction site, going through the confused motions of a search. He snickered. The bureaucratic mind was appallingly unimaginative. Risk nothing was the bureaucratic watchword. He waited until they had dispersed, then calmly got back into the Volkswagen, put the gun in the glove compartment, and drove slowly through the traffic, accelerating only as he turned into Massachusetts Avenue, then into Twelfth Street heading north.
The BMW stood in the glaring late morning sun. Behind the picture window, the rustle of curtains told him that Louise was watching. By now, the flowers, a dozen American Beauty roses had arrived, and the note, along with the car keys in the envelope.
“With gratitude,” the note had read. Gratitude? That idea would haunt her forever. He had promised to see her that morning, as if he could not bear to be away from her. Actually, it was a half-truth. The desire for her was overwhelming, necessary and immediate. He needed her to cap the volcano.
Louise opened the door before he could ring and drew him inside, kissing him deeply. The material gift had readied her and he could sense her wetness. Behind him in a cracked vase he saw the long-stemmed roses.
He was ready. The pleasure had been there all morning, waiting, fermenting. He pushed her against the wall of the foyer and almost in one fervent step parted her panties, inserted himself and lifted her by the buttocks. Her legs closed around his waist and she shivered, contracting.
“Yes,” she cried as he pumped. He remembered Guiteau’s deadly pointed barrel. He felt her paroxysms, heard her screams in gathering crescendoes. His own pleasure lingered, gaining strength like breaking waves.
“More,” she gasped as he slid down against the wall. He turned her over roughly, rolled down her panties to her ankles, pressed against the tight small opening. She went down on her knees, helping him as she spread herself and he pounded into her. He held her viselike as she tried to squirm away from the pain.
“Am I him?” he shouted. She screamed out, incoherent words.
“Him?” feeling the eruption begin.
“Him?” he shouted again.
“Yes! Yes!”
He collapsed over her, spent, and she whimpered below him, kissing his palm. She had served her purpose. She was part of the grand design and did not question it. The forces that moved him had their own momentum, their own logic. He would never question, only obey.
7
THE eggplant was furious. Always, when the chief had berated him, his eyes were bloodshot with anger and his thick black hands shook. He had assembled the entire shift, their faces glum against the sickly green paint of the long office with its rows of mismatched desks and chairs.
He had his back to the blackboard, erased to some parody of cleanliness by one of the frightened officers, Garber, the only white lieutenant, desperately trying to serve out the last seven months of his twenty. Suddenly the eggplant whirled around to the blackboard and squeaked out a word with a nub of chalk.
Assholes.
Fiona had never seen him so angry. They must have really shoved him around upstairs. That meant special trouble for her. She had braced herself, had seen it coming, but had vastly underestimated the fury.
“Assholes,” he shouted, looking directly at her.
“You can cut the heart out of a smacked-up nigger on the strip. You can rape some honkie teenage floozie in some back alley. You can waste some hood in front of the White House. That’s okay for open cases. But if we can’t close a killing in a public
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