Thomas Perry: Sleeping Dogs

It wasn’t that she was worried that one day he would show up in a terrible necktie and disgrace her before all England. He was without personal preference, and so he would pay the best shops to dress him in the way other people dressed. He was unacceptable only because of who she was. The Honourable Meg would have to marry a young man with a name her family had heard of, and she was certain that it wouldn’t matter to Michael Schaeffer when she did. He wouldn’t expect their relationship to change at all, because as nearly as she could discern, that kind of morality was simply not something that occurred to him. It was something that other creatures had, like the desire to migrate or hibernate or lose their feathers.

At the end of the two years, a morning came and Schaeffer opened his eyes to evaluate it. He’d had the window in his bedroom knocked out and replaced with glass bricks before he had allowed himself to sleep in the room. The effect had been to provide him with a view of the quality of the light without the distraction of objects or images. The position of the wall of light was high: a rifle shot would have to come from a helicopter, pierce the translucent glass bricks, and then would hit a lone man standing inside only by chance.

The gray ceiling of clouds that had covered Bath for the past week must have gone, because now the light was gold and blue. He sat up and looked around him. Nothing of the years of working had left him. When his eyes opened he was awake and alert. Without thinking about it, he knew at any moment where the nearest weapon was hidden. It had been a simple matter when he had established himself in the house to present himself as a gun collector. He had bought a collection intact at an estate sale: handmade Purdey shotguns, engraved presentation revolvers, the worn .455 Webley pistol that the former owner had carried in the trenches at Verdun, even a delicate set of dueling pistols that looked as though they would crack into fragments if they were fired. Thereafter he had been able to add a few more modern and functional weapons without alarming the housekeeper or her husband. The precautions he had taken had never been elaborate or inconvenient; they were simply the normal, sensible things he had been doing since the days when he had started working.

He remembered that Eddie Mastrewski would not sleep in a bed when he was working: he would rent a room, move the mattress to the floor and sleep there with a pistol beside him. Once he and Eddie had taken a motel room and slept in the car, and that night Eddie had been right. At three in the morning two men carrying shotguns had burst into the room. Until Eddie had started the car he could hear the two of them in the dark room blowing hole after hole in the twin beds—a blast, then a metallic slide and click, then another blast. Even as they pulled away, he could still hear the firing and see the muzzle flashes through the open doorway, lighting the walls and leaving a bright orange afterimage floating behind his eyes.

As Schaeffer stepped onto the floor he heard a quiet clicking sound, and realized that someone was trying to turn the handle on the bedroom door. He walked toward it and listened.

“Oh, damn.” It was the voice of The Honourable Meg. Then there was a small thump on the door. It was a steel fire door that he had bought from a restaurant-supply warehouse in London, so the sound of her fist on it carried no resonance. “Ouch. Damn it, Michael. I know you’re in there. Mrs. Satterthwaite said so. Get up and open this door.”

“Just a minute,” he called. It was only at times like this, when he had been asleep and had wandered in the places that dreams constructed for him, that the name still sounded strange to him. He put on his bathrobe and moved to the side of the door. There was no telling who she might bring: members of the entourage of overbred young aristocrats she swept along with her, or the regimental band of the Thirty-Eleventh Welsh Borderers in full battle regalia. He opened the door and saw that she was alone. She wore a wide picture hat and a thin, sleeveless dress of yellow cotton. She had calculated today’s costume as striking, the bold and direct look of the big-eyed young girls in nineteenth-century paintings who had such oddly curly hair. Was that Turner? No, he was the one where the sky looked as if a nuclear war were being fought somewhere in the suburbs. It was somebody else. As soon as he opened the door, she snatched the hat off her head and marched into the room, already talking.

“There’s not much time, so you’ll have to be quick about it. This place is ridiculous. You know that, don’t you? Of course you do, but you don’t care at all. It was a perfectly decent old house, and you’ve made it look as though Hitler had escaped and built a bunker in Arizona, then went even madder and moved it intact to Bath. How can anyone be expected to surprise you?”

“I don’t like surprises. I like sleep.”

She looked at him slyly. “It’s because you wake up with an erection, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is. Don’t deny it. You’re afraid Mrs. Satterthwaite will walk in and set a tea tray on it and you’ll be discovered. Hurry up, now. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Hurry up with what?”

“We’re going to Brighton for the races, and the horses are only going to wait so long for the likes of you.”

Schaeffer had only a vague notion of the whereabouts of Brighton. It was near the sea somewhere in the southeast. “Isn’t that a little far?”

“No problem. Jimmy Pinchasen has offered to take us all in his Bentley, and he drives as though he’d signed a suicide pact. His family was really named Pinchausen, but they changed it when they came here with George the First because he was German too, so Jimmy has a genetic desire to drive the way they do on the autobahn.”

He sat back down on the bed. “I don’t think so.”

“If you don’t believe me, then ask him.”

“I mean the other races.” He thought for a moment. “I’m not much of a gambler.” It was true. He never gambled, and yet he’d had terrible luck at it. After he had done his last job, he had gone to Las Vegas to collect. They had sent him to a casino to pretend to play blackjack, and he remembered the sight of the dealer’s perfect, paraffin-white fingers making face cards appear from the shoe in front of him. The dealer had been a mechanic they had brought in just to pay him with chips, so that he would go out into the darkness loaded down with money, his senses dulled by the warm, fat, stupid feeling that winners had.

“We’ll talk about that in a few minutes, when you’re finished and can be expected to think clearly.”

“Finished with what?”

She tossed her hat and purse on the nearest chair. “With me, silly. I’m wearing only the kind of undergarments that the worst sort of woman wears to inflame the jaded desires of men like you. See?” She lifted her skirt, and showed him that she was wearing only a garter belt and stockings, then dropped the skirt again.

He looked up into her eyes, but the flash of white thigh was fresh in his memory. “Well, you’ve got my attention.”

“Come on, Michael. I sincerely hope this pleases you, because I’ve been thinking about it ever since I woke up this morning, and walking over here feeling secretly naked, and—well, it’s gotten me into rather a state. So, if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon forgo some of the preliminaries I’m entitled to in favor of immediate gratification.” She looked down at his bathrobe, which was beginning to slip open. “Thank God,” she said. “So would you.”

Lying on the bed, he stared up at the glass-brick window. The sun was higher now, and there were squares that looked like small golden containers of sunlight. The Honourable Meg was in front of the mirror, slipping the yellow dress over her head. “Look sharp, old fellow,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for us.”