him.
“Stay there,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
I hadn’t even told him what I needed his help with.
When Pete and Butch pulled into the parking lot of the service station in their black Ford, they were followed by a black and white patrol car. Pete looked worried. Butch looked happy.
Butch rolled down his window. “Get in,” he said.
Looking past him at Pete, I said, “I need your help. I think Rainer has—”
“Jimmy,” Pete said. “Get in the car.”
I took a breath and tried to calm myself.
The two men in the car looked like complete opposites. Pete, with his bright, clear blue eyes, had a face that was boyish and open. Butch, his dark eyes hooded and wary, had a face with a hard history etched into it.
“What’s with all the orders, boys?”
“There’s two ways we can do this,” Butch said.
“Yeah?” I said. “Can I guess what they are?”
“Jimmy, it’s me, Pete, your old partner,” he said. “Just trust me and get in the car.”
I got in the backseat.
“What’s going on, Pete?” I asked.
Butch said, “You tell us.”
“What are you mixed up in, Jimmy?” Pete asked.
“Not much at the moment,” I said. “I’m—”
“Why’d you kill her?” Butch asked.
My heart seemed to stop beating, my suddenly cold blood standing still inside my veins. Lauren’s dead and they think I killed her .
“Hey Pete,” Butch said, “your old partner don’t look so good, does he?”
“Take it easy, Butch,” Pete said.
“You better not throw up in our car,” Butch said.
I calmed myself, focusing my attention on the anger I felt at Butch, determined not to let him rattle me.
“Who’d I kill this time?” I asked. “I forget.”
“Come on, Jimmy,” Pete said, “don’t be sore. We’re just doing our jobs.”
“Who’s dead?” I asked, my voice flat, demanding.
“As if you don’t know, you sick fuck,” Butch said.
“Margie Lehane,” Pete said.
“Yeah,” Butch said, “and we found your card inside her pussy.”
Like Margie herself, her place had been ravaged. Her killer had obviously been searching for something. Every room in the house had drawers open, their contents spilling out, overturned furniture, ripped and torn pillows, cushions, and mattresses, emptied closets, and opened books.
“Wonder if he found what he was looking for?” I asked.
“You tell us,” Butch said.
The livingroom was like all the others, except that joining the other items on the floor was the naked body of Margie Lehane. She had been beaten, but good, especially her face, which was unrecognizable. Her beauty-shop blonde hair had blood-red highlights, two of her teeth had been knocked out, and judging from the positions they were in, at least one of her arms and one of her legs was broken. Her blue gown and housecoat were still draped over the arm of the davenport. One of her mules was still partially on her foot, the other on the floor about a yard away.
Her phonograph was still on. It was playing Tommy Dorsey’s “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You.”
As I stood there taking everything in, Butch came up beside me.
“You must have ice water in your veins,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“How can you just stand there admiring your handiwork without it bothering you the least little bit?” he asked. “How could you even do that to a dame in the first place? I mean that Freddy faggot was one thing, but how could you do this to her?”
I nodded. “That’s a good question,” I said. “How could I?”
At first he didn’t get what I meant, but a moment later, his eyes widened slightly in comprehension.
“How could a guy with one arm—not his good arm at that—do all this?” I held up my left hand, made a fist and showed it to him. “Where’s the blood, or bruising, or at least swelling?”
“Who’s helping you?” he asked. “He’s turnin’ on you, stickin’ your card inside her like that.”
I turned to Pete. I was surprised he wasn’t
“Stay there,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
I hadn’t even told him what I needed his help with.
When Pete and Butch pulled into the parking lot of the service station in their black Ford, they were followed by a black and white patrol car. Pete looked worried. Butch looked happy.
Butch rolled down his window. “Get in,” he said.
Looking past him at Pete, I said, “I need your help. I think Rainer has—”
“Jimmy,” Pete said. “Get in the car.”
I took a breath and tried to calm myself.
The two men in the car looked like complete opposites. Pete, with his bright, clear blue eyes, had a face that was boyish and open. Butch, his dark eyes hooded and wary, had a face with a hard history etched into it.
“What’s with all the orders, boys?”
“There’s two ways we can do this,” Butch said.
“Yeah?” I said. “Can I guess what they are?”
“Jimmy, it’s me, Pete, your old partner,” he said. “Just trust me and get in the car.”
I got in the backseat.
“What’s going on, Pete?” I asked.
Butch said, “You tell us.”
“What are you mixed up in, Jimmy?” Pete asked.
“Not much at the moment,” I said. “I’m—”
“Why’d you kill her?” Butch asked.
My heart seemed to stop beating, my suddenly cold blood standing still inside my veins. Lauren’s dead and they think I killed her .
“Hey Pete,” Butch said, “your old partner don’t look so good, does he?”
“Take it easy, Butch,” Pete said.
“You better not throw up in our car,” Butch said.
I calmed myself, focusing my attention on the anger I felt at Butch, determined not to let him rattle me.
“Who’d I kill this time?” I asked. “I forget.”
“Come on, Jimmy,” Pete said, “don’t be sore. We’re just doing our jobs.”
“Who’s dead?” I asked, my voice flat, demanding.
“As if you don’t know, you sick fuck,” Butch said.
“Margie Lehane,” Pete said.
“Yeah,” Butch said, “and we found your card inside her pussy.”
Like Margie herself, her place had been ravaged. Her killer had obviously been searching for something. Every room in the house had drawers open, their contents spilling out, overturned furniture, ripped and torn pillows, cushions, and mattresses, emptied closets, and opened books.
“Wonder if he found what he was looking for?” I asked.
“You tell us,” Butch said.
The livingroom was like all the others, except that joining the other items on the floor was the naked body of Margie Lehane. She had been beaten, but good, especially her face, which was unrecognizable. Her beauty-shop blonde hair had blood-red highlights, two of her teeth had been knocked out, and judging from the positions they were in, at least one of her arms and one of her legs was broken. Her blue gown and housecoat were still draped over the arm of the davenport. One of her mules was still partially on her foot, the other on the floor about a yard away.
Her phonograph was still on. It was playing Tommy Dorsey’s “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You.”
As I stood there taking everything in, Butch came up beside me.
“You must have ice water in your veins,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“How can you just stand there admiring your handiwork without it bothering you the least little bit?” he asked. “How could you even do that to a dame in the first place? I mean that Freddy faggot was one thing, but how could you do this to her?”
I nodded. “That’s a good question,” I said. “How could I?”
At first he didn’t get what I meant, but a moment later, his eyes widened slightly in comprehension.
“How could a guy with one arm—not his good arm at that—do all this?” I held up my left hand, made a fist and showed it to him. “Where’s the blood, or bruising, or at least swelling?”
“Who’s helping you?” he asked. “He’s turnin’ on you, stickin’ your card inside her like that.”
I turned to Pete. I was surprised he wasn’t
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