Part 5 (2/2)
She considered him in her expressionless way. ”I take it you're going to drop the whole thing, then.”
”I didn't say that. I said I didn't want your case. How far I chase down my own affairs is up to me.”
Her expression changed, but there was no saying exactly how. It wasn't in the eyes, the mouth. It was, if anything, something inside. But now she looked pleased.
He was annoyed. ”I gave you the money,” he said pointedly. When she simply sat, watching him, he said, ”And tomorrow I change that lock.”
”Locks mean nothing to me,” she said.
”They do to me, if they're mine. Miss Morgan, I think I'm taking up too much of your time.”
”Oh, no.” She shook her head solemnly.
He rummaged into his desk, found a jar of instant coffee and some restaurant-style containers. He spooned the powder into a container, switched off the hot plate, and poured steaming water into the coffee. He sat stirring it, looking at her. He didn't offer her any.
From his top right-hand drawer he got a handful of pretzel sticks. Dunking one, he stuck the end into his mouth.
”This is where you came in,” he said.
She nodded.
”d.a.m.n it!” he exploded. ”What are you after?”
She said, ”Wouldn't it be better with rye?”
He had the container to his lips as she spoke. His nostrils distended. There's a distinctive odor to strong black coffee with a dollop of rye in it-and this had it.
Guinn's first reaction was to drop it; his second to throw it. His third was to drink it. He did none of these things. He put it down with a consciously controlled rock-steadiness. He selected a pretzel-stick carefully and dunked it. It tasted of rye. He finished it slowly, wiped his hand across his mouth, and took out a cigarette. As he clawed a book of matches up from the desk, the girl raised one hand from her lap and pointed a finger at him. Something like a swift b.u.t.terfly of flame whisked across from the finger to his cigarette, and was gone. He drew back violently, followed by a faint curl of tobacco smoke. He automatically dragged on the cigarette. It was lit, and the unexpected gout of smoke made him cough. He thought he smelled ozone.
”Do something else casual,” said the girl, as quietly and offensively as ever. ”I can keep this sort of thing up all night.”
”Okay,” he said harshly. ”What's your story, Miss Morgan?”
”Look in your wallet.”
”I know what's in the wallet.”
”You do?”
A dangerous light came into his eyes. Silently he took out his wallet, opened it, drew out five one-hundred dollar bills and put them and the wallet down side by side on the desk.
”Very good.” He wet his lips. I guess this means that the two yards I left at the hospital for Garry are phoney-if they're there at all. I'm beginning to like you, Miss Morgan.”
”No,” she said quickly. ”They're real. They're all real.”
”They come from some place.”
”They come from people who won't miss it-or who shouldn't have it.”
”How?”
”You wouldn't understand.” There was no effrontery in her voice; she was stating a flat fact.
”I'm a pretty understanding guy,” he said.
She rose and came close to the desk. She smelled of vanilla, and, faintly, of mignonette. She glanced back at the chair and gestured slightly. It slid across to her. It must have been lifted a fraction of an inch off the floor, because it made no sound. She sat in it and said, ”Do you think you're going crazy?”
”No,” he said positively. ”If that's what you're after, you've done everything wrong.”
”How so?”
He stretched out his legs. ”I don't know that you've earned a lecture on the secrets of my success. But I don't mind telling you that I can be puzzled but not mystified. If I throw that switch, the hotplate lights up. I understand that. If Einstein tells me that light can only go just so fast, I don't understand it, but I accept it. If another five yards shows up in that wallet I won't understand it-” His fist came down with a crash-”and d.a.m.n if I accept it. Now, quit your skylarking around, or-”
”Or?”
He shrugged, suddenly, and smiled. ”Or make sense.”
The smile, apparently, worked. She smiled too, and it was the first time. He'd seen a lot of wonderful things today, but nothing like this.
”Pour us a drink, and I'll talk sense.”
”I haven't got any liq-” he began, and then caught the bare suggestion of an amused crinkle at the corners of her age-old eyes. He opened the top drawer, then remembered what he had done with the bottle. He scooped it up out of the wastepaper basket and held it up. It had about two fingers in it. He raised his eyebrows resignedly and found a couple of shot-gla.s.ses under ”G” in the filing cabinet. He poured. There was just enough to fill both gla.s.ses, and when he put the bottle down there was about two fingers of liquor surging around the bottom.
They lifted their gla.s.ses. It didn't look like any rye he had ever seen. It had gold flecks which were in constant, dazzling motion, and it seemed to have an elusive blue cast to its gleaming amber. Her gla.s.s touched his, and one of her fingers, and he experienced a distinct and pleasant shock.
He drank.
For a split second he thought he had swallowed nothing at all, so smoothly did it go down. Then his earlobes warmed up like radiant heaters, and there came a feeling in his throat as if it had grown an internal pelt of finest mink.
”This you get for nothing?”
She shook her head. ”From nothing. But it isn't easy.”
”It's worth the trouble.” He poured again. ”Talk.”
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