Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

“For a few days anyway.”

“And then?”

“That’s what I’m not sure about.”

“Well, you have that number I gave you.”

“Yes.”

“Call it sometime.”

“All right.”

She looked up at him. “But you won’t, will you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

They walked on until they reached the marble steps that went up to Randall Piers’s house. He kissed her then and held her quite close for a long time. Then she moved back and smiled up at him. “Good-bye, Quincy.”

“Good-bye,” he said, and turned and started walking along the beach back toward the yellow house.

She went up the steps and then paused and waited for him to turn and perhaps wave. But when he didn’t, she went on up the remaining 175 steps made out of Carrara marble that led to the house of the man with six greyhounds.

The next morning, which was a Thursday, the twenty-third of June, Randall Piers and his six greyhounds came down the marble steps just after dawn.

They headed along the beach toward the Paradise Cove pier, the greyhounds clustered at his heels, watching for the signal, and when he gave it, the hard, almost chopping gesture, they grinned and raced one another to the pier, their ears hard back and joy in their eyes.

By the time the dogs had trotted back, Piers was abreast of the small yellow house with the green composition roof. He skirted by the dead pelican, which had lain on the beach for exactly one week and which nobody had bothered to get rid of yet, and climbed up the four-foot slope of sand, the greyhounds now bunched at his heels again.

When he reached the steps that went up to the deck, he hesitated, and then started up, the dogs just behind him. He moved around to the door that led into the kitchen and peered through its glass. The house was empty. Everything was gone, including the wall of books and the Oriental rug. Not even the usual trash and junk had been left behind.

Piers tried the door. It was unlocked, so he went in. He looked around the kitchen and noticed that something after all had been left behind. On the stove was the big gallon coffeepot. He thought he could smell coffee, so he went over and touched the pot. It was very warm, almost hot. Next to it on the tile sink were several unused Styrofoam cups.

Piers poured himself a cup of coffee and tasted it. It was as good as ever. He wandered into the empty living room and looked around, wondering where they had gone, the lean man with the scars on his back and the other one, the fat pretender to the Emperor’s throne. Piers almost wished that he had known them better, because they were rather interesting men — certainly different, if not wholly admirable. But then, who the hell was?

Randall Piers discovered that he was very curious about what they would do next. As he stood there in the empty house, sipping the coffee, he decided to find out. But for many reasons, he never did.