It just may have been the most splendiferous nightmare of all time and even if it wasn’t, it eclipsed anything Willow had experienced. Actually, it had been a stealthy-hoofed morningmare, arriving in the early daylight hours. He’d gone to bed with his Wednesday lock-picking assignment on his mind, and his sleep had been fitful until dawn. Then he’d tumbled into one of those doubly-deep sleeps to dream that he’d ran into difficulty with Sam Brumshaw’s lock and that the cops had closed in on him. It’d developed into a shootout and Willow had wiped out three-quarters of Chicago’s police force before he’d opened fire on the Illinois National Guard. Bodies had been stacked like cordwood, blood had flowed ankle deep, sirens had shrieked, helicopters had hovered, babies had wailed, women had screamed, strong men had knelt to pray for the immediate intervention of the Almighty, and all of this carrying on had scared the sassafras out of Tuthill Willow, who’d never owned a firearm in his life. He clawed his way free of the horror’s gory tentacles, dripping perspiration, gasping for air, and committed his first mistake of the day—he got out of bed. He committed his second when he failed to crawl under it. Instead, he just sat on the edge of the damned thing, grappling with his thoughts, and receiving the distinct impression that he’d been through the whole miserable routine before—that old déjà vu business again. The déjà vu always went away when he tried to anticipate just what was going to happen next, so Willow tried to anticipate just what was going to happen next, and sure enough, the déjà vu took it on the duffy. Then the telephone rang. Willow picked it up and growled, “Yeah?”
The voice was youthfully innocent. “Is this Mr. Willow?”
Willow said, “Yeah.”
“Mr. Tuthill Willow?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Tuthill Willow, the private detective?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, fuck you, Mr. Tuthill Willow, the private detective!”
Willow dumped the receiver roughly into its cradle and yawned. Damned worthless kids, cutting school with nothing in mind but to annoy people. Right after he got new tires, he’d rent an office and have an answering device installed. The phone jangled and Willow lifted it. “Yeah?”
“Is this Mr. Willow?” Same voice. Willow hung up.
The phone rang again and Willow grabbed it. He hollered, “Up your ass with a blowtorch!”
Gladys Hornsby said, “Well, if you insist, but I’d really prefer—”
Willow said, “Sorry, Glad. What’s up?”
“We’re all set for tomorrow—Sammy says that he’ll be at Rosenbaum’s for lunch, and the shyster has okayed Womer’s Wigwam for eleven-thirty.”
“Isn’t he wondering why you won’t come to his office?”
“Yes, but I told him that I’m on crutches and the stairs would be difficult. So far, so good!”
“That’s what Mary Monkey said to Gus Gorilla.”
“I know—then she got the rest of it. You sound nervous.”
“It may have something to do with my being nervous. This amounts to breaking and entering—it’s against the law. You can go to jail for breaking and entering—sometimes even in Chicago.”
“Tut, do you want out?”
“No, but I still don’t like it.”
“Well, speak now, or forever hold your penis.”
“I’ll be at Womer’s tomorrow, shortly after eleven.”
“Good! Now go back to bed, for God’s sake—you’re an old grump!” She hung up.
Willow lit a cigarette and turned on his nightstand radio. The 10:00 A.M. news was winding down. There’d been a major earthquake in Bolivia and another forest fire was out of control in southern California. Willow snapped the radio off. He’d heard of Bolivia, but he didn’t know where it was, and he didn’t give a damn about southern California. He didn’t give a damn about northern California either, and for that matter he wasn’t wildly ecstatic about northern Illinois. He took a few drags on his cigarette, crushed the butt into his topless Kennessy’s Light Lager can, and stumbled into the bathroom. A fifteen-minute lukewarm shower later, he dug his last Kennessy’s out of the refrigerator, downed it in four gulps, and fumbled into his clothing. Waking up was always the most strenuous part of Willow’s day.