Part 10 (1/2)
”Is it in working order?”
”I don't really know. I don't think so. It's pretty old.”
”Good,” Black s.h.i.+rt said. ”Listen, Miss Maniella said to give you this.”
He reached into his hip pocket, pulled out a thin piece of plastic the size of a credit card, and handed it to me. On the front, a glossy picture of Marical in her birthday suit and the words ”Compliments of Tongue and Groove.”
”What's this?”
”Good for one trip around the world with the wh.o.r.e of your choice,” Gray s.h.i.+rt said. ”Compliments of the house.”
”Gee, thanks! And I thought you guys didn't like me.”
”We don't,” Black s.h.i.+rt said.
”How about another one for Shakehouse?”
”Don't think so,” Gray s.h.i.+rt said. ”The girls there are out of your league.”
”Hey,” I said, ”a boy can dream.”
”Who's playing the violin?” Black s.h.i.+rt asked.
”Neighbor's daughter,” I said.
”She's good,” he said. And with that, they took their leave.
When they were gone, I turned the dead bolt and took the shadow box down from the wall. I pried the pistol from the frame, fetched the gun oil and the cartridges from the cabinet over the refrigerator, and spread an oilcloth on my scuffed, fake-brick linoleum kitchen floor. I'd gotten a permit to carry last year, after the trouble in Mount Hope. I'd never made use of it, but if I broke my promise to Black s.h.i.+rt and Gray s.h.i.+rt, it might come in handy.
I sat on the floor, broke down the weapon, cleaned it, and rea.s.sembled it. Then I got up, a.s.sumed the combat shooter's stance I'd learned at the Providence Revolver Club-left leg forward, knees bent, both hands on the grip-and dry-fired at the refrigerator. It didn't fall down or shoot back. I sat back down on the floor and loaded the magazine with standard military-load cartridges.
15.
Lomax stood over my desk, a printout of the obituary I'd just filed clutched in his hand. He smiled wanly and began to read aloud: Margaret O'Hoolihan, 62, of 22 Hendrick Street, Providence, died yesterday at Rhode Island Hospital after a short illness. Her reputation as a whimsical flibbertigibbet was belied by her lifelong love of Proust.
”Precisely so,” I said.
”Unusual lead for an obituary, though, don't you think?”
”I thought I'd try to liven things up.”
”Maybe not the best approach for the obit page.”
”I see your point.”
”Flibbertigibbet?”
”It means flighty chatterbox.”
”I know what it means, Mulligan.”
”Of course you do.”
”Because I looked it up.”
”Okay.”
”Tell me, Mulligan. How many of our subscribers do you suppose are in the habit of reading the paper with a Webster's in their laps?”
”I don't know,” I said.
”I do.”
”Enlighten me.”
”None of them.”
”Ah.”
”Rewrite this piece of s.h.i.+t so I can put it in the paper.”
”Right away, boss.”
”Something else I need to ask you about,” he said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ”Planning to gun somebody down today?”
”Not just now. Maybe later.”
That morning, the big Colt dug into the small of my back as I smuggled it into the newsroom under my leather bomber jacket. At my desk, I slipped it out and locked it in my file drawer. I thought I was discreet about it, but Lomax must have caught a glimpse.
”Some reason you feel the need to be armed?”
”There is.”
”Care to share?”
”Last night a couple of Schwarzeneggers who work for Vanessa Maniella paid me a visit.”
”Oh, s.h.i.+t. You okay?”
”Fine and dandy.”
”What did they want?”
”For me to mind my own business.”