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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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wasn’t dominating her thoughts now. But she did wonder when Nolan would get here.
That thought had barely flicked through her mind when she heard the footsteps on the stairs and smiled. God, he was quiet coming in. Nobody was that quiet Usually, the dog would have yapped at him, though, happy to see him. Not tonight. That was odd.
Still on the couch, she turned her head and glanced back at Nolan.
Only it wasn’t Nolan.
It was two men: one of them, disturbingly, looked a little like Nolan, but a younger Nolan, about thirty-five, with no mustache and short, curly, permed hair that gave him a Caesar sort of look. He was in black—black slacks, black turtleneck, black gloves. The other man was coming up the stairs behind the Nolan clone, in shadows; she couldn’t see him yet.
She reached for a heavy sculpted glass paperweight on the coffee table near the couch.
It exploded before she could touch it, shards of glass nicking at her arm. Choking back a scream, she clutched her blood-flecked arm with her other hand and glanced back at the men. The Caesar type had an automatic in his hand; there was an attachment on the end of it—a silencer?—and smoke was curling out the barrel. He was smiling faintly.
“I don’t like shooting at Art Deco pieces,” the man said. His voice was a smooth, curiously pleasant baritone. “Don’t make me shoot any more furniture, dear. I’d sooner shoot you.”
She felt very naked in her Frederick’s nightie, and flashed onto an absurd thought: Thank God I didn’t go crotchless!
Then she saw the other man. He, too, looked familiar. Then she placed him: he was a ringer for that guy that used to be on that Angie Dickinson police show. But, again, younger—perhaps thirty. He had curly, permed hair too, and a silly smile that scared her more than the tight, controlled smile of the other man. This one, too, was in black; this one, too, had an automatic with an attachment.
The first man came over to her, with a gloved hand brushed the glass from the coffee table, and sat down, the gun casual in his hand, but pointing at her. He was tanned. Handsome, in an unsettling way.
“Where’s Logan?” He said.
“Logan?” she said.
“Or Nolan. Whatever he’s calling himself here.”
“He lives here,” she said. Stupidly, she thought.
“We know ,” the other’s voice said. She sat up, so she could see the other man. He was over turning off the TV, then crouching to look through the albums under the stereo. Looking through the records. Jesus. What kind of . . .
“Sally,” the second guy said, holding up an album. “She’s got Barry Manilow.” Then to her: “You got good taste lady. How about Rupert Holmes? You got Rupert Holmes?”
“Uh, no,” she said. What the fuck . . .
“Put some records on, Infante,” the first one, Sally, said. “Put on the live Manilow album.”
“That thing where he does the medley of commercials kills me,” Infante said. He had the slightest speech impediment: Elmer Fudd after therapy.
“Does it kill you?” Sally asked her, smiling, apparently amused by his flaky partner.
“I hope not,” Sherry said.
“So do I,” Sally said. “I don’t like killing things, but I will if I have to. So will Infante, won’t you, Infante? It was Infante killed the dog. I didn’t have the heart to.”
She brought her hand up to her face, bit her knuckles. She tried to hold back the tears, the trembling. It was no use. Barry Manilow was singing, “Even now . . .”
“Go ahead and cry, dear. Infante!”
Infante was right there, like a fast cut in a movie. “Yeah, Sally?”
“Check out the house. This Logan or whoever isn’t here, but check out the lay of the land, and then get the lady some Kleenex. Her makeup’s starting to run.”
“Sure, Sally.”
And Infante was gone.
Sally smiled; that the face was vaguely like Nolan’s did nothing to reassure her—if anything, it only terrified her more. She had never been so scared; she’d never
That thought had barely flicked through her mind when she heard the footsteps on the stairs and smiled. God, he was quiet coming in. Nobody was that quiet Usually, the dog would have yapped at him, though, happy to see him. Not tonight. That was odd.
Still on the couch, she turned her head and glanced back at Nolan.
Only it wasn’t Nolan.
It was two men: one of them, disturbingly, looked a little like Nolan, but a younger Nolan, about thirty-five, with no mustache and short, curly, permed hair that gave him a Caesar sort of look. He was in black—black slacks, black turtleneck, black gloves. The other man was coming up the stairs behind the Nolan clone, in shadows; she couldn’t see him yet.
She reached for a heavy sculpted glass paperweight on the coffee table near the couch.
It exploded before she could touch it, shards of glass nicking at her arm. Choking back a scream, she clutched her blood-flecked arm with her other hand and glanced back at the men. The Caesar type had an automatic in his hand; there was an attachment on the end of it—a silencer?—and smoke was curling out the barrel. He was smiling faintly.
“I don’t like shooting at Art Deco pieces,” the man said. His voice was a smooth, curiously pleasant baritone. “Don’t make me shoot any more furniture, dear. I’d sooner shoot you.”
She felt very naked in her Frederick’s nightie, and flashed onto an absurd thought: Thank God I didn’t go crotchless!
Then she saw the other man. He, too, looked familiar. Then she placed him: he was a ringer for that guy that used to be on that Angie Dickinson police show. But, again, younger—perhaps thirty. He had curly, permed hair too, and a silly smile that scared her more than the tight, controlled smile of the other man. This one, too, was in black; this one, too, had an automatic with an attachment.
The first man came over to her, with a gloved hand brushed the glass from the coffee table, and sat down, the gun casual in his hand, but pointing at her. He was tanned. Handsome, in an unsettling way.
“Where’s Logan?” He said.
“Logan?” she said.
“Or Nolan. Whatever he’s calling himself here.”
“He lives here,” she said. Stupidly, she thought.
“We know ,” the other’s voice said. She sat up, so she could see the other man. He was over turning off the TV, then crouching to look through the albums under the stereo. Looking through the records. Jesus. What kind of . . .
“Sally,” the second guy said, holding up an album. “She’s got Barry Manilow.” Then to her: “You got good taste lady. How about Rupert Holmes? You got Rupert Holmes?”
“Uh, no,” she said. What the fuck . . .
“Put some records on, Infante,” the first one, Sally, said. “Put on the live Manilow album.”
“That thing where he does the medley of commercials kills me,” Infante said. He had the slightest speech impediment: Elmer Fudd after therapy.
“Does it kill you?” Sally asked her, smiling, apparently amused by his flaky partner.
“I hope not,” Sherry said.
“So do I,” Sally said. “I don’t like killing things, but I will if I have to. So will Infante, won’t you, Infante? It was Infante killed the dog. I didn’t have the heart to.”
She brought her hand up to her face, bit her knuckles. She tried to hold back the tears, the trembling. It was no use. Barry Manilow was singing, “Even now . . .”
“Go ahead and cry, dear. Infante!”
Infante was right there, like a fast cut in a movie. “Yeah, Sally?”
“Check out the house. This Logan or whoever isn’t here, but check out the lay of the land, and then get the lady some Kleenex. Her makeup’s starting to run.”
“Sure, Sally.”
And Infante was gone.
Sally smiled; that the face was vaguely like Nolan’s did nothing to reassure her—if anything, it only terrified her more. She had never been so scared; she’d never
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