INSPIRED BY RAY BRADBURY’S
FARENHEIT 451
It was a pleasure to Burn. The whole business of it. From the very beginning of a case when you have nothing but conflicting stories, clues that don’t add up, and a cast of characters that wouldn’t be out of place in a Hammett novel to the hopefully satisfying conclusion where the story comes together and the bad guys get what bad guys deserve. To Burn McDeere, star employee of the Malloy Detective Agency, solving crime was better than sex. You didn’t get as sweaty, and someone else always paid the taxi fare. When the O’Hara case came up, McDeere felt that familiar simmering excitement in the pit of his belly.
Allyson O’Hara had somehow met the impossible challenge of charming his bosses, the Malloy twins. And the founders of the Malloy Detective Agency were harder to charm than an auditor with a migraine. Larry Malloy, the eldest by fifteen seconds, once made a suspect re-enact his own birth by pulling him through the half-open back window of a Nash eight-cylinder coupe. His younger brother, Harry, once went to a doctor complaining of back pain, not realizing he had been shot three times. So when they met with their ace operative, Burn McDeere, and took turns gushing about the aforementioned Mrs. O’Hara, Burn could only surmise that this Allyson woman was one special dame.
“Burn, ya gotta take this case,” said Larry. “There’s just something about this girl. She’s in trouble.” He was trying to keep things businesslike, but there was a hint of concern in his bright blue eyes that McDeere almost found touching.
“Yeah, trouble,” echoed Harry, running a hand through his sandy hair.
“Boss”—Burn held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“I’m kinda swamped right now…”
“We’ll pick up the slack,” Larry said, brushing aside Burn’s concern. “We’ve been looking to get more involved than we have been lately. Running a business ain’t nearly as much fun as doing the business, eh Harry?” Larry winked.
“Yeah, doing the business,” repeated Harry. Larry was the brains of the operation and was top-notch. Harry was a right guy, but about as sharp as an avocado.
“Okay,” Burn said with an exasperated sigh that was more for effect than anything else. “What’s the scoop?”
“No idea,” Larry said. “She’ll only tell you. Saw your mug in the paper. A write-up about the San Fran Strangler case. Felt you were the man for the case.”
Burn had singlehandedly caught the serial killer who had squeezed the life out of fifteen women, and the arrest had made the front page. The killer was a madman who believed that his victims were alien oranges sent to Earth to take over the citrus drink market. At every crime scene he had left a Valencia with the words “Real Orange” written on the side. Turned out he was the proprietor of an independent juice stand called Real Orange Juice Bar over on Portola. As criminal masterminds go, he had been fairly easy to catch.
“Yeah?” said Burn. “That was a good picture of me. Shutterbug got my good side.” He offered up his profile: a dark, jutting brow, a flattened nose, and a square jaw. “Maybe she fell in love with my brutish good looks.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, “and maybe I’m a shoehorn.”
Burn and Larry looked at Harry with surprise. This was the first joke Harry had cracked since the stock market crash.
Larry broke the silence. “Listen, she’s out there in reception. Talk to her, find out what she needs, and give it to her. Anything you need on this case, you got.”
“This broad has really gotten to you, Larry. I didn’t realize you were such a bag of mush.”
Larry smiled. He picked up McDeere’s desk, held it in the air for ten seconds, and put it down gently on the cracked linoleum. “I ain’t nobody’s weak sister.” He walked to the door and turned back to Burn before opening it. “Just take the case. Good money in it, and Mrs. O’Hara ain’t too hard on the eyes.”
Larry ushered her in.
To say Mrs. O’Hara was not too hard on the eyes was like saying a gunshot to the head stung a little. Not beautiful, no, but very attractive nonetheless, with a quality that made you want to hold her in your arms way past the legal limit. Her chestnut brown hair rested lightly on her shoulders and looked quite happy to be there. Her ocean-blue eyes invited you to take a dip while warning that drowning was likely. Yeah…she was attractive. A real dish.
“Mrs. O’Hara, this is Burn McDeere, our top operative. He will be more than happy to help you.” He gave McDeere a wink and closed the door. Three seconds later he stuck his head back in and whispered loudly, “Harry, you wanna come with me?”
“Sure, sure,” Harry said slowly, eyeing Mrs. O’Hara. “Come with you.” The Malloy twins left McDeere and Mrs. O’Hara alone in the office.
McDeere shook the delicately gloved hand she offered and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Won’t you please sit down, Mrs. O’Hara?”
She sat in the chair and slowly crossed her long, slender legs. McDeere kept his eyes on hers and thanked the Lord for blessing him with superb peripheral vision. She tugged suggestively at each gloved finger, then placed her gloves neatly in her lap. Burn stared at them helplessly.
“Would you like a coffee or … ?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. McDeere.”
“Please, call me Burn.”
“Unusual name. Were your parents arsonists?”
“Less romantic than that, I’m afraid. Dad just liked the idea of verbs as names.”
“Lovely.”
“I’m sure my sister Runny wouldn’t agree. Cigarette?”
“Why, thank you.” She parted her lips slowly and put the cigarette to her mouth in a way that would have gotten her arrested in twenty of the forty-eight states. She held McDeere’s hand steady as he offered a light. He hoped she couldn’t feel his pulse. His heart was pounding like an over-caffeinated jackrabbit’s. She blew out the match and smiled at him. The smoke she exhaled hung between them like a question mark. But there was no question in her eyes. Allyson O’Hara knew exactly what she did to men.
“How can I help you, Mrs. O’Hara?”
“I suppose I should start at the beginning.”
“Tends to make it easier to follow.”
“I’m very rich. My father owns the Faren Heights Winery in the Napa Valley. You’ve heard of it?”
“Actually I have. A bit of a fan of the pinot. I know I look like a bourbon guy, but I’m fond of the grape.” McDeere did indeed look like a bourbon guy. Strongly built with broad shoulders and an ever-present five o’clock shadow, Burn McDeere was craggily handsome to those who knew what craggily handsome meant.
“Not excessively fond, I hope.”
“I know my limit…with wine, anyway.”
“Good to know.” She smiled. “The winery has always done very well, even during Prohibition. Daddy kept us afloat, I’m sure not always legally.”
“Legality doesn’t always mean what’s right. And it’s a God-given right for Americans to get tight on the giggle juice.”
“You don’t strike me as a religious man, Mr. McDeere. You believe in God?”
“Haven’t been able to find him yet. Even with all the clues at my disposal. And I’m a pretty good detective. I try to keep an open mind.”
“I certainly hope that’s true. Daddy has left the country for a couple of weeks, leaving me to take care of things while he’s away.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in Argentina chasing down the blue-throated macaw with some friends. Daddy has always loved birds. He is an amateur ophthalmologist.”
“Your father helps birds with eye complaints?”
“Isn’t that the study of…? No, wait, I meant entomologist.”
“Still off. I think the word you’re looking for is ornithologist.”
“Say, you’re pretty smart.” Allyson O’Hara leaned forward slightly, and her eyes shone with interest.
“In some things,” Burn replied, leaning back. “Other times, dumb as a bag of hammers.”
“Hammers are very useful if you need something nailed.” She looked away demurely.
Burn choked on his spit.
“Anyway, as I was saying, I’m in charge right now and I have a little problem.”
“Mrs. O’Hara, being the amazing detective that I am, I assumed that you would not be here if everything in your garden was rosy.”
She lowered her voice and leaned forward again. “I need you to find something for me. Something very important.”
“What is it you’d like me to find?”
“My car keys.”
McDeere looked at her for a long moment. “Your car keys?”
“My car keys,” she repeated.
“You want me to find your car keys?”
“I hope you’re better at finding things than you are at understanding plain English.”
“Why are these car keys so important to you?”
“They start the car.”
McDeere couldn’t tell whether she was joking. And that, he reasoned, was a quality that could make a woman dangerous. “Is your car missing?”
“No. Just the keys.”
“How did you get here?”
“Mr. McDeere, I wouldn’t be a very impressive rich person if I had only one car, now, would I?”
“Is there any reason you can think of why someone would take your keys but not your car?”
“I never said someone took my keys. I’ve misplaced them.” She examined her perfectly manicured nails.
“So.” McDeere made a temple with his fingers. “You are hiring me to find your keys?”
“I thought I was clear.”
“You’ve just misplaced them?”
“Well, yes. It’s a big house and I have too many things to look after. I can’t waste time looking for something so—trivial. Daddy trusted me to keep everything in order. I would hate to disappoint him.”
McDeere shook his head in disbelief. “Mrs. O’Hara, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’re loony.”
She looked at him with a smile that was maddening. She opened her purse, took out five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and placed them in front of him.
He looked down at the money, then met her glance. “Well, you may be loony, but your Benjamin Franklins make complete sense. All right, Mrs. O’Hara, you have just hired yourself a private detective. May I ask—have you actually tried looking for your keys?”
“Oh, yes. A full five minutes. But then I got distracted and stopped. Whenever I look excessively, my eyes get tired and are useless for the rest of the day. I have many things to look at in a day. I need my eyes fresh.” Her eyes were a bewitching blue, framed by ridiculously long lashes.
“Yes, of course. Fresh.”
“Usually when I return from taking the car out, I hang the keys on a little hook by the door.”
“But not this time.”
“No, not this time.”
“How big is this house of yours?”
“Twenty-two rooms, plus seven bathrooms, a garage that fits five cars, a cabana by the pool, a guest house. And of course the vineyard. Your basic.”
“Yeah, basic. That reminds me. I’ve got to get my Louis XVI armoire rewaxed. And I take it you are not the only one living there?”
“Don’t be silly. There’s a staff of twelve. Butler, chauffeur, cook, assorted maids, and of course Malaya.”
“Malaya?”
“She looks after my son.”
“Filipino?”
“No, he’s a little white boy. Right now, Daddy’s given most of the staff a few weeks off. There’s not really a lot to do this time of year. The butler is there right now, and a cleaning staff comes in once a week.”
“Must be a hardship. Having to prepare your own meals and such.”
Allyson looked at him with a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Why, Mr. McDeere. There are things I can do in the kitchen that would make your head spin.”
McDeere blinked rapidly three times and tried to recover his power of speech. He fought the urge to shake his head to clear it.
Allyson smiled sweetly. “Oh, would it help if you had a picture of the keys?”
“You have a picture…of your car keys?”
“I was very much into photography for a little while. Took pictures constantly. Still life was my specialty, although my nudes were quite lovely too.” Her gaze fell to the floor as though she were embarrassed, but Burn wasn’t buying it. Wouldn’t buy it even if she threw in a carton of Lucky Strikes. Allyson rummaged through her purse and brought out a photo. “Here you go.”
Burn looked at the picture. The composition was beautiful and the lighting was exquisite. Attached to the key ring, among seven or eight keys, was a small replica of a bird. A falcon.
“What’s with the bird?”
“I told you. Daddy likes birds.”
“Hmm,” said McDeere. “Had a hunch there’d be a better story than that. Feel bad. Usually my hunches are good.”
“Nothing interesting about it, really.” She jotted a note on a piece of paper. “Here’s the address in Napa. Could you be there tomorrow morning at nine?”
“That’s fine,” Burn replied.
“Just ring the doorbell.” She looked deep into his eyes. “You know how to ring a doorbell, don’t you? Just push the button till somebody comes.”
They sat there looking at each other for an interminable moment. Burn felt every drop of moisture leave his mouth. This woman had his number and was dialing it hard. “Nine it is,” he croaked.
The next day, as McDeere drove his newly washed coal-black Auburn Convertible Cabriolet to the O’Hara house, he was troubled. Nothing about the case seemed right. Why would a wine heiress hire a shamus to find a set of worthless car keys? It could be that his first impression was right: just a dippy dame with too much sugar and way, way too much spice. Even as he thought it, he dismissed it. McDeere had a feeling she wasn’t as shallow as she made out. No, that dame was deeper than a Buddhist in a mine shaft. He also knew she wasn’t being totally honest with him. It wouldn’t be the first time a dame had used the truth like a disposable hankie, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He hated lying and liars. In fact, he was almost a pathological truth teller. Had learned through some bad experiences to tone it down. If you tell the frail who hired you straight out that her man is crushing corsages with a nightclub canary, then suddenly you’re the one dodging the crockery. Sometimes you’ve got to soft-soap it a little.
Halfway to the valley, he stopped at a greasy spoon, tossed back a Coke and a fried egg sandwich, and invested a couple of nickels in the phone booth out front.
Twenty minutes later, McDeere pulled up to the address Allyson had given him. Pretty swanky. It was one of those giant mansions that would have looked more at home in the English countryside. Only the acres of grapes that stretched behind the estate distinguished it from your everyday run-of-the-mill castle. McDeere hoped he didn’t have to go through the entire house to find the keys. It could take weeks.
He walked up to the door and pushed the doorbell. The door was opened by a man whose face looked like it could chew nails and spit out rust. It was a face that McDeere knew.
“Gurney Malone? When did you get out of the joint?”
“’Bout a year ago. Look, Mr. McDeere, I’m walking the straight-and-narrow now. I promise you. The best thing that ever happened to me is you putting me away. It changed my life.”
Malone had been behind a series of cat burglaries a few years back. He would only hit houses that had cats and would take them along with any valuables he could find. The fixation got him five to eight in Alcatraz.
“Okay, Malone. I believe in second chances. But I would be very disappointed if you were lying to me.”
“Nah, don’t lie anymore. Takes too much work keeping everything straight. Truth is easier.”
I wish that were true, McDeere thought. Sometimes he found the truth anything but easy.
Malone led McDeere into the house. He immediately spied the empty wall hook for the car keys. It was in the shape of a turkey vulture. The first thing you would glance at as you walked through the door. It would be hard to forget to hang your keys there.
The decor was early Audubon. Birds everywhere. Stuffed birds, pictures of birds, statues of birds. The only thing missing were the live ones. McDeere looked at Malone, who shrugged.
“The guy likes birds.”
Malone motioned to a room that McDeere surmised was the library. Leather-bound books lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“Mrs. O’Hara will be with you in a minute. You here about the keys?” Malone asked.
“Yeah. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Free country.”
“What’s the deal with Mrs. O’Hara? Good to work for? As spoiled as she seems?”
“Don’t know her that well, really. Her father was the one man who’d hire me when no one was willing to give an ex-con a chance. He’s a good egg. She’s only been at the house the last couple of weeks. Been in Europe off and on the last ten years.” He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Rumor is she got knocked up by one of those Riviera playboys and stayed there to hide the scandal from Napa society. I think she only came back to get in the old man’s good graces again.” He straightened up. “Hey, you know the old man’s going to be away for a couple of months with some bird people he knows. He told me they were chasing a blue-throated macaw in Argentina. The rich, huh? They sure are different from us.”
“No, they just dress better.”
“Anyway, Mrs. O’Hara shows up with the kid, tells us she’s here to look after things till Daddy gets back.”
“Any way I can talk to Daddy?”
“The old guy’s incommunicado.”
“No phones in South America?”
“No. He’s in the village of Communicado. Somewhere in Argentina.”
“Do you know anything about these keys?”
“Only that they’re not here. We turned the place upside down. Well, I turned it upside down, but no go. The car hasn’t been moved since, so it’s not like someone wanted to steal it. It’s a mystery.”
“So if the car is still here, chances are the keys are too. Say, Malone, any cats in the house?”
Malone held up his hands in mock surrender. “No way, boss. Made sure when I applied for the job. Kicked the habit of stealing cats. Been four years pussy free.”
“Yeah,” said McDeere, “prison’ll do that.”
Malone glared, then left. McDeere looked around the library. There were a lot of books about birds. A few murder mysteries, a couple of first-edition classics, and a small section on botany. McDeere suddenly wished he had an obsession.
“Mr. McDeere.” Allyson entered the library with a small boy following closely behind. “This is my son, Ashley.”
McDeere bent down to shake the youngster’s hand. “How’s it going, Champ?”
Ashley smiled shyly and hid behind his mother’s skirts.
“Ashley dear, why don’t you go to the playroom while Mother tends to business.” She kissed him on the top of the forehead and sent him on his way. She turned to McDeere.
“He’s lovely, isn’t he?”
“Seems like a nice kid. Kinda ugly, but nice.”
“What?”
“Well, you must have noticed. Nothing wrong with being ugly. Builds character.”
“Your candor is refreshing. I wish there was a strong man around to influence him. He’s very nervous and shy.”
“And ugly. Really ugly. No Mr. O’Hara around?”
“No. He was shot in Mexico over a Twinkie dispute.”
“Sorry to hear that. There’s been a lot of snack-related killings down there recently. Too bad. Mrs. O’Hara, what do you say we get started?”
“Straight to the point. You don’t know a lot about women, do you? We like a bit of a lead-up to the main event.”
“True, what I know about women wouldn’t fill a gnat’s navel. I do know that the main event is where all the action is.”
She smiled. “The main event it is, then.”
McDeere decided the best course of action was to go over the last time she had the keys. They started at the front door, where they were joined by Gurney.
“So. You parked the car, opened the front door. Why didn’t you hang the keys on the hook?”
“Gurney had a question for me about my father’s office. I got distracted.”
“Your father’s office?”
“Yes,” confirmed Gurney. “Before Mr. O’Hara left for Argentina to search for the blue-throated macaw, he left his office in a horrible state. I wondered if I should clean it up or just leave it.”
“Huh.” McDeere rubbed his chin. “Why don’t we head there?”
They climbed the curved staircase to the second floor, stopping in front of an ornately carved door. They stepped inside. Like the rest of the house, the room was filled with stuffed birds and marble statues of birds perched on pedestals. Papers lay strewn upon every surface.
“Looks like someone was looking for something,” said McDeere suspiciously.
“No,” said Allyson. “Daddy is just incredibly messy. Most brilliant men are.”
McDeere noticed a couple of bottles of wine sitting in the corner. He wandered over and picked one up. The label was a picture of the winery, with a striking font that proclaimed “Faren Heights Bin 451.”
“Never heard of this, and I’m a fan of your dad’s work. Is it merlot, pinot, cab? Odd that the label wouldn’t say.”
“Don’t know much about this side of the business,” said Allyson. “Daddy was always trying new things…trying to keep the winery at the top of its game.”
“Between that and the bird thing, doesn’t sound like he had a lot of family time.”
“Daddy was who he was.”
“Just like Popeye, huh?” Burn smiled.
Just then Allyson’s son entered. “Honey,” said Allyson, “why aren’t you in the playroom?”
Ashley shrugged, then clung to his mother.
Weird kid, thought McDeere. And jeepers was he ugly.
Looked like a collapsed lung. McDeere looked around the room and then went over to the large mahogany desk. Upon it was a statue that looked strangely familiar. He’d seen it in a photo. It was an exact replica of the car keys falcon.
“That’s odd,” said McDeere.
“What?” asked Gurney a little too quickly.
McDeere picked up a small ceramic rhino paperweight.
“This doesn’t really fit in with the theme of the room. Your father, Mrs. O’Hara, has very peculiar tastes, but there is a pattern. This doesn’t fit the pattern.”
The horn of the rhino had odd grooves on it. McDeere was suddenly slapped with an idea. He picked up the statue of the falcon and turned it around. On the back of the feathered neck was a small opening. The horn of the rhino fit it perfectly. McDeere turned the rhino horn, and the head of the falcon sprung open. The statue was hollow, and inside, at the bottom, rested a ring of car keys. Attached was the small replica of a falcon.
“Must have taken a lot of work to misplace your keys in here,” said McDeere slowly.
“Took more work to find ’em,” said Gurney bitterly.
McDeere spun around. His eyes immediately took in the three guns trained on his head, heart, and groin. The fried egg curdled in his belly.
Ashley, speaking in a voice that was whiskey soaked and high pitched at the same time, chortled, “Thanks for the help, flatfoot.”
“A flatfoot is a cop. I’m a shamus.”
“Whatever.”
“So, you’re not an ugly kid after all. You’re a dwarf.”
“Midget.”
“Whatever. And you look like your face got caught in a meat grinder.”
Allyson stepped forward. “Sorry it had to be like this, Burn.” Her lower lip quivered as though she really meant it. She’s good, McDeere thought. Even she believes her lies.
“Throw the keys over,” ordered Gurney.
“Gurney, I have to say this is very disappointing. I really thought you had turned over a new leaf. I’m hurt.”
“Frankly, McDeere, I don’t give a damn. Just throw the keys over.”
“Since you asked politely and your gun is pointed at my belly, I guess I’d better.” He tossed the keys to Gurney. Gurney caught them one-handed and quickly unscrewed the head of the falcon. A small piece of paper, tightly rolled up, poked out from the body.
“It’s here,” he called triumphantly to Allyson.
“You mean the research on the super-grape?” McDeere asked innocently.
Gurney scowled. “What do you know about it?”
“Come on, Gurney. I don’t just use my head as a place to keep my hat. Something about this case seemed fishy from the start. Asked a few questions of a friend at the Napa Wine Association. First thing I found out is that O’Hara does have a daughter. But she lives in Spain with a painter who draws dogs playing poker. She’s still there. Have a friend in the village where she lives. She’s quite a famous beauty, apparently. Though she doesn’t have the animal magnetism you do, Allyson O’Hara. But that’s not your real name, I take it?”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s Lily.”
“You said something about the super-grape,” said Gurney, who seemed amused by the ruse. McDeere would have loved to slap him around a little. Gurney had the kind of face that was like a buffet table. You wanted to hit it more than once.
“My friend at the NWA said that there had been rumors flying that O’Hara was developing a super-grape that could grow under any conditions. That would revolutionize the whole wine industry, wouldn’t it? I’m guessing that Bin 451 was the first test wine. How is it?”
“It’s delightful,” said Ashley. “Complex with a meatiness that—”
“Yeah,” said Burn. “But O’Hara wasn’t going to share it, was he? That would anger a whole lot of people. Especially a small winery trying to make a splash in the industry.” McDeere turned to the ugly midget. “A little winery situated in Oregon of all places. Lady Littleman Wines. I figure you for the Littleman.” McDeere then turned to Allyson. “I guess that makes you the lady. Oregon must have a looser definition of the word than we do here.”
Allyson’s eyes flashed with anger. “We offered O’Hara a tidy sum and”—she paused—“other considerations. He laughed! No one laughs at me.”
“Is that why you killed him? For the super-grape or because he didn’t want to swim in your lady pool?” McDeere’s question dripped with revulsion.
“Don’t be disgusting!”
Gurney kept the gun steady. “What makes you think we killed him? He’s in—”
“Argentina?” McDeere interrupted. “Chasing the blue-throated macaw? Yeah, you kept pushing that story like it was an old rich lady at the top of the stairs. Only problem is, that particular bird is only found in a small area in Bolivia. And a bird enthusiast like O’Hara would know that.” McDeere smiled at the astonished faces of Gurney and Allyson. “Yeah, I’ve dabbled in birdwatching. If Daddy O’Hara’s not in South America, chances are he’s dead. I’m guessing buried out back, pushing up the daisies. Be interesting to see if that will influence the taste of the wine.”
“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” Gurney sneered. “Well, you were dumb enough to swallow that straight-and-narrow story earlier. Littleman and I were cellmates on the Rock. Got to be good friends. Told me how his sister was keeping his business going while he was doing time, how they needed a little help. Discovered I had a useful connection. Before I was in for the long stretch, I spent a night in the drunk tank with O’Hara. We’d been at a speakeasy and things had gotten out of hand. He was plastered and kept yapping about this super-grape that was going to make him millions.”
McDeere stopped him. “Let me see if I can guess the rest. After you get out, you plead with the guy for a job, which he gives you. A job that gives you access to the whole house. Nice way to repay his kindness. I figure he got wise to you.”
“Yeah. So I had to use some persuasion to get him to tell me that he had hidden his notes in the little falcon on his key ring.” Malone cracked his knuckles (not an easy feat while holding a gun) and shrugged. “He stopped breathing before he could tell me where he hid it. So I told Allyson here to hire you. Knew you could find it and figured that I could get my life back once you did.” Malone took a step closer to Burn and raised the gun so that Burn could see down the barrel. “I lost part of my life when you put me away, and now I get to take all of your life in return.”
“Doesn’t seem fair,” said McDeere. “My whole life for eight years of yours.”
“Well, life ain’t fair. So long, sucker.”
A shot rang out. Gurney looked down at the hole in his chest, then over to Allyson’s smoking gun. His eyes asked a question that would never be answered, then he fell to the floor, dead.
Ashley whipped around. “What the fu—” The bullet ripped through his brain.
“Good shot,” McDeere said.
“I just wanted to shoot him in the leg. Misjudged.” She shrugged. “Midget.”
“So where we at, doll? Didn’t want to share the research?”
“No, that’s not it at all! I love you, Burn. From the first day we met. Tell me you feel the same,” she pleaded.
McDeere looked at her like a kid looks at a car accident. “I usually like to get to know someone before I fall for them. You’re a sweet little package, I’ll grant you. But I need to know your dreams, your hopes, your fears. I need to find my center of gravity before I get dizzy with a dame. Call me old-fashioned, but that’s the way I roll.”
Allyson pointed the gun at him.
“Of course,” he said, “I am starting to feel some affection for you…”
“You’re a fool, Burn! I’m offering you everything! And you dare to turn me down? Me?”
McDeere could see she was going to shoot. He leapt to his left as he pulled his gun from his holster. Her shot almost parted his hair but his found its mark. Shot the gun right out of her hand.
McDeere looked around at the bodies littering the floor. An ex-con, a midget, and a woman holding her hand and whimpering. Make a great beginning to a joke if it wasn’t so tragic. Three dead, including old man O’Hara out back. And all because of a stinking grape.
Burn walked over to Allyson and helped her up.
“I could have made you happy, Burn,” she sobbed. “Very happy.”
“Sure, if I just forgot about the lying and murdering. We coulda been delirious.”
“It’s not too late, darling.” Her eyes were shining bright, too bright for someone who had control of their marbles. “We could start all over. From scratch. I love you. I could make you love me…I know I could. Could we do it? Could we start a new life?”
McDeere looked at her with a mixture of pity and revulsion.
“Sorry, babe. There will be the beginning of a new way of life. Not for me, but definitely for you.”
“Really, Burn? Really?” Whatever sanity remained just took the A train out of town. “When …when will my new life start?”
Burn smiled sadly and put the handcuffs on her. “When we reach the city, baby. When we reach the city.”