Read Online Assignment Unicorn by Edward S. Aarons - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward S. Aarons
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then went up to the room, knocked on the door, knocked again,
spoke his name. Maggie opened the door. She had dressed during his absence and
skinned back her long hair again, pinning it into the bun at the nape of her
neck. It made her face look rounder and more severe, and there were little
shadows of strain under her eyes. It had stopped raining, but evening had come,
and the windows were dark now except for the glow of street lights from below.
The hotel was quiet. Maggie had the radio going and he recognized Tchaikovsky’s
String Serenade in C major, the familiar moderato waltz in the second movement.
He was surprised she wasn’t listening to Roman rock. She wore a skirt in plain
brown wool and a pinkish blouse that didn’t quite go with the skirt, and
alligator pumps. The raincoat lay across the foot of the rumpled bed. She said,
“Hi,” and turned her back to him and walked to the window. Durell noticed a
fresh tray of food on the table beside the door, the plate holding the remnants
of fettucini , and another glass of negroni . He looked at her straight back, narrow waist, and flaring
hips, and clucked his tongue.
“All right, so I was hungry,” she said.
“No harm.”
“Of course there’s harm. It’s fattening. I shouldn’t eat all
that pasta. But I was nervous, wondering what was happening to you.” She flipped
a vague hand. “I heard the news reports on the radio.”
“I didn’t know you understood Italian.”
“Well, I do.”
“What did they say?”
“It was all about that airport thing, the courier who had
his hand chopped off. They found his hand, by the way, on the runway near the
fence. The unicorns climbed a fence they said nobody could climb, and got away
in cars that were waiting for them. They rushed the courier’s hand to the hospital
with the poor fellow and sewed it back on. I didn’t know they could do that
sort of thing.”
“It works, sometimes, with a good surgeon,” Durell said.
“I’m glad of that. Donatti is a good man. We’ll give him the best of care. Turn
around, Maggie.”
“Why?”
“I want to look at you.”
“I’m all strung out. I need a stick. Anything. Can you get
me a stick, Sam? I really need something.”
“No,” he said. “You told me you were clean.”
“I am. I really am. It’s just that I’m—well, nervous.” She
turned suddenly and he could see the lines of tension around her soft, full
mouth. “I’m sorry I ate that goddam pasta. It’s really fattening. You’re mad at
me now, aren’t you? I’m too tall for you, too big to please you.”
“No, that’s not true," Durell said gently. He took her hands
in his. Her palms were cold and damp. “Has this been happening to you often,
Maggie?”
“Not lately. Not so much. It’s just that when I heard that
radio story about what happened at the airport, I knew right away it was more
of the same thing that happened in Palingpon, when Daddy was killed, and you’re
involved in it, and all, and I wanted—I wanted something."
“No more of that,” he insisted.
“I know."
“Never any more,” he said.
“Yes, Sam.”
“Put on your coat. We’re going to Ostia.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Coney Island. Why are we going
there?”
“I think I’ve been fired,” Durell said. “I’d like to find
out why. And get authority to go on with this.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Why should they fire you?”
“I’d like the answer to that one, too.”
“You want to take me with you just to make sure I don’t
crack up and do something bad, Sam?”
“No,” he said. He eased it with a smile. “I just think you
might be useful.”
“Go to hell,” she said. But she reached for her raincoat.
18
WILDERMAN was a slob.
His full name was Enoch Marshall Wilderman, and he used it
in its entirety whenever he had to write his official signature on
governmental ISB documents. He was tall, well over six feet, like Durell, but
narrow in the shoulders, fiat-chested, with a
spoke his name. Maggie opened the door. She had dressed during his absence and
skinned back her long hair again, pinning it into the bun at the nape of her
neck. It made her face look rounder and more severe, and there were little
shadows of strain under her eyes. It had stopped raining, but evening had come,
and the windows were dark now except for the glow of street lights from below.
The hotel was quiet. Maggie had the radio going and he recognized Tchaikovsky’s
String Serenade in C major, the familiar moderato waltz in the second movement.
He was surprised she wasn’t listening to Roman rock. She wore a skirt in plain
brown wool and a pinkish blouse that didn’t quite go with the skirt, and
alligator pumps. The raincoat lay across the foot of the rumpled bed. She said,
“Hi,” and turned her back to him and walked to the window. Durell noticed a
fresh tray of food on the table beside the door, the plate holding the remnants
of fettucini , and another glass of negroni . He looked at her straight back, narrow waist, and flaring
hips, and clucked his tongue.
“All right, so I was hungry,” she said.
“No harm.”
“Of course there’s harm. It’s fattening. I shouldn’t eat all
that pasta. But I was nervous, wondering what was happening to you.” She flipped
a vague hand. “I heard the news reports on the radio.”
“I didn’t know you understood Italian.”
“Well, I do.”
“What did they say?”
“It was all about that airport thing, the courier who had
his hand chopped off. They found his hand, by the way, on the runway near the
fence. The unicorns climbed a fence they said nobody could climb, and got away
in cars that were waiting for them. They rushed the courier’s hand to the hospital
with the poor fellow and sewed it back on. I didn’t know they could do that
sort of thing.”
“It works, sometimes, with a good surgeon,” Durell said.
“I’m glad of that. Donatti is a good man. We’ll give him the best of care. Turn
around, Maggie.”
“Why?”
“I want to look at you.”
“I’m all strung out. I need a stick. Anything. Can you get
me a stick, Sam? I really need something.”
“No,” he said. “You told me you were clean.”
“I am. I really am. It’s just that I’m—well, nervous.” She
turned suddenly and he could see the lines of tension around her soft, full
mouth. “I’m sorry I ate that goddam pasta. It’s really fattening. You’re mad at
me now, aren’t you? I’m too tall for you, too big to please you.”
“No, that’s not true," Durell said gently. He took her hands
in his. Her palms were cold and damp. “Has this been happening to you often,
Maggie?”
“Not lately. Not so much. It’s just that when I heard that
radio story about what happened at the airport, I knew right away it was more
of the same thing that happened in Palingpon, when Daddy was killed, and you’re
involved in it, and all, and I wanted—I wanted something."
“No more of that,” he insisted.
“I know."
“Never any more,” he said.
“Yes, Sam.”
“Put on your coat. We’re going to Ostia.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Coney Island. Why are we going
there?”
“I think I’ve been fired,” Durell said. “I’d like to find
out why. And get authority to go on with this.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Why should they fire you?”
“I’d like the answer to that one, too.”
“You want to take me with you just to make sure I don’t
crack up and do something bad, Sam?”
“No,” he said. He eased it with a smile. “I just think you
might be useful.”
“Go to hell,” she said. But she reached for her raincoat.
18
WILDERMAN was a slob.
His full name was Enoch Marshall Wilderman, and he used it
in its entirety whenever he had to write his official signature on
governmental ISB documents. He was tall, well over six feet, like Durell, but
narrow in the shoulders, fiat-chested, with a
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