some slack, Horus. Hoisting is good for the bod. Makes the teenies cream." Stannard drew another deer arrow from the leather quiver strapped to his naked back and slotted it into the custom bow. "Spare me the speech on how it's all fruitless labor, lifting to no end, huh? Check out these triceps, man. Eat your heart out."
Stannard pointed the bow and arrow toward the sky, pulled the string slowly parallel to his right cheek, and tilted down to sight. He bulged in all the right places. His golden, artificially curled hair bounced in sweaty loops. He was bare-chested, clad in skintight red leather pants, belted with silver conchos so large they resembled wrestling awards. His feet were installed in a worn pair of felony fliers-black Converse All-Stars. His sculpted physique glistened. Horus heard the languorous, nasal intake of air as Stannard aimed and froze.
He held the pose, muscles rigid in isometric competition, for several long moments. Then he released.
The shaft sliced the air at top speed and ate up sixty feet of distance in the blink of an eye. At the far end of the oblong chamber, it embedded itself square in the groin of a straw-backed, life-sized cardboard cutout of a policeman waving his hand. Officer Mort, the Friendly Cop, already had arrows sticking out of his face and chest. An arrow hole pierced the palm of his upraised hand.
"The dick shot. End of the line." Stannard propped the bow against a leather director's chair and drank from a quart tumbler of sun tea full of ice and sliced limes. "Go for it," he said to Horus, who watched with folded arms and a Bhudda-like impenetrability of expression. "Plug one through the badge on his cap, I dare ya."
Horus hefted the bow, notched an arrow, and did just that. Stannard applauded. Horus just shrugged.
"Joshua called," Horus said. "Your friend with the plastic gun has been discharged from Olive Grove."
Stannard's glass hesitated halfway to his mouth. "Is that so?" He had to consciously avoid touching his right eyebrow. The fine hairs there were neatly bisected by a shining diagonal strip of scar tissue. Having photographers favor his left side had become second nature after all this time.
Horus' gaze found the hairless scar.
"Do you have any special instructions for Joshua?"
Stannard took another slug of tea. "Let's be magnanimous. Bygones are bygones, right? Tell Joshua to report any unusual movement. Beyond that, I ain't interested in the fucker as long as he stays the hell away from me."
The radio phone extension on the director's chair twittered. Stannard looked at Horus. Horus made a face. "Pick it up yourself," he said.
Stannard smeared perspiration away with the crook of his muscular arm and telescoped out the unit's antenna. One Katrina van der Leewon, she of the perfume inheritance, long, long legs and energetic Swedish body, had debarked from her limousine and awaited his pleasure in the swimming pool wing.
Horus noted the way Stannard's ice-blue eyes smoldered with memory. It was his job to keep track of such things. "Are you positive you want nothing done?"
"Nothing yet," muttered Stannard, almost subaurally.
"You will notify me immediately if you-"
"Yeah, yeah. Don't fret it, Horus old chum. I'm cool."
Horus nodded solemnly, wheeled about, and was gone.
***
As he walked down the hall, reflecting on what a marvelous body Ms. van der Leewon possessed (Stannard had invited Horus to watch a videotape of them making love in the Playboy bed he'd had installed in 1982), he heard a crash, followed by a sizzling, popping noise, and knew that his employer had just put an arrow through the TV set.
The little hardware store bag was of very thick brown paper. Inside it was a brand-new heavy-duty padlock and a pre-stressed, case-hardened steel hasp. Lucas dropped it on top of the
Stannard pointed the bow and arrow toward the sky, pulled the string slowly parallel to his right cheek, and tilted down to sight. He bulged in all the right places. His golden, artificially curled hair bounced in sweaty loops. He was bare-chested, clad in skintight red leather pants, belted with silver conchos so large they resembled wrestling awards. His feet were installed in a worn pair of felony fliers-black Converse All-Stars. His sculpted physique glistened. Horus heard the languorous, nasal intake of air as Stannard aimed and froze.
He held the pose, muscles rigid in isometric competition, for several long moments. Then he released.
The shaft sliced the air at top speed and ate up sixty feet of distance in the blink of an eye. At the far end of the oblong chamber, it embedded itself square in the groin of a straw-backed, life-sized cardboard cutout of a policeman waving his hand. Officer Mort, the Friendly Cop, already had arrows sticking out of his face and chest. An arrow hole pierced the palm of his upraised hand.
"The dick shot. End of the line." Stannard propped the bow against a leather director's chair and drank from a quart tumbler of sun tea full of ice and sliced limes. "Go for it," he said to Horus, who watched with folded arms and a Bhudda-like impenetrability of expression. "Plug one through the badge on his cap, I dare ya."
Horus hefted the bow, notched an arrow, and did just that. Stannard applauded. Horus just shrugged.
"Joshua called," Horus said. "Your friend with the plastic gun has been discharged from Olive Grove."
Stannard's glass hesitated halfway to his mouth. "Is that so?" He had to consciously avoid touching his right eyebrow. The fine hairs there were neatly bisected by a shining diagonal strip of scar tissue. Having photographers favor his left side had become second nature after all this time.
Horus' gaze found the hairless scar.
"Do you have any special instructions for Joshua?"
Stannard took another slug of tea. "Let's be magnanimous. Bygones are bygones, right? Tell Joshua to report any unusual movement. Beyond that, I ain't interested in the fucker as long as he stays the hell away from me."
The radio phone extension on the director's chair twittered. Stannard looked at Horus. Horus made a face. "Pick it up yourself," he said.
Stannard smeared perspiration away with the crook of his muscular arm and telescoped out the unit's antenna. One Katrina van der Leewon, she of the perfume inheritance, long, long legs and energetic Swedish body, had debarked from her limousine and awaited his pleasure in the swimming pool wing.
Horus noted the way Stannard's ice-blue eyes smoldered with memory. It was his job to keep track of such things. "Are you positive you want nothing done?"
"Nothing yet," muttered Stannard, almost subaurally.
"You will notify me immediately if you-"
"Yeah, yeah. Don't fret it, Horus old chum. I'm cool."
Horus nodded solemnly, wheeled about, and was gone.
***
As he walked down the hall, reflecting on what a marvelous body Ms. van der Leewon possessed (Stannard had invited Horus to watch a videotape of them making love in the Playboy bed he'd had installed in 1982), he heard a crash, followed by a sizzling, popping noise, and knew that his employer had just put an arrow through the TV set.
The little hardware store bag was of very thick brown paper. Inside it was a brand-new heavy-duty padlock and a pre-stressed, case-hardened steel hasp. Lucas dropped it on top of the
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