Read Online Split Images (1981) by Elmore Leonard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elmore Leonard
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kitchen.
"I left in a hurry this morning, forgot to take it with me."
The T-shirt was soiled with what looked like coffee stains; black lettering on white that said DETROIT IS FOR LOVERS.
She dropped the T-shirt in the sack and sipped her drink, felt the warmth inside her as moisture came to her eyes. "You make a neat one," she called to the kitchen, relaxing, with a good feeling.
He came in with a bowl of dry-roasted peanuts.
"I thought we had some crackers, but we don't."
And went back out again.
"What're you doing?"
"We're having a party."
"Are we going to smoke at the party?"
"I quit."
"So did I. Why don't we start again and quit some other time?"
She heard him say, "Okay, but I don't have any."
She went into the sack and brought out the Baggie. The grass looked clean, just a few seeds and bits of stem, dark stuff with a green smell to it. She rolled a cigarette, lighted it and sat back again on the sofa. As Bryan came in, now with a plate of white cheese and celery stalks, she said, "Am I destroying evidence?"
He said, "Not unless you smoke the whole lid."
When she offered him the joint he took it carefully.
"It's been a while." Drew deeply on it and said, holding his breath, "The last time, I ate about five pounds of caramel corn."
She said, "Well, six feet, about one sixty. I don't see a problem that shows. When do you take your gun off?"
He brought it out, a revolver with a stubby barrel, and laid it on the coffee table. The grip, she saw, was wrapped tightly with rubber bands. He said, "I forgot something." And went back to the kitchen.
Angela drew on the cigarette, staring at the revolver, about to ask him about the rubber bands when he came back in with the Good House- keeping Cookbook and handed it to her.
"You brought me here to cook, is that it?"
"No, look inside. There's something in there."
"What?"
"Just look. It might be in the chicken section."
Angela leafed through pages, came to Poultry and began turning pages one at a time, concentrating now, looking for some clue. Then stopped. She seemed awed by what she saw. "I don't believe it."
She held up the inch-square black and white photograph of herself.
Bryan leaned over to look at the cookbook open on her lap and nodded. "Under chicken cacciatore."
She said with a softness he had not heard before, "You really did . . . I've got goosebumps."
Bryan said, "It is scary, isn't it?"
Patti Daniels stood against the open door to the study; arms folded, which told Robbie something when finally he pushed the off button on the remote-control tuner, the armed Secret Service agents on the television screen imploding to black and he looked over at his wife. She had asked him yesterday how many times he'd watched it--the video cassette tape of the Reagan assassination attempt--and if she wanted the latest tally he'd tell her: nine times so far this evening.
She said, "I don't get it."
He didn't feel required to answer. Comments would have to be put in the form of a question. He waited, fingering the remote-control device in his hand.
"How many times are you going to look at it?"
He hadn't anticipated that one. "I don't know."
"What're you looking for, blood?"
"There's not much of it to see."
She straightened, brushed at the loose sleeve of her lounging gown, refolded her arms and leaned against the door again. The hip line was provocative; but he knew better.
"Did you have dinner?" Patti asked him.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact, at the Renaissance Club. David and Roger. They're not doing an awful lot of business. I mean the club. All that newDetroit bullshit--Cartier's moving out, right on the heels of your favorite shop. Walk through the RenCen, the only people you see're working there or wearing name tags. They don't even have full occupancy, they're putting up two more buildings."
Patti said, "I love to talk about economics."
"How 'bout the six hundred grand condo in Aspen? You'd hire an ad agency to sell me on that one."
She said,
"I left in a hurry this morning, forgot to take it with me."
The T-shirt was soiled with what looked like coffee stains; black lettering on white that said DETROIT IS FOR LOVERS.
She dropped the T-shirt in the sack and sipped her drink, felt the warmth inside her as moisture came to her eyes. "You make a neat one," she called to the kitchen, relaxing, with a good feeling.
He came in with a bowl of dry-roasted peanuts.
"I thought we had some crackers, but we don't."
And went back out again.
"What're you doing?"
"We're having a party."
"Are we going to smoke at the party?"
"I quit."
"So did I. Why don't we start again and quit some other time?"
She heard him say, "Okay, but I don't have any."
She went into the sack and brought out the Baggie. The grass looked clean, just a few seeds and bits of stem, dark stuff with a green smell to it. She rolled a cigarette, lighted it and sat back again on the sofa. As Bryan came in, now with a plate of white cheese and celery stalks, she said, "Am I destroying evidence?"
He said, "Not unless you smoke the whole lid."
When she offered him the joint he took it carefully.
"It's been a while." Drew deeply on it and said, holding his breath, "The last time, I ate about five pounds of caramel corn."
She said, "Well, six feet, about one sixty. I don't see a problem that shows. When do you take your gun off?"
He brought it out, a revolver with a stubby barrel, and laid it on the coffee table. The grip, she saw, was wrapped tightly with rubber bands. He said, "I forgot something." And went back to the kitchen.
Angela drew on the cigarette, staring at the revolver, about to ask him about the rubber bands when he came back in with the Good House- keeping Cookbook and handed it to her.
"You brought me here to cook, is that it?"
"No, look inside. There's something in there."
"What?"
"Just look. It might be in the chicken section."
Angela leafed through pages, came to Poultry and began turning pages one at a time, concentrating now, looking for some clue. Then stopped. She seemed awed by what she saw. "I don't believe it."
She held up the inch-square black and white photograph of herself.
Bryan leaned over to look at the cookbook open on her lap and nodded. "Under chicken cacciatore."
She said with a softness he had not heard before, "You really did . . . I've got goosebumps."
Bryan said, "It is scary, isn't it?"
Patti Daniels stood against the open door to the study; arms folded, which told Robbie something when finally he pushed the off button on the remote-control tuner, the armed Secret Service agents on the television screen imploding to black and he looked over at his wife. She had asked him yesterday how many times he'd watched it--the video cassette tape of the Reagan assassination attempt--and if she wanted the latest tally he'd tell her: nine times so far this evening.
She said, "I don't get it."
He didn't feel required to answer. Comments would have to be put in the form of a question. He waited, fingering the remote-control device in his hand.
"How many times are you going to look at it?"
He hadn't anticipated that one. "I don't know."
"What're you looking for, blood?"
"There's not much of it to see."
She straightened, brushed at the loose sleeve of her lounging gown, refolded her arms and leaned against the door again. The hip line was provocative; but he knew better.
"Did you have dinner?" Patti asked him.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact, at the Renaissance Club. David and Roger. They're not doing an awful lot of business. I mean the club. All that newDetroit bullshit--Cartier's moving out, right on the heels of your favorite shop. Walk through the RenCen, the only people you see're working there or wearing name tags. They don't even have full occupancy, they're putting up two more buildings."
Patti said, "I love to talk about economics."
"How 'bout the six hundred grand condo in Aspen? You'd hire an ad agency to sell me on that one."
She said,
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