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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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on a teacher’s desk sounded like a Penthouse magazine letter to Nolan.
“No,” she said. “I’ve always liked boys.”
“It sounds to me like you’ve always liked men.”
“Yeah. I always went with the older guys. In junior high, it was high school guys, once I broke up with the teach. In high school, I went with college boys. And I always put out.”
“Are you bragging?”
“No. I just want you to know something—you’re the first man I’ve ever been with who’s made an honest woman out of me.”
“I haven’t married you yet.”
“I don’t mean it like that. I never lasted with anybody more than a few months; then I’d get bored. It took you to settle me down, Nolan. I haven’t wanted anybody but you, since the day we met.”
For a second there, Nolan expected violins; but there weren’t any. That was a relief.
“What are you going to tell me next?” he said. “That the time we were apart, you were faithful to me, too?”
“Of course not. But I’ve stayed faithful to you, since the day I moved into this house. And I’ll stay faithful to you till the day you boot me out.”
“That day won’t come, doll.”
She smiled on one side of her face; she liked being called “doll.” She told him, once, she liked those old-timey sounding terms of endearment. Doll. Baby. Sweetheart. Nolan didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Have you been faithful to me?” she asked.
Yes he had.
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” he said, and kissed her forehead.
“You don’t have to marry me,” she said.
“You’re not pregnant, then?” He blew air out, as if relieved.
“You’re a riot, Nolan. I just mean, I’ll stay here, whatever the case. Till . . .”
“Till I boot you out. Right. Well, we’ll think about this marriage thing. There’s things to consider, you know.”
“Such as?”
“Our respective ages. I’m better than twice yours.”
“I don’t care.”
“What if we had children?”
“What if we did?”
“I don’t like the idea of going to my kid’s graduation in a wheelchair.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Not silly; realistic. In ten years you’ll be in your thirties and I’ll be in my sixties.”
“I don’t care.”
“In about fifteen years, you’ll come through that doorway in a Frederick’s nightie and nothing will happen under these covers.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’d be like raising the dead.”
She slipped her hand down between his legs. “I’ve been known to perform miracles.”
She was in the process of performing one when the doorbell rang. Her head jerked out of his lap and she said, “Damn.”
“Maybe they’ll go away,” he said, and guided her head back down.
But the mood was broken, and the bell was ringing.
“Goddamn,” she said, getting out of bed.
“I’ll get it,” Nolan said. “You get back in bed.”
He put his brown silk dressing robe on, ten percent discount from Mosenfelder’s, and walked down the hallway. He stopped halfway, and went back into the bedroom, where Sherry was standing cinching the belt on a white knee-length terry-cloth robe.
“What?” she said.
The doorbell was still ringing.
“Sunday night,” he said. “It’s almost twelve-thirty.”
“So?”
“Who comes calling Sunday night at twelve-thirty?” He pulled open a drawer on the nightstand by the bed and got out his long-barreled .38.
“Nolan . . .”
“It’s probably nothing,” he said, and, gun in hand, walked back down the hall.
The doorbell rang again, and this time Nolan cracked the door and looked out, .38 tight in his hand, flat against the door, out of sight from whoever was standing out there.
Whoever was standing out there turned out to be a short, curly-headed mustached kid in a long navy woolen coat with a wide turned-up collar.
Jon.
Jon with a mustache , Nolan thought, stroking his; I’ll be damned .
He was standing there with two suitcases on the cement next to him, looking very
“No,” she said. “I’ve always liked boys.”
“It sounds to me like you’ve always liked men.”
“Yeah. I always went with the older guys. In junior high, it was high school guys, once I broke up with the teach. In high school, I went with college boys. And I always put out.”
“Are you bragging?”
“No. I just want you to know something—you’re the first man I’ve ever been with who’s made an honest woman out of me.”
“I haven’t married you yet.”
“I don’t mean it like that. I never lasted with anybody more than a few months; then I’d get bored. It took you to settle me down, Nolan. I haven’t wanted anybody but you, since the day we met.”
For a second there, Nolan expected violins; but there weren’t any. That was a relief.
“What are you going to tell me next?” he said. “That the time we were apart, you were faithful to me, too?”
“Of course not. But I’ve stayed faithful to you, since the day I moved into this house. And I’ll stay faithful to you till the day you boot me out.”
“That day won’t come, doll.”
She smiled on one side of her face; she liked being called “doll.” She told him, once, she liked those old-timey sounding terms of endearment. Doll. Baby. Sweetheart. Nolan didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Have you been faithful to me?” she asked.
Yes he had.
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” he said, and kissed her forehead.
“You don’t have to marry me,” she said.
“You’re not pregnant, then?” He blew air out, as if relieved.
“You’re a riot, Nolan. I just mean, I’ll stay here, whatever the case. Till . . .”
“Till I boot you out. Right. Well, we’ll think about this marriage thing. There’s things to consider, you know.”
“Such as?”
“Our respective ages. I’m better than twice yours.”
“I don’t care.”
“What if we had children?”
“What if we did?”
“I don’t like the idea of going to my kid’s graduation in a wheelchair.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Not silly; realistic. In ten years you’ll be in your thirties and I’ll be in my sixties.”
“I don’t care.”
“In about fifteen years, you’ll come through that doorway in a Frederick’s nightie and nothing will happen under these covers.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’d be like raising the dead.”
She slipped her hand down between his legs. “I’ve been known to perform miracles.”
She was in the process of performing one when the doorbell rang. Her head jerked out of his lap and she said, “Damn.”
“Maybe they’ll go away,” he said, and guided her head back down.
But the mood was broken, and the bell was ringing.
“Goddamn,” she said, getting out of bed.
“I’ll get it,” Nolan said. “You get back in bed.”
He put his brown silk dressing robe on, ten percent discount from Mosenfelder’s, and walked down the hallway. He stopped halfway, and went back into the bedroom, where Sherry was standing cinching the belt on a white knee-length terry-cloth robe.
“What?” she said.
The doorbell was still ringing.
“Sunday night,” he said. “It’s almost twelve-thirty.”
“So?”
“Who comes calling Sunday night at twelve-thirty?” He pulled open a drawer on the nightstand by the bed and got out his long-barreled .38.
“Nolan . . .”
“It’s probably nothing,” he said, and, gun in hand, walked back down the hall.
The doorbell rang again, and this time Nolan cracked the door and looked out, .38 tight in his hand, flat against the door, out of sight from whoever was standing out there.
Whoever was standing out there turned out to be a short, curly-headed mustached kid in a long navy woolen coat with a wide turned-up collar.
Jon.
Jon with a mustache , Nolan thought, stroking his; I’ll be damned .
He was standing there with two suitcases on the cement next to him, looking very
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