Ollie’s house was dark when the cab pulled into the driveway. He paid the cabbie, unlocked the door, took three steps into the hall, and froze at a voice from the top of the stairs.
“Stay where you are or I’ll shoot.”
The hall light above his head was on, and he shielded his eyes from the glare.
“Who the hell are you?” the woman’s voice said.
“I live here,” McGuire answered, squinting up the stairs. “Who the hell are you?”
She was perhaps thirty-five or forty years old, tall and big-boned, with blond hair crew-cut on top, and long at the sides and back. She wore a Boston College sweatshirt over shapeless black slacks and high-cut basketball shoes, and she was holding an ugly black automatic. “Put your hands on top of your head.”
McGuire raised his hands. “You got a license for that thing?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve got for it,” the woman said. “I’ve got an NRA marksmanship award for hitting a target half your size at twice this distance. How’s that make you feel?”
“Look,” McGuire began, “Whoever you are . . .”
A buzzer sounded in the upstairs hallway. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the woman said.
“How you doing, Ollie?” McGuire called down the hall.
He could barely hear Ollie’s response through the closed bedroom door. “What’s going on?”
“What’d he say?” the woman asked.
“He wants to know what’s going on,” McGuire said. “Look, I really live here . . .”
“What’s your name?”
“Hey lady, I live here,” McGuire said.
The woman began descending the stairs, the gun aimed at McGuire, and he recognized it as a Hi-Standard .22. Loaded with Remington Fireball cartridges it would do almost as much damage as a .38. “My name is McGuire,” he said. “You mind telling me yours?”
Something between a shout and a gargle echoed from the direction of Ollie’s room.
“What do you know about somebody named McGuire?” the woman shouted down the hall, her eyes and the gun unwavering.
“He lives here, you stupid sack of tit,” Ollie shouted. “Send him in here.”
McGuire tried to suppress a laugh.
The woman breathed deeply and muttered something. “If you live here, where’s your room?” she said.
“Up the stairs and on the right.”
“What’s in it?”
“One double bed, one dresser, a stereo system, and a bookcase.”
“Any pictures?”
“Yeah. A poster of a town in France called Vence. It’s over the bed. You starting to believe me now?”
She shook her head and lowered the gun. “I don’t remember them saying anybody’d be coming in here tonight.”
“You’re Ollie’s nurse,” McGuire said, lowering his hands.
“First night.” She lifted her chin and angled it towards Ollie’s room. “He can be a real son of a bitch, you know that?”
“You coming in here or you gonna stand out there blabbin’ all night?” Ollie shouted through the door.
“Mind if I see my buddy?” McGuire said.
“I’m sleeping in the other bedroom, his wife’s,” the nurse said. “My name’s Liz Worthington.”
“I suppose I should say it was nice meeting you,” McGuire said. “But it wasn’t.”
“Nobody at the Benevolent told me they had a roomer,” Liz Worthington said. “I saw the room upstairs and figured maybe it was their son’s or something. Why the hell wouldn’t they tell me that?”
“I’ll be sure to ask them next time I see them,” McGuire said.
The nurse began climbing the stairs. “I keep that door locked, the bedroom door,” she said. “Just for your information.”
“I’ll sure as hell keep mine locked, too,” McGuire said. She gave him a sharp look over her shoulder and continued climbing the stairs.
Ollie’s bed was raised to a sitting position. “That broad upstairs? She had balls, she’d be storm-trooper material.”
“How do you know she hasn’t?” McGuire said, settling himself in a chair. “Balls, I mean. She pulled a gun on me, Ollie. And why didn’t you tell her about me?”
“Thought I’d surprise you a little, that’s all. Didn’t know she’d cover your ass with that nasty little Hi-Standard, even if she was braggin’ about her marksmanship scores,” Ollie said. “If the damn thing’d gone off, at least you’d know it wasn’t an accident. Jesus, Joseph, you’re back on the hit parade. Been watchin’ all the channels, tellin’ how you turned that Hayhurst squirrel into roadkill. Didn’t anybody interview you? They’re sayin’ you’re like the Lone Ranger, doin’ your good deed and then vanishing. They’re after you like a belch after a beer. You really try to erase him against a brick wall? How’s your car? They said, on channel eight, they said it took two slugs from the kid. And they said you were with some mysterious blonde woman. They love mysterious blondes, don’t they? I mean, they’re either famous or mysterious. This one’s mysterious. So tell me about her.”
“I’ll explain later . . .”
“Explain it now. You think I’m going anywhere?”
McGuire looked away, then back at Ollie. “What’d you settle?” he asked. “You and Ronnie? I thought it would kill you, when you found out.”
“It didn’t kill me. Does it look like it killed me? Just wounded me in a different place. She packed some of her clothes, a bunch of other things she wanted. She’d already applied to the Benevolent for a nurse, did it last week. By the time they sent over Norman Schwarzkopf in drag, she was gone.”
“How’re you taking it?”
“The only way I can take it. By telling myself there’s other stuff to hang onto.” His voice softened. “So who the hell’s Susan Schaeffer? And gimme the details on runnin’ down that punk.”
“Maybe I’d better make some coffee,” McGuire said.
“Hey, it’s that good?”
“So what are you going to do?”
It was an hour later. McGuire poured the remains of the coffee from the carafe into his cup.
“I don’t know,” McGuire said softly. The adrenaline was used up, and his body ached. He held his head in one hand, the empty cup of coffee in the other. “Donovan’s running things like he’s a chainsaw in a rose garden. Shit’s flying everywhere, but not a hell of a lot’s getting done.”
“And you want to do something.”
“Why would I want to do anything?”
“The same reason you want to breathe, McBoink. Go find Myers.” Ollie’s good hand reached for the bed control. With a muted hum the bed lowered him back to a horizontal position. “Check out Florida. Winter’s coming, and horse balls like him can’t wait to sit in the sun at Hialeah.”
“And if I find him, what do I do next? Tell Donovan where he is?”
“Donovan probably already knows. He just doesn’t have enough to work with.”
“Wherever he is now, Myers killed Flanigan.”
“Good luck doin’ anything about it. Nobody’s seen the guy. You didn’t see him in Annapolis, nobody’s seen him up here, there’s no proof he was ever in the rented car. If they do find and arrest him, based on what they’ve got now, Myers’ll hire his buddy Rosen again, and Marv’ll bust a gut laughin’ at a charge like that. Which you know will never come to court anyway.”
“Why should I give a damn? I don’t know Myers, and I never knew Flanigan much.”
“Because he got away with hurtin’ some woman who’s got your eyes dropping like cue-balls into a corner pocket, that’s why.” Ollie closed his eyes. “Turn off the light. Maybe we’ll all have breakfast together in the morning. You, me, and Door Number Three.”
McGuire tripped the light switch and closed the door behind him.
As he walked along the hall towards the staircase he heard Ollie’s voice again. “Find Myers.”