Read Online Magic Terror by Peter Straub - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Straub
Tags: Fiction
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more women’s handbags from the pannier, each slightly worn but serviceable, all empty. Fitting them back into the pannier, N could see the kid roaring alongside his victims, ripping the bags from their shoulders, gunning away. He had stripped the money and valuables, junked everything else, and saved the best to peddle to some other rodent.
Either N’s employers were getting desperate, or he had misidentified a would-be mugger as his appointed assassin. The latter seemed a lot more like reality. Irritated, concerned, and amused all at once, he went over the past twenty-four hours. Apart from the boy, the only people he had seen more than once were Japanese tourists who went out for walks in the rain and bought garish berets. His contact had said something about Japanese labor, but that meant nothing. A siren blared behind him. Immediately, another screamed in from his left. He shoved the Cartier wallet into one of the panniers and wound back through the one-way streets.
A boom and clatter of bells louder than sirens celebrated the conclusion of another mass. The traffic slowed to pedestrian speed as it moved past the restaurant, where uniformed policemen questioned the remaining diners on the terrace. Two others, smart in their tunics and Sam Browne belts, blocked the entrance of the alley. The traffic picked up again, and soon he was breezing down the wide, straight road toward Montory.
At Alos, an abrupt turn took him over an empty bridge. Halfway across, he halted, trotted around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, and in one continuous motion reached inside, thrust his hip against the railing, and sent the panniers whirling out over the swift little Saison River.
The contact took twenty minutes to call him back.
“So we had a little hang-up, did we?” N asked, quoting his words back to him.
“I’m not in the usual place. It’s Sunday afternoon, remember? They had to find me. What’s going down? You weren’t supposed to call in until tonight.”
“I’m curious about something,” N said. “In fact, I’m a pretty curious guy, all in all. Humor me. Where did they find you? A golf course? Is it like being a doctor, you carry a beeper?”
There was a short silence. “Whatever you’re unhappy about, we can work it out.” Another brief silence. “I know Martine came as a nasty surprise. Honestly, I don’t blame you for being pissed. You need her like a hole in the head. Okay, here’s the deal. No reports, no paperwork, not even the firearms statements. You just walk away and get that big, big check. She handles all the rest. Are you smiling? Do I see a twinkle in your eye?”
“You were at your health club, maybe?” N asked. “Did you have to leave a really tense racquetball match just for me?”
The contact sighed. “I’m at home. In the old wigwam. Actually, out in back, setting up a new rabbit hutch for my daughter. For her rabbit, I mean.”
“You don’t live in Paris.”
“I happen to live in Fontainebleau.”
“And you have a beeper.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“What’s the rabbit’s name?”
“Oh, dear,” the contact said. “Is this how we’re going to act? All right. The rabbit’s name is Custer. Family joke.”
“You mean you’re a real Indian?” N asked, and laughed out loud in surprise. “An honest-to-God Red Man?” His former image of his contact as a geek in thick glasses metamorphosed into a figure with high cheekbones, bronze skin, and straight, shoulder-length black hair.
“Honest Injun,” the contact said. “Though the term Native American is easier on the ears. You want to know my tribal affiliation? I’m a Lakota Sioux.”
“I want to know your name.” When the contact refused to speak, N said, “We both know you’re not supposed to tell me, but look at it this way: You’re at home. No one is monitoring this call. When I’m done here, no one is ever going to hear from me again. And I have to say, telling me your name would
Either N’s employers were getting desperate, or he had misidentified a would-be mugger as his appointed assassin. The latter seemed a lot more like reality. Irritated, concerned, and amused all at once, he went over the past twenty-four hours. Apart from the boy, the only people he had seen more than once were Japanese tourists who went out for walks in the rain and bought garish berets. His contact had said something about Japanese labor, but that meant nothing. A siren blared behind him. Immediately, another screamed in from his left. He shoved the Cartier wallet into one of the panniers and wound back through the one-way streets.
A boom and clatter of bells louder than sirens celebrated the conclusion of another mass. The traffic slowed to pedestrian speed as it moved past the restaurant, where uniformed policemen questioned the remaining diners on the terrace. Two others, smart in their tunics and Sam Browne belts, blocked the entrance of the alley. The traffic picked up again, and soon he was breezing down the wide, straight road toward Montory.
At Alos, an abrupt turn took him over an empty bridge. Halfway across, he halted, trotted around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, and in one continuous motion reached inside, thrust his hip against the railing, and sent the panniers whirling out over the swift little Saison River.
The contact took twenty minutes to call him back.
“So we had a little hang-up, did we?” N asked, quoting his words back to him.
“I’m not in the usual place. It’s Sunday afternoon, remember? They had to find me. What’s going down? You weren’t supposed to call in until tonight.”
“I’m curious about something,” N said. “In fact, I’m a pretty curious guy, all in all. Humor me. Where did they find you? A golf course? Is it like being a doctor, you carry a beeper?”
There was a short silence. “Whatever you’re unhappy about, we can work it out.” Another brief silence. “I know Martine came as a nasty surprise. Honestly, I don’t blame you for being pissed. You need her like a hole in the head. Okay, here’s the deal. No reports, no paperwork, not even the firearms statements. You just walk away and get that big, big check. She handles all the rest. Are you smiling? Do I see a twinkle in your eye?”
“You were at your health club, maybe?” N asked. “Did you have to leave a really tense racquetball match just for me?”
The contact sighed. “I’m at home. In the old wigwam. Actually, out in back, setting up a new rabbit hutch for my daughter. For her rabbit, I mean.”
“You don’t live in Paris.”
“I happen to live in Fontainebleau.”
“And you have a beeper.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“What’s the rabbit’s name?”
“Oh, dear,” the contact said. “Is this how we’re going to act? All right. The rabbit’s name is Custer. Family joke.”
“You mean you’re a real Indian?” N asked, and laughed out loud in surprise. “An honest-to-God Red Man?” His former image of his contact as a geek in thick glasses metamorphosed into a figure with high cheekbones, bronze skin, and straight, shoulder-length black hair.
“Honest Injun,” the contact said. “Though the term Native American is easier on the ears. You want to know my tribal affiliation? I’m a Lakota Sioux.”
“I want to know your name.” When the contact refused to speak, N said, “We both know you’re not supposed to tell me, but look at it this way: You’re at home. No one is monitoring this call. When I’m done here, no one is ever going to hear from me again. And I have to say, telling me your name would
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