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sure he was shaken up, but not seriously hurt when we finally dropped him in the gutter outside. He
started up with the obscenities again along with dire threats against the Robleys and everyone that knew
them. While Adrian watched from the doorway I picked Roller up by his necktie and pushed him
backward over a handy car hood.
"You got a bad mouth on you, boy, so shut it before you lose it. Go back to your roach hole and tell
your boss to use the phone the next time he wants to collect on a bill. You or Toumey show up here
again and "
I didn't finish the threat, it was unnecessary. Roller saw exactly what he never wanted to see in my eyes.
I gave him just enough to scare him, then let him go. He stumbled once, regained his footing, and ran
down the block like hell was after him. He never looked back.
Adrian's expression was closed and watchful again. "I wish I had your way with people."
I shrugged. "Let's get the other one."
Toumey was more quiescent than his partner, content to be led to the exit and shoved out, again with the
instructions never to return. We got back to the flat and checked on Evan, who had slept through the
party.
Adrian stripped away the quilt, picked up a bedside carafe, and poured what was left of the contents on
Evan's face. What all the roughhouse and noise failed to do a half cup of water accomplished: Evan shot
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awake, flailing and spitting.
"You'll drown me!" he wailed.
"Not unless I strangle you first. Wake up." Adrian went to the bathroom off the hall and brought back a
towel for him.
Evan vaguely blotted at the water, confused and muttering. "First there's Dreyer, then Sandra, then
Dreyer, and then you. What's the matter with everyone tonight?"
"We've all had to deal with you. Who's Dimmy Wallace?"
"Who?" he said, a little too innocently.
"Two of his people were just here," I informed him. "And we both took a beating that was meant for
you, so you owe us."
"What?" repeated the story until he said he understood things, but his comprehension might also have
had something to do with Adrian refilling the carafe.
"All right," he grumbled, "but Sandra won't like me showing the dirty laundry."
"That's never bothered you before," Adrian pointed out.
Evan snarled blearily at him. "In your ear."
The carafe began to tilt.
"I didn't mean it! Dimmy's my bookie, sort of."
"We're listening."
"That's it really. He gave me some credit on my losses, said he'd wait until I sold something. Well, I
sold something, but then he said I owed him interest as well. I told him to wait until I sell another painting,
but he's not the patient kind "
"And the longer it takes to pay, the more your interest increases?" I put in.
"Exactly."
"You've paid the original debt, though?"
"And then some."
I had a deep and very sincere stab of sympathy for Sandra.
Adrian was simply exasperated but willing to take action. "Get your toothbrush, Evan. Sandra's as well."
"Huh?"
"I'm not leaving her alone in this house while people like that are after you."
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"ButI'm here!"
"As I said, she's not going to be left alone."
Maybe I could have assured him the toughs wouldn't be back, but someone like Dimmy Wallace would
have others to take their place. "Okay, you guys pack the toothbrushes, I'll drive."
About ten minutes later we were in the car, making a circle back toward Leighton Brett's neighborhood,
but not quite. The mirror was clean, no one had followed us.
Adrian directed me to a less pretentious area of quiet houses with demure picket fences and regular
streetlights. His home was a long one-storied structure, with a closed garage on one side. On the paving
in front of it was an oil stain marking the spot where his car usually stood. Somehow I wasn't too
surprised he no longer used the garage for its original purpose.
Evan was installed in a long-unused guest room and went thankfully back to sleep with a soft groan.
Adrian threw a blanket on him and shut off the lights.
"He might be disoriented when he wakes up," I cautioned.
"It won't be a new experience for him."
I followed him into the kitchen. Perhaps it had been a bright place once; cheery little feminine
knickknacks decorated the walls and cupboards. Now they were dull with dust, and the once-fluffy
white curtains hung limp and dejected. The usual litter of inexpert cooking and casual cleanup cluttered
the counters, and a plate with its dried scraps rested on the table where Adrian had eaten the latest in a
series of solitary meals.
He rummaged around in some half-opened parcels on the table and brought out a box of headache
powders. He mixed a double dose in a glass of water and drank it straight down. "Need any?" he
offered.
"No, thanks."
He edged the glass in with a dozen others by the sink. The sad atmosphere of the house was
uncomfortable. It seemed to ooze from the walls, or more likely from Adrian. Either from his wife's death
or by his natural temperament, he'd turned everything inward, and though too polite to obviously show it,
he did not like having a stranger in his home, especially an observant ex-journalist.
When we got back to the party his posture relaxed slightly. He'd gone from being on guard to something
else I couldn't quite read, and was twisting his wedding ring around again.
"Thank you," he murmured. I'll find Sandra and tell her what happened."
"Anytime," I said to his departing back as he disappeared into the crowd.
Bobbi was still in the big hall, but taking a break, or trying to. I could hardly see her for all the men
grouped around, offering her enough drinks for a chorus line. One of them was Titus. He was close to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]