Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

“Tell me what happened, will you?”

“He opened the window and climbed over the sill. Clumsily, I’d have to say. I was afraid he’d make so much noise he’d frighten himself off and pop out again before I could do anything.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Obviously not. I opened one eye just wide enough to get a glimpse of him, and as soon as he had both feet on the floor I opened both eyes and pointed the gun at him.”

“And he’d already grabbed the dagger off the wall?”

“Of course not. That came later.”

“He grabbed it later?”

“Do you want to hear this or do you want to keep on interrupting?”

“I’m sorry, George.”

“He saw the gun, and his eyes widened, and he looked on the point of saying something. So I shot him.”

“That was the first shot.”

“Obviously. I shot him in the pit of the stomach, and—”

“Where? I couldn’t really see anything. Where did the bullet enter? Around the navel?”

“Below the navel. I’d say about halfway between his navel and the place where you left your lipstick.”

“The place where I left—”

“Just a joke, my dear. Halfway between his navel and his dick, that’s where I shot the son of a bitch. It put him down and shut him up and I guess it hurt. Abdominal wounds are supposed to be the most painful.”

“And then it was ages before the second shot.”

“I doubt it was more than thirty seconds. Say a minute at the outside.”

“Was that all? It seemed longer.”

“For him as well, I’m sure. But I wanted a moment or so to tell him.”

“To tell him.”

“I didn’t want him to die thinking something had gone horribly wrong. I wanted him to know everything was working out just the way it was supposed to, that he’d been set up and played for a sap. He didn’t want to believe it.”

“But you convinced him.”

“ ‘A few hours ago,’ I told him, ‘she had two fingers up your ass. I hope you enjoyed it.’ ”

“You told him that?”

“It was a convincer.”

“And then what? You shot him?”

“In the heart. To put him out of his misery, although he didn’t look miserable so much as he looked embarrassed. You should have seen the look on his face.”

“I wish I had. That was the one thing wrong.”

“That you weren’t there for it.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you could have been waiting in the living room. You could have popped in when you heard the first shot. But I don’t suppose it was a total loss, was it? Being stuck upstairs?”

“What do you mean?”

“You had your hands full, didn’t you?”

“Well,” she said.

“Excited, were you?”

“You know I was.”

“Yes, I know you were. My goodness, now that I think about it, those pretty little fingers have been a lot of places today, haven’t they? I hope you washed them before you shook hands with the detective.”

“Did I shake hands with him? I don’t remember shaking hands with him.”

“Maybe you didn’t. But if you did, I bet he remembers.”

“You think he liked me?”

“I’ll bet he calls you.”

“You really think so?”

“Oh, he’ll have a pretext. He’s not fool enough to call without a pretext. He’ll have something to report on the disposition of the case, or he’ll want to check on your state of mind. And if he doesn’t get any encouragement from you he’ll have the sense to let it drop.”

“But if he does?” She nibbled her lower lip. “He’s kind of cute,” she said.

“I had a feeling you liked him.”

“I just wanted him to go home. But he is kind of cute. You think?”

“What?”

“Well, we couldn’t do things the same way we did with Jimmy, could we?”

“What, get him to crawl in the window and then blow him away? I don’t think so.”

“When he calls,” she said, “ if he calls—”

“He’ll call.”

“—I don’t think I’ll encourage him.”

“Even if he is cute.”

“There are lots of cute guys,” she said, “and there ought to be a way to surprise them the way we surprised Jimmy.”

“We’ll think of something.”

“And next time I’ll be in the room when it happens.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it, I want to be there.”

“You could even do it,” he said.

“Really?”

“Look at you,” he said. “You’re something, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“I’ll say. But yes, you can be there, and maybe you can do it. We’ll see.”

“You’re good to me, George. Good to me and good for me.”

“I am, and don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t. You know the one thing I regret?”

“That you weren’t in the room to see it happen.”

“Besides that.”

“What?”

“Oh, it’s silly,” she said. “But I wish we’d put it off a day or two longer.”

“To stretch out the anticipation?”

“That, but something else. Remember what I told him today? That next time I’d get my whole hand inside of him?”

“You’re saying you would have liked to try.”

“Well, yeah. It would have been interesting.”

“Sweet little hands. Maybe you could do that to me.”

“You’d let me?”

“And maybe I could do it to you.”

“God,” she said. “You’ve got such big hands.”

“Yes, I do, don’t I?”

“God,” she said. “Can we go upstairs now? Can we?”

“As every highschool chemistry student knows,” wrote sportswriter Garland Hewes, “the initials TNT stand for tri-nitro-toluene, and the compound so designated is an explosive one indeed. And, as every tennis fan is by now aware, the same initials stand as well for Thomas Norton Terhune, supremely gifted, immensely personable, and, as he showed us once again yesterday on the clay courts of Roland Garros, an unstable and violently explosive mixture if ever there was one, and a grave danger to himself and others.”

The incident to which the venerable Hewes referred was one of many in Tommy Terhune’s career in world-class tennis. In the French Open’s early rounds, he dazzled players and spectators alike with the brilliance of his play. His serve was powerful and on-target, but it was his inspired all-around play that lifted him above the competition. He was quick as a cat, covering the whole court, making impossible returns look easy. His drop shots dropped, his lobs landed just out of his opponent’s reach but just inside the white line.

But when the ball was out, or, more to the point, when the umpire declared it to be out, Tommy exploded.

In his quarterfinal match at Roland Garros, a shot of Terhune’s, just eluding the outstretched racquet of his Montenegrin opponent, landed just inside the baseline.

The umpire called it out.

As the television replay would demonstrate, time and time again, the call was an error on the official’s part. The ball did in fact land inside the line, by two or three inches. Thus Tommy Terhune was correct in believing that the point should be his, and he was understandably dismayed at the call.

His behavior was less understandable. He froze at the call, his racquet at shoulder height, his mouth open. While the crowd watched in anticipatory silence, he approached the umpire’s raised platform. “Are you out of your mind?” he shouted. “Are you blind as a bat? What the hell is the matter with you, you pop-eyed frog?”

The umpire’s response was inaudible, but was evidently uttered in support of his decision. Tommy paced to and fro at the foot of the platform, ranting, raving, and drawing whistles of disapproval from the fans. Then, after a tense moment, he returned to the baseline and prepared to serve.