BERNHARDT DROPPED HIS KEYS and change and billfold on the bureau beside the note Paula had left him, then stooped to pick up the newspaper. When he’d thrown the newspaper aside and grabbed the iron pipe, the newspaper had slipped behind a chair, forgotten when he’d straightened the furniture and put the bed back on its frame after the fight. He had been just about to examine the sagging drapery that hung askew between the door and the window when Paula had arrived, ready to wash up before they went to dinner. Pressed for time, she hadn’t noticed the skewed drape. Now, though, as she sat on the bed and slipped off her shoes she asked, “What happened to the drape?” As she spoke, she circled the room with speculative eyes. Something, she knew, was wrong.
“While you were gone,” Bernhardt answered, “some guy named Carter came by. He’s a friend of Theo’s, I gather. A real asshole.”
“And?”
“We—ah—had a little shoving match.”
Eyes quickening, she turned to face him fully. “A shoving match?” Her attention was sharp-focused now. “Alan—a shoving match?”
“I—ah—reasoned with him.” He turned away, switched on the TV. “Let’s see if there’s any news.”