Эд Горман - Fools Rush In

“Sometimes, when she was mad at tall, dark, handsome, and very rich Stu.”

“Her boyfriend?”

“Up several notches. Her god.”

“I had one of those in high school. My girlfriends always said that when he was looking into my eyes, he was actually looking at his own reflection.”

I smiled. “Maybe sadomasochism is the essence of all romantic love.”

“As long as I get the ‘sadist’ part, I’ll be happy.” Then: “You ready for some business talk?”

“Sure. Because ‘laddie’ here is getting a little chilly.”

“C’mon, then, you can walk me back to my hotel and we can talk along the way.”

And talk we did.

“Did you talk to the judge today?”

“No. I tried to get in to see her but she still doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“She’s going to the clinic in Minnesota.”

“Yes. I’ll drive her if she wants me to.”

“I know how much you care about her. But since she’s going there, it seems to me that we can go on with our original plan and work together.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

“Good. Have you also been thinking about who might have killed Leeds and Neville?”

“I keep going back and forth between Anderson and Hannity.”

“So do I, actually. But I’m not one hundred percent sure about either of them. I’ve been thinking about the senator, in fact.”

“The senator. He had the most to lose.”

I’d been wondering if I should tell her about what had happened in my office tonight. I did.

“I didn’t notice any bump on your head.”

“It’s gone down a lot.”

“You don’t think you should have it checked?”

“I’m fine.”

“You know, in private-eye novels they take a lot of punishment. But in real life you can die from something like that.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

We stood a quarter of a block from her hotel, in the shadows of an old movie theater that had closed down.

I put out my hand. “Well, I guess we shake hands good-night, huh?”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that, laddie.”

And we sure as hell did.

The window went just after midnight. Two rocks the size of a heavyweight’s fist, as I learned later.

Sitting up in bed. Real or nightmare, that glass-smashed sound?

The cats weren’t sure, either. Usually they would’ve jumped off the bed. But they were as frozen as I was. Real or nightmare?

The third rock came through the window on the opposite side of the back door.

No doubt about this one.

The cats and I sprang off the bed. I found my slippers, wanting to avoid cutting the hell out of the bottoms of my feet, and rushed to the window for a look.

The backyard, limned by moonlight, shimmered summer-night beautiful in moon shadow and glistening dew. Even the two garbage cans looked like pieces of art in the darkness.

One of them peeked out from the alley side of the garage. Couldn’t be sure but it looked like Hannity. But they would be operating as a team.

They were getting ready for another assault.

During the next three or four minutes I got into my jeans and penny loafers sans socks, then grabbed my dad’s army .45 from the bureau and started my way down the interior steps of the house.

The widow Goldman waited for me at the bottom of the stairs. Even somewhat sleep-mussed, she was still a slightly better-looking version of Lauren Bacall. She had a blue silk robe drawn tight up to her neck. Everybody should have such a landlady, though that seemed too coarse a word for someone as stylish, bright, and gentle as Mrs. Goldman.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“Let me call the police.”

“No. Please don’t.”

“Good Lord, Sam. That’s a gun in your hand.”

“My dad’s from the war.”

“Please, Sam. Let me call the police. Let them settle this. In fact, why don’t you stay down here with me. That way I know you won’t do anything crazy.”

“I know who it is, Mrs. Goldman. I can handle it.”

“With a gun?”

“Just for show. Honest.”

“Good Lord, Sam. A gun?”

“I’ll stop by when I’m done with this.”

Just then another window shattered upstairs.

“I’ll make sure they pay for every one of them, Mrs. Goldman.”

“Sam, it’s you I’m worried about. Not somebody paying for the windows.”

I didn’t want to miss them. I opened the front door and said, “I’ll be right back.”

The night was exhilarating, rich in scents of newly mown grass, loam, the wood of respectable old houses, and the cool air of the prairie.

I swung wide, running quickly up the street, then darting between houses and out to the alley.

I stood in the shadow of a garage overhang, watching them. They were gathering rocks for their next assault. Rob Anderson and Nick Hannity. America’s youth.

I didn’t have to worry about them seeing me. They were too drunk to see past their own hands.

I stayed in the shadows and started moving slowly down the alley. Anderson glanced up once. I thought he might have seen me. But I ducked behind a pile of fireplace logs and stayed there for a few minutes. If he’d seen me, he’d quickly forgotten about it.

I waited until their backs were turned away from me, until they were taking position to start throwing again. They were going to run out of windows soon.

“Drop the rocks. And hands up in the air.”

Hannity started to twist around, but then I stepped into the moonlight and gave him a peek at my .45.

“Shit, man, what’s the gun for?”

“Because I’m taking you in.”

“It was Rob’s idea, man. Not mine.”

Now Rob turned around to face me. “That’s bullshit. This was your idea, you jerk.”

“Doesn’t matter whose idea it was. You both smashed out windows. You both broke the law.”

“My folks are gonna be so pissed it’s unbelievable,” Anderson said. His voice sounded reasonably sober. But the way he kept jerking around, trying to stay in one place without simply falling over, gave him away.

“Which one of you killed Leeds and Neville?”

“He did, man,” Anderson said. “I was at a movie and I can prove it. He did. He was afraid Nancy Adams was going to sleep with the Negro.”

“You lying bastard. You were afraid Lucy was gonna sleep with him!”

In their white T-shirts and jeans, they looked young and harmless. But there was a good chance they weren’t harmless at all. There were a lot of racists in this country, but when you added the scorn of the upper classes to the scorn of race, you had a real monster.

“Step up here, Anderson.”

“Why should I, you bastard? You don’t mean shit to me.”

“Because I’m going to cuff you.”

“Handcuffs?”

“That’s right.” I’d brought two pairs, just in case. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”

I kicked him hard in the shin. He called me several names, at least two of which I’d never heard before. Every time he tried to move on me I shoved the .45 in his face. He still hadn’t turned around.

Another shin kick worked wonders.

He turned around. He was crying. Unfortunately my pity function seemed to be turned off.

Hannity, being Hannity, had lunged at me twice while I was cuffing Anderson. Both times I’d shouted at him close up and put the gun in his face. He’d stepped back. I think the shout bothered him more than the gun.

“You’re not gonna get me in those easy, McCain, I’ll tell you that.”

“Then you’ll be going to jail with one hell of a headache.”

He didn’t expect it, but when it landed, I think he was as much shocked as hurt. And that wasn’t right. So I hit him again, and this time I was sure he was more hurt than shocked. The way I’d intended.