Chapter 11

Thursday, June 26th, 1947, 9:45 p.m.

With her other hand Gloria clutched a pillow to her side, the reward from the bank.

“Please give her your gun, Mr. Grahame,” she said with the same winsome smile she wore while taking dictation. “Not that it could really hurt her, but these make such a lot of noise. I just knew this”—she waved the pillow—“woul’ be useful. If I nee’ to use . . .” She waved my gun, took a step in, closed the door, and said, “Onipul?”

Lizabeth left the sofa abruptly. “What kept you?” she demanded. She snatched my Smith and Wesson with a gloved hand. I’m sure I looked confused.

Gloria shrugged. “Oh, I just figure’ it woul’ be smarter to take the elevator all the way up and the stairs back down. It is so noisy!”

Nuts, I thought. I said, “Hello, Gloria.”

“Hello, Mr. Grahame!” she said brightly.

“You’re looking well for a girl who’s been dead for twenty-four hours.”

“Why, thank you. We do do our best to keep up appearances.”

“Must be pretty hard, with all those bullet holes in you.”

“Oh, they were just lea’. They heal’ very quickly.”

“I’ll bet it’s tough, being a doctor where you come from. They must make less than private eyes.”

She laughed. “I like’ working for you, Mr. Grahame. You have a real sense of humor. I hope you’ll keep it once we’re back home.”

I sat forward in the chair. “And home is . . . ?”

Gloria laughed again. “Venus, of course. One hundre’ seventy-two thousan’, five hundre’ thirty-eight million miles away.”

“Give or take,” Lizabeth added. She chuckled.

“An’ I hope,” Gloria went on, “you’ll even learn a little of our language. Yours is so difficult—all those strange names like ‘telephone.’ It took me weeks to learn to call it that! Onipul here”—she pointed toward Lizabeth—“coul’n’t remember that to save her life.” She sighed. “An’ so many words en’ with ‘dees’! We just can’t say them!”

“Well,” I said, “you’ll have plenty of time to learn. They give life sentences for murder on this planet. Or they give you the gas chamber.” Lizabeth—Onipul—laughed. “I’m glad you think it’s amusing. The cops probably won’t.”

“When you tell them what, Robert?” she said with a sneer. “A little green woman from Venus shot Bugsy Siegel?”

“Yeah. For starters. Except you’re not green. In any sense of the word.”

“I think not.” Lizabeth snickered. I grimaced. “No one will believe you. Not even Lieutenant Stanwyck. Earth cops are so—sinningle.”

She meant “cynical.” But she was probably right.

I sniffed. Gloria turned serious. “Now,” she said, “enough dallying. Give me the bullets.”

I spread my hands in the air. “I don’t have them,” I said, and sank back in the chair.

Gloria looked petulant. “Oh, come now, Mr. Grahame. We’re not petty thugs like those two the mob sent. An’ don’t preten’ they’re at your office. We’ve look’ there. Twice.”

I wished I had another drink. I wished I had a cigarette. Most of all, I wished I’d told Stanwyck the whole story: I might be sitting across from her right now in some nice club, drinking and smoking, and Lizabeth Duryea and Gloria Mitchum—or whatever their names really were—would be locked inside cells where they belonged.

“You oughta know where they are, Gloria. You did hear my phone call to Stanwyck. While you were lying there last night, waiting for the ambulance? Right?” Gloria pursed her lips and flared her nostrils. She nodded tersely, once. “Uh-huh. I gave ’em to her,” I said. There’s nothing like telling the truth when there’s nothing else to tell. “The ones she used on Siegel, anyway. I never found the ones— Where are the ones she used on you? Or did you do that yourself?”

“Her work, of course,” Gloria said. “Onipul’s what you so charmingly call a hitman.”

“And the bullets?”

They both found that question highly amusing. “I tol’ you: They were Earth bullets. I ate them, of course.” Gloria giggled.

I frowned. “Uh-huh. Sure you did.”

“Enough!” Lizabeth interjected, the first time I’d heard her raise her voice. “We have to get those bullets back. They’ve got at least five more days. If he gets hol’ of them . . .”

“Oh, I think Robert can do that for us. Can’t you, Robert.” Gloria raised the gun so it was level with my eyes and pointed it between them. “You don’t mind if I call you Robert, do you? An informal death threat is a congenial death threat. That’s what I always say.”

“Oh?” I said, regretting giving her the bonuses.

“I think a call to Lieutenant Stanwyck will be very effective.”

I laughed. “You don’t know Stanwyck. She’d let me die before she’d tamper with evidence.”

“I don’t think so, Robert,” Lizabeth said. “Why don’t you telephonick her—excuse me: telephone her—an’ see? Or . . .” She pointed the S&W at the shantung shade on the floor lamp and fired. The shade, the bulb inside it, and the wall behind exploded. Sputtering wires crackled for a moment. Smoke trailed from them upward; then they turned black. So did the wall. My mood already was.

“Onipul! Noise!” said Gloria. “An’ you’re wasting perfectly goo’ lea’.”

“Sorry.” Lizabeth brought the end of the barrel to her lips, puckered, and blew on it. “I’m an excellent shot, Robert. The last seven bullets were just . . . subterfudge. I’m sure Mr. Siegel woul’ tell you that.”

“If he could.”

“Yes.” She sighed and smiled wickedly. “He was so charming. He sai’ I have ‘such a sweet smile.’”

“Straight off the cover of Modern Screen.”

“Yes. Now.” She pointed the gun at the phone, then at me.

I nodded, got up and dialed. “Detective Stanwyck,” I said. “This is Grahame. . . . I’ll wait.”

Gloria watched me, then plopped herself into one of the stuffed chenille chairs with a large sigh. “I am getting hungry.”

Lizabeth shook her head. “Can’t you ever wait!”

“That’s easy for you to say!” Gloria shot back. “You weren’t shut up in a locker for a whole night. A col’ locker. Completely undress’. An’ without a purse. I finish’ what was in it anyway, before you came last night.” Lizabeth nodded and held my gun steadily, its sight trained on my chest. “An’ I finish’ all of these”—Gloria tapped the Colt in her hand—“while we were at your office tonight.” She looked at me and smiled. “Except one. Just in case,” she said, and turned back to Lizabeth. “You might remember that.”

Lizabeth snorted. “‘You might remember that,’” she repeated, and reached for her bag. She rummaged inside it with one hand, drew something out, and tossed it to Gloria. Gloria held it up. It was the miniature six-shooter from my Cracker Jack box.

“This is it?” she asked, clearly annoyed.

“Oh, all right!” Lizabeth said exasperatedly, and fired the Smith and Wesson’s five remaining rounds into her.

“No, Lizab— Don’t shoo—” Gloria trembled and twinged as each bullet pierced her body: neck, chest, arm, and stomach twice. The first two went through the pillow; feathers flew everywhere, and the pillow itself sailed from her flailing arms across the room. She grabbed at her heart with her gun hand while blood splattered from every wound. The lab coat and uniform were covered with it in seconds, and bright red spurts sprayed the chair, the carpet, and the wall behind her. “Li-za-beth!” she moaned.

Usually I have pretty good reflexes, but I was too surprised to do anything but hold the phone.

Lizabeth blew on the barrel. “What?” she said.

Gloria stood up, wiping the blood off her face and neck with the doilies from the arms of the chair and brushing away the red and white feathers that were stuck to her. She was plainly unhappy. “Look at this mess!” she demanded.

Lizabeth shrugged. “It’s just bloo’,” she said.

“You might have just emptie’ the gun an’ given them to me! Honestly!” she said. “Now go get yours.” She finished wiping away the worst of it, then sighed and calmly popped each bullet out of her body. Still leaking blood, she sat down again—I’m going to need to replace that chair, I thought—and, one by one, popped them into her mouth.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“Sorry,” said Lizabeth. She dropped the empty S&W on the floor and retrieved the gun with the rainbowed barrel from her bag. While she did, Gloria—apparently recovered and munching as contentedly as Greenstreet—kept the Colt focused on me.

“I tol’ you, Mr. Grahame,” she said. “Oh, I was so excite’ the first time I saw one of your cowboy pictures: Enemy of the Law, it was call’. All those men telling each other to ‘eat lea’.’” She laughed heartily. “It was just like back home. Except for the men, of course,” she added, and continued to chew her meal thoroughly. I’d never heard anyone chew lead before. The crunch was probably audible in Santa Monica.

“Uh-huh,” I said, still more than a little dubious despite what I was seeing. “Of cour— Stanwyck, it’s Robert,” I said into the phone. “Look, I need you to do something kind of unusual. . . . Well, those bullets I gave you?—the ones that might be from Siegel. . . . Yeah. I need you to bring them to me, at my apartment. . . . Right away. . . . I know you can’t do that, but there are a couple of— I don’t know what to call them, but they absolutely—”

“Venusians, Mr. Grahame,” Gloria interjected.

I ignored her. “—insist on getting them back. . . . That’s right. The bullets are theirs. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Yeah, you might say that. . . . Okay.” I looked at Lizabeth. She waved her gun and held up an index finger. I nodded. “And you better come alone. . . . Okay.” I hung up and looked at Gloria. “She’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

“See?” Lizabeth smiled. “That wasn’t so ha— difficult.”

“I guess not. But tell me—there’s just a couple of things I can’t figure out.”

“Only a couple?”

“Why did you call to ‘warn me’ off the case.”

Lizabeth shook her head. “I di’n’t.”

“Oh?”

Gloria had finished picking the bullets from her body. She popped the last one from my Colt into her mouth and followed that with the six-shooter, chewed them, swallowed, and sighed. “I could eat a dozen more! I am so hungry. You don’t happen to have a few lying aroun’, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, well.” She sighed again and tossed the empty Colt to the floor. “No, Robert. I was the one who call’,” she said in the dark, rumbling voice I recognized from the phone call. “One of the more interesting things about Earthlings is, the more you tell them not to do something, the more determine’ they become to do it. We knew the money woul’ bring you in, but something else was necessary to make sure you woul’ stay in.”

“Very clever.”

“I thought so. I wrote the ‘We have Dan Scott’ letter, too.” She giggled perkily. I frowned. I had recognized the handwriting. “Earth men always underestimate women. From anywhere.”

“We are very clever, as you so neatly put it,” Lizabeth chimed in.

“The police may think otherwise.”

Again, they laughed. “You are so insistent!” said Gloria.

I shrugged. “I figure it’s my civic duty.” I reached for my glass. It was empty, and I wanted that refill. “Mind if I get another?” I said, and pointed at the kitchen.

“Oh, I’ll get it,” Gloria said eagerly. “I so enjoy’ bringing you your coffee each morning.”

“Sure you did,” I said.

She took the glass. “You know,” she chirped, “it isn’t often I get to do something like that.”

Lizabeth sneered. “I guess she’s just a Suzie Homermaker at heart.”

“Be right back.” Gloria giggled and started to leave the room. “Oh—ice?” she asked. I nodded. “It’s in your icebox, isn’t it?” I nodded again. She smiled and said, “Okeydokey. I’ll even deal with that—for you.”

“Thanks,” I said. This time, she did leave, complete with a trail of blood. The carpet would have to go, too.

Lizabeth kept her gun pointed in my direction. She smiled, too.

Gloria came back shivering and handed me the drink. “Thanks,” I said again. I swallowed and turned to Lizabeth. “The other thing is: Why did you kill him? Siegel.”

“We ha’ an agreement,” she said. She sat again, looking relaxed for the first time since she’d edged her way into my apartment. She laid the odd gun in her lap. Her hand rested on top of it. “He ignore’ it.”

“An agreement? For what?”

“To open up an illegal trade line between Venus and Earth,” said a deep voice from the doorway. I turned, in unison with Lizabeth and Gloria.

Gloria shrieked, “The Captain!”

Dan Scott was standing there, this time wearing a red-and-black-checkered suit with a powder-blue shirt and the same green-with-orange-shamrocks tie. His gun was in his left hand, and the usual smile was on his face.

Lizabeth started to lift her gun. “I wouldn’t do that!” Scott thundered. She froze. He smiled. “A very wise decision, ‘Miss Duryea,’” he said, and dipped his huge head in a tiny bow. Lizabeth ignored it. “You can just push it to thee floor. But very carefully, please; I wouldn’t want to misinterpret what you were doing.” Lizabeth did. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet.

“And, at long last, Miss Mitchum,” Scott said politely. “That is thee name you’ve been using, isn’t it? And a lovely name it is.” Gloria nodded slowly. Scott tut-tutted. “Thee red suits you. You should wear it more often. But I guess two days in a row may be a little too much.” He chuckled. “I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize your voice on thee telephone. But you recognized mine. Didn’t you?” Gloria hesitated, then nodded.

“Well.” He chuckled again. “Thee bad and thee beautiful. Now: Lizabethee, put your purse on thee floor and both of you put your coats there. And then move—slowly—against thee wall.”

“But we’ll get terribly chilly!” Lizabeth complained.

The smile disappeared. “Not as chilly as you’re gonna be where you’re goin’. Do it now!” he commanded.

They did. Scott kept one eye on them and one finger poised on the trigger. With the other hand, he took out a lavender handkerchief and picked up the three guns, one at a time. He put Lizabeth’s into his pocket and tossed both of mine to me.

I caught them. Not that it made any difference: They were both empty, and besides, though Scott’s gun seemed to scare Lizabeth and Gloria, mine hadn’t. That meant his was probably a more dangerous weapon. I had no intention of testing the hypothesis. “Well,” I said, “if it isn’t all of you in one place, together again for the first time. One little, two little, three little Venusian hoodlums.”

Scott’s smile returned. “Oh, no: Two little Venusian hoodlums and one Martian cop. Captain Archer, Mr. Grahame: agent with thee Martian Interstellar Law Enforcement Section. MILES, for short.” He extended his right hand. “They usually just call me thee Captain, but you can call me Dan. Nice to meet you.”

I looked at Scott’s hand. I figured those long, slim fingers could crush me, but I took it anyway. Tentatively. He shook mine, carefully. I appreciated that. I had enough sore body parts. “Martian,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” said Scott. “Men make up thee whole population of Mars, Mr. Grahame. Venus’s entire indigenous population is female.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No? I thought you’d have figured that out.”

“I guess I’m not that smart.”

“No,” he agreed, “I guess you’re not. But good work, anyway.”

“Yeah?” I picked up the drink Gloria had poured for me. “I’m not sure you think so.”

Scott clapped me on the back. I almost spilled the drink. “Oh, I do. I’ve been trying to catch these two cuties forever. I really appreciate your help. I’ve come close a couple times—we even had a good old-fashioned shootout, didn’t we, Lizabethee?”

Lizabeth, her back against the wall and hands raised, turned her head and spat.

“Not towar’ me,” Gloria hissed.

“Sorry,” Lizabeth muttered.

He chuckled. “She show you her hand?”

“. . . Yeah.” I remembered the burnt skin. It wasn’t something I was going to forget for a while.

Scott waved his gun. “This did that. It can do a lot of things.”

“Seems a shame,” I said. “Spoiling the package that way.” Even if the package itself was spoiled to its core.

“Yeah, well, they’ve spoiled a few things in their time.” He leaned against the door and crossed his ankles. “See, their deal was they’d supply Mr. Siegel with Venusian weapons—like this.” He twirled the gun like Joe Ryan did in the Purple Riders serials when I was a kid. I wondered if Gloria had seen them. She’d like them; plenty of lead got “eaten.”

Scott kept talking. “Its ammunition has one particular property Mr. Siegel would have found very useful. In return, he’d provide men—lots of men—for labor on Venus. Oh, and in case you’re wondering: Earth men can live on Venus. They’ve been taking them there for years, one or two at a time. But Mr. Siegel tried to pull a double-cross: They didn’t like that. Did you, Miss Duryea?” Lizabeth scowled at him. “So they went looking for someone else to deal with. But you haven’t found anyone yet, have you?” Both of them stood, unresponsive. “That’s why they’re still here. Right, ladies?”

This time Gloria spat. At Scott. I jumped out of the way as a massive green gob flew past me and landed, an inch from Scott’s face, on the wall.

He grinned. “That, and those bullets,” he said.

It was beginning to make sense. “And they needed a fall guy,” I said. “Like I figured. Only I thought it was all Lizabeth’s doing.”

“Nah, she’s just thee brawn and thee beauty. Gloria’s thee brains and thee beast. She picked you out way in advance.”

“Glad to hear I have a reputation.” I wasn’t sure I should be flattered.

“Oh, a universal one. You’re thee best. Even better than what’s-his-name.”

“Philip Marlowe,” Lizabeth volunteered with a nasty growl.

“Mm,” I said, and remembered I was thirsty. “Hey, I’ll be right back.” I strolled into the kitchen and refilled my glass, added more ice, and swallowed half of it. Then I had a thought and stuck my head into the hallway. “You want some water?”

“Yeah,” said Scott, sounding very pleased. “Thanks. No ice.”

“Okay.” I filled a glass from the tap and returned.

He took it and drank deeply. “Never get enough!”

“So, how did you know? About my ‘reputation.’”

“Oh, word gets around.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this when you phoned? Or at The Pickup?”

“You wouldn’t have believed me, Mr. Grahame.”

Gloria snickered. I ignored her. “Maybe. But why all the tough guy talk?”

“Now, wouldn’t you have been just a little suspicious if I’d been all sweet and wide-eyed? Like her?” He pointed at Lizabeth.

“Yeah, I suppose I would’ve.”

Scott finished the water. “Little Lizabethee here has a . . . way with Earth men. They always seem to buy what she’s selling.”

“Like Siegel did.” I glanced at the two of them. They both stood there, not moving except for an occasional shiver. I hoped their arms were getting good and sore.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “Besides, private eyes never trust cops. Not even Martian ones. It’s in all your movies.”

I lifted the Smith and Wesson. I’d lied to Gloria: I had plenty of bullets in the apartment for both guns. I wondered whether I should feed them to her or reload. She did look pale. But maybe that was just the loss of blood. “What about the bullets?”

Scott chuckled. “Lizabethee used Venusian ones on Mr. Siegel. They’re what’s so special. Earth cops couldn’t trace them. And it wouldn’t matter if they did: They shrink until they just disappear, but that takes about a week, maybe two. That”—he strolled toward them and tut-tutted—“that’s thee dark passage, isn’t it, ladies.”

Lizabeth dashed for the door. Or tried to: The hem of her dress stopped her even before Scott did. He pushed her back roughly. “Unh-unh-unh, ‘Miss Duryea,’” he said. She fell against the wall and stood there. “With your hands up, sweetheart.” She raised them. “Besides, it’s cold out there. Remember?”

Gloria put her hands on her hips and muttered, “Honestly!”

“You too!” he ordered. She raised her hands.

“That’s much better. Just make yourselves comfortable. It shouldn’t be too much longer. But if it happens again”—he looked Lizabeth straight in the eye—“you won’t have to wait. Am I clear?”

Lizabeth nodded.

“Good! Now”—he turned back to me—“where were we?”

“The bullets,” I said. “If they were going to disappear anyway, what’d you need them for?”

Scott smiled. “They’re evidence; we have ways to stop them from shrinking. And I didn’t want them disappearing under thee wrong people’s noses.”

“LAPD’s.”

“Right.” He leaned against the door again. I was glad it was good and solid. “They’ll have enough questions as it is.”

“Well, that’s who has ’em. I guess they’ll have a few more after all.”

“Ah, well,” said Scott. “I guess you can’t have everything.”

“Please, Robert,” Lizabeth said quietly and urgently. She ignored Scott but kept her arms up. “Help me. He’s lying. Nothing he says is true. Please. Believe me. We, you an’ I, we can have the sort of life most Earth men can only dream of having. A life with me.” Her smile gleamed in her eyes, her voice, her small, sharp teeth. I wondered if they grew that way or got that way from chewing her meals.

Scott looked at her and, still smiling, shook his head.

“Yeah,” I said. “But it would probably be a very short life. And I’d have to leave my cat.”

Her voice purred; her mouth quivered. Greenstreet had nothing on her except whiskers. “I can give you everything you coul’ possibly want. Plenty of petting. And a very soft place to sleep.”

I glanced at Scott. He was grinning. He reminded me of a cat, too. The Cheshire variety.

I looked at Lizabeth. She was something, and not just to look at. I was still curious about those very soft places. I glanced at Scott again. “Y’ know,” I said, “sometimes you wanna believe somebody even when you know you probably shouldn’t.”

She melted toward me. “Oh, Robert, I—”

“But I think I’ve passed that point where you’re concerned,” I went on. “Do like he says.” Lizabeth stopped, put her hands to her face, and began to cry.

“Back against the wall, Onipul,” Scott ordered.

She took a step backward, her face still buried.

“Sorry, Lizabeth,” I said. “But you’ll get over it. Everyone does.” Almost everyone, anyway. I finished my drink.

There was a humming noise from somewhere outside. I couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from—I was pretty sure it wasn’t the street—or what it was. Scott went to the window by the fire escape, opened it, poked his head out, and looked up. “Yes!” he said, and turned back in, his pink eyes gone red and his smile intact. He motioned toward the open window. “Are you ladies ready?”

Gloria sniffed. “I’m still hungry.”

“So am I,” Lizabeth muttered at her. Gloria sniffed again.

“Well,” Scott said expansively, “Mars is only about fifty-three million miles away this time of year; we have plenty of lead on board.” He looked outside again. “Blod dumin yeent,” he called. A voice, very much like his, called back something that sounded like “Foost thute ap.” Whatever it was, I didn’t understand it. I figured it was Martian.

Scott brought his head back in. “It’s waiting. Time to go. Who’s first?” Gloria snarled and stepped forward. Scott stretched his right arm toward the window. “This way please. Your ‘saucer’ awaits, right up thee fire escape. And be careful, Miss Mitchum: I wouldn’t want to have to make something—happen before we get back to Mars.”

Gloria took another reluctant step forward.

“Miss Duryea?” Scott nodded toward her; she followed Gloria.

I peered out and up. I didn’t see anything through the fog, and said so.

“It’s on thee roof,” said Scott. His eyes were salmon-pink again. “We try to come and go at night, usually from Mount Rainier—less traffic, less likely to be seen—but this was an emergency. I had to get here as soon as I could. And she”—he pointed to Lizabeth—“landed in mid-afternoon; somebody saw one of their doughnuts and my saucer, I hear.” He watched as Gloria climbed awkwardly through the window and onto the fire escape, blood dripping. “Good luck, Mr. Grahame,” he said. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

“Probably not.”

He chuckled and clapped me—softly—on the shoulder. “Good. Thee cops won’t believe you, anyway. They never believe private eyes, eitheer; that’s in all your movies, too.” He started to offer a helping hand to Lizabeth, then dropped it. “Oh, by thee way: Thee money I gave you?” I nodded. “It’s real. So is what’s in her purse.” He pointed at it. “Help yourself. She won’t be needing it.”

“She” gave him a look that could have killed anyone half his size.

I nodded. “Thanks—Captain,” I said. I’d “help myself” later—if there was anything to help myself to.

Scott smiled his usual smile. “You’re welcome. You earned it,” he said, and saluted casually. “And you can ignore thee blood. Give it a few days; it will just evaporate as it dries. You won’t even need detergent. Now: Onipul?” He helped Lizabeth struggle through the window, then strained to get his own massive frame out.

I watched them. I heard her mutter, “Noclaf esetlam stemmah!”

“I know it’s cold,” Scott said from behind her. “Just keep climbing. Thee ship is nice and warm.”

* * *

I waited until I heard what sounded like a very large bumblebee buzzing on the roof. When I looked out, it was still too foggy to see anything. The sound faded. I closed the window, shook my head, and fixed myself another drink. My stomach was going to complain mightily. I didn’t care.

I picked up the pillow and brushed away the feathers that sputtered from it. It was still fluffy, and somehow there was only a little blood spotting it. I covered it with a pillowslip and opened the bedroom door. Greenstreet lifted his head from the bed and mewed once, loudly, amid the strewn feathers from his clawed-up pillow. I took it—he swiped a paw at me, claws extended. It was something I’d gotten used to in the past few days, from bigger and more ferocious cats than him. I put the new one down. He sniffed it. Then he curled up and started to purr.

* * *

I sat on the sofa, in front of the fan, with the bottle of bourbon, a bowlful of ice cubes, and my glass, counting the money that had been in Lizabeth Duryea’s purse. At some point during my labors Greenstreet wandered in, mewed softly, sniffed at the pools of blood on the carpet and the chair, mewed again, and jumped on the couch. He circled the bowl of ice, sniffed the money, and licked my hand. Then he curled up in my lap and started to purr. He fell asleep that way. I kept pouring and counting.

I stopped when the bourbon ran out. I’d hit twelve thousand dollars. There was plenty more to tally. I was tired; I’d do the rest tomorrow.

* * *

They’d been gone an hour or two when I finished the bottle. I thought about calling Stanwyck, but I had no idea just what I was gonna tell her. I was glad I hadn’t had to ask her for the bullets; she’d have taken them out of the station over my dead body, or anyone else’s. Lucky for me, the phone at my office had been a lot more agreeable.