Read Online Running Dog by Don DeLillo - Free Book Online Page B

cuffs were folded over twice. He seemed to tiptoe back and forth, a stocky man, his head wagging. The lighting in the room was dim.
    “Arak,” she said. “I got wiped out on arak—where?”
    “Cyprus.”
    “Cyprus, that’s right. Although I don’t think I’ve been to Cyprus. No, I’ve never been to Cyprus. So that’s not right. You’re clearly mistaken, Selvy.”
    “It wasn’t Cyprus and it wasn’t arak. It was ouzo and it was Crete.”
    “Well, now, I admit to having been on Crete.”
    “And it was ouzo, not arak. You’ve never touched a drop of arak in your life.”
    “I don’t think I like ouzo. So why would I want to get wiped out on it?”
    “You thought it was arak,” he said. “But it wasn’t. And it wasn’t Crete either. It was Malta.”
    “It was malteds. It was chocolate malteds.”
    “Right. That’s correct. You’re making sense for a change.”
    “Do I get to see the collection?”
    “Not a chance,” he said affably.
    “Is it in Georgetown?”
    “Forget it.”
    “He’ll see me. I know he’ll
see
me. Whether or not he’ll grant me a real live interview is a whole ’nuther question. But I couldn’t care less about the whole thing unless I know the collection’s in his Georgetown house. I just want to get near it, understand. I want to know I’m close. So is it in Georgetown? I want to know I’ve got half a chance.”
    Selvy was drinking Polish vodka. He drained his glass and pushed it several inches toward the inner rim of the bar. The man sitting on the step near the toilets hadn’t stopped talking about the FBI. He was able to see the cameras and listening devices. They were installed everywhere he went. If he went to another bar around the corner, they would be there. If he took a bus uptown, he’d see the little bugging devices, the little cameras under the seats and along the metal edges of the windows. People kept telling him he had the DTs. But the DTs were when you saw rats and birds and insects. It was little cameras he saw. Tiny transmitters. And they were everywhere.
    The bartender filled Selvy’s glass. The old woman at the other end of the bar started an argument with one of the two men who were with her. It was her son, evidently. The bartender stared at Moll.
    “Headhunter Zombie,” she said. “It’s coming back to me.This hotel bar someplace—the Dutch Leewards? Where are the Dutch Leewards? You mix in papaya, peach nectar, some dark rum, some more dark mm, some light rum, some lime juice, some shaved ice and I think some honey. Add a dash of bitters.”
    The first three-round burst took out the bartender and sent glass flying everywhere. Moll felt herself thrown to the floor. There was a second burst, a three-part roar, little explosions everywhere, things flying, and she was aware of Selvy’s hand leaving his hip with a gun in it. This had happened earlier, two seconds perhaps, and was just registering, and there was blood also registering, coming down on her from the top of the bar. She flattened herself against the angular surface where the bar and the floor joined, digging in, her whole body, glass registering, crashing everywhere, and the old woman’s voice.
    Selvy took a head-on position, prone, to avoid presenting too wide a target. He noted muzzle flash. Gun bedded in his hand, he moved his fingertip to the trigger and applied pressure, straight back and unhurriedly, letting out his breath but not completely, just to a point, holding it now as the gun fired, only then exhaling fully.
    He watched for motion out on the sidewalk. Single gunman, he was almost certain, auto-firing in short bursts. For a brief moment he lost a sense of where the man was, then realized he was standing in the doorway, trying to sort out the chaos inside. AR-18. Severe muzzle climb. Son of a bitch is wearing ear muffs and shooting glasses. Thinks he’s on a firing range.
    Answering the burst, Selvy fired twice. The whole place was breaking apart with noise,