Read Online Split Images (1981) by Elmore Leonard - Free Book Online
Authors: Elmore Leonard
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up the walk again, Bryan taking out his keys. He felt pretty good: his interest aroused to speculate and wonder, without having to worry about it, feel a responsibility. He said, "That's the first time in his life Walter's ever used any restraint, held back. What do you think he was trying to tell us?"
Angela waited as he unlocked the front door and held it open. "I think he was showing off, trying to one-up you. Behind the wheel of his Cadillac limo."
Bryan said, "I hope that's all he doing."
BRYAN WAS GOING THROUGH the stack of magazines on the toilet tank in the bathroom. National Geographic, Smithsonian, Quest, GEO, Law and Order, there, Playboy. But the wrong month. Two more National Geographics, another Playboy. Too recent. Car and Driver . . .
He heard Angela say from the living room, "What're these little marks in the wall?"
He looked out, through the hall and into the living room. She was standing to the left of the front door.
"Bullet holes."
And went back to sorting through the stack. An old Newsweek, Atlantic, Monthly Detroit . . .
"Bullet holes?"
Smithsonian, another National Geographic, Esquire, Esquire . . . another Playboy . . . November!
He opened it, turned a page.
"Why're there bullet holes in your wall?"
"Somebody shot at me. I came in and turned the light on. Bang--a guy was waiting for me."
There she was: the nice smile, perfect nose, the knowing eyes, soft hair slanting across her forehead, all within the square-inch or so border of the black and white photo. He got a razor blade from the medicine cabinet, sliced the picture out carefully and replaced the magazine, slipping it into the middle of the pile.
As he came out of the hall and crossed toward the kitchen, she saw him: in his shirt sleeves now, the grip of a revolver showing, the gun riding in the waist of his trousers, behind his right hip. It was unexpected and gave her a momentary shock. She said, "Were you hurt?"
"When?"
"When you were shot at."
"No, he missed. I think all I've got's Jim Beam."
"That's fine. What'd you do then?"
"What, with the guy? I took the gun away from him . . . Why don't you put on some music?"
In the kitchen he held the stamp-size photo carefully in the palm of his hand, looked about undecided, then opened the Good Housekeeping Cookbook lying on the tile counter and placed the photo inside. There. He turned to the refrigerator and brought out an ice tray.
In the living room Angela was looking through his record albums, a stack of them on the floor next to the Sears hi-fi system.
"All you've got is Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson."
"No, there're some others. George Benson . . .
Earl Klugh."
"You've got a whale record." She put on Bob James.
Lamplight softened the starkness of the room, laid flaring designs on the empty walls. The music helped too.
She said, "Did you just move in?"
From the kitchen: "Almost two years ago."
The room didn't reflect him; or anyone. Bare walls and shelves of paperbacks and magazines. A hanging fern, dying; a young ficus that wasn't doing too badly. Chair and sofa slip-covered in faded summer-cottage beige. It looked as though he could move out in less than fifteen minutes.
"When're you gonna fix the place up?"
"What's the matter with it?"
A grocery sack with a red tag stapled to it stood upright on the glass coffee table. It was open. All she had to do, sitting on the edge of the sofa, was pull the sack toward her to look inside. She saw a girl's hairbrush, a beaded purse, a rolled-up cellophane bag that contained marijuana, a packet of cigarette paper and book matches. She saw what looked like pink panties, sandals, a white T-shirt bunched at the bottom of the sack that showed part of a word in black.
She sat back as Bryan came in from the kitchen, a lowball glass in each hand. He said, "You can look at that stuff if you want."
"It belongs to someone, doesn't it?"
"Not anymore. She's dead." He placed the drinks on the table and started back to the
Angela waited as he unlocked the front door and held it open. "I think he was showing off, trying to one-up you. Behind the wheel of his Cadillac limo."
Bryan said, "I hope that's all he doing."
BRYAN WAS GOING THROUGH the stack of magazines on the toilet tank in the bathroom. National Geographic, Smithsonian, Quest, GEO, Law and Order, there, Playboy. But the wrong month. Two more National Geographics, another Playboy. Too recent. Car and Driver . . .
He heard Angela say from the living room, "What're these little marks in the wall?"
He looked out, through the hall and into the living room. She was standing to the left of the front door.
"Bullet holes."
And went back to sorting through the stack. An old Newsweek, Atlantic, Monthly Detroit . . .
"Bullet holes?"
Smithsonian, another National Geographic, Esquire, Esquire . . . another Playboy . . . November!
He opened it, turned a page.
"Why're there bullet holes in your wall?"
"Somebody shot at me. I came in and turned the light on. Bang--a guy was waiting for me."
There she was: the nice smile, perfect nose, the knowing eyes, soft hair slanting across her forehead, all within the square-inch or so border of the black and white photo. He got a razor blade from the medicine cabinet, sliced the picture out carefully and replaced the magazine, slipping it into the middle of the pile.
As he came out of the hall and crossed toward the kitchen, she saw him: in his shirt sleeves now, the grip of a revolver showing, the gun riding in the waist of his trousers, behind his right hip. It was unexpected and gave her a momentary shock. She said, "Were you hurt?"
"When?"
"When you were shot at."
"No, he missed. I think all I've got's Jim Beam."
"That's fine. What'd you do then?"
"What, with the guy? I took the gun away from him . . . Why don't you put on some music?"
In the kitchen he held the stamp-size photo carefully in the palm of his hand, looked about undecided, then opened the Good Housekeeping Cookbook lying on the tile counter and placed the photo inside. There. He turned to the refrigerator and brought out an ice tray.
In the living room Angela was looking through his record albums, a stack of them on the floor next to the Sears hi-fi system.
"All you've got is Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson."
"No, there're some others. George Benson . . .
Earl Klugh."
"You've got a whale record." She put on Bob James.
Lamplight softened the starkness of the room, laid flaring designs on the empty walls. The music helped too.
She said, "Did you just move in?"
From the kitchen: "Almost two years ago."
The room didn't reflect him; or anyone. Bare walls and shelves of paperbacks and magazines. A hanging fern, dying; a young ficus that wasn't doing too badly. Chair and sofa slip-covered in faded summer-cottage beige. It looked as though he could move out in less than fifteen minutes.
"When're you gonna fix the place up?"
"What's the matter with it?"
A grocery sack with a red tag stapled to it stood upright on the glass coffee table. It was open. All she had to do, sitting on the edge of the sofa, was pull the sack toward her to look inside. She saw a girl's hairbrush, a beaded purse, a rolled-up cellophane bag that contained marijuana, a packet of cigarette paper and book matches. She saw what looked like pink panties, sandals, a white T-shirt bunched at the bottom of the sack that showed part of a word in black.
She sat back as Bryan came in from the kitchen, a lowball glass in each hand. He said, "You can look at that stuff if you want."
"It belongs to someone, doesn't it?"
"Not anymore. She's dead." He placed the drinks on the table and started back to the
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