“Del, you don't have much stuff."

“True, but… but I haven't seen anything of yours."

“You can see all you want,” she said, and raised her hand to unfasten a button on her blouse.

It was certainly not the reaction I'd been expecting. Amy was definitely trying to change the subject. Whenever a woman starts to unbutton herself in a public hallway, you know a subject is about to be changed. But as much as I wanted to abandon myself to the moment, I couldn't. Nagging suspicion had freaked me out. No matter that I had something to hide-I couldn't get past the fact that Amy did, too.

“Amy, it would mean a lot to me."

She froze at the sound of her name. Then she rebuttoned, and took a few steps away. “I'm sorry, Del. I can't."

“Why not?"

“I'd better go now."

“Wait…"

What now? Keep her talking. Keep it light.

“I want to know more about you. You're not storing dead bodies in your apartment, are you? Heck, so what if you are. I've seen ‘em before."

Amy was silent. She wouldn't look at me.

“I know they decompose awfully fast, and there can be quite a stench, but it's not a problem. We can buy a few of those room air-fresheners, and…"

She interrupted me. “Del, if you're not going to invite me in, I have to go."

Now I felt like a bigger jerk for even joking. But I couldn't cave in, either.

“I guess you'd better go, then,” I said.

Amy locked eyes with me, and I thought I saw a teary glimmer of hurt in them. She turned and walked down the hallway, then up the countless flights of stairs to her mystery apartment.

This was for the better, I told myself. I was merely avoiding something that would eventually cause me pain.

Then I felt a sharp, hard jab to my right temple.

Twenty

Shot Contest

“Don't move. I can squeeze this trigger before your piss hits cloth.

A female voice. A bit coarse, but syrupy beneath. A seductive combination. However, I was in no mood to be seduced. Again.

I swung my fist around to where I guessed her nose would be. I was a few inches off. My knuckles slammed into her temple. She yelped. I spun around and launched a fist into her face, and another one to chase it down. I don't mean to sound like a jerk, but for me, that old rule about “never hitting a woman” goes right out the window when the woman is packing heat. Sure, maybe she was holding the stem of a toilet brush to my forehead, but I didn't want the benefit of the doubt to earn me a trip to the city icebox.

As it turned out, there was no need for me to be worried about offending her delicate sensibilities. The polecat whipped her pistol right across my nose, snapping it out of place. She followed up with another crack, this time to my temples, then jabbed her knee into my gut. She knew how to put her weight behind it, too. I collapsed to the floor, not knowing what to start complaining about first. I felt gunmetal slip between my teeth and push against the back of my tongue.

This was not good.

Trying to form words around the business end of her pistol, I managed to say: “Before you blow my brains out, can I ask who you are?” It came out with less clarity then I'd hoped for.

“Shhh,” she said. “Not a word."

“Sowwy,” I said, before I could catch myself. Whatever this was about, I sincerely hoped Amy was long out of earshot. There was still a chance I could explain away my odd behavior from a few moments ago. It would be a bit tougher to explain this.

“Where are your keys?"

“Ugh-ufh,” I mumbled.

She took the pistol out of my mouth and point it at my Adam's apple. I took the opportunity to swish my tongue around. Uck. The taste of gunmetal was hard to lose.

“I'm not going to die in my own apartment. I pay too much rent for something like that.” If my assailant came here to kill me, it would have happened already. Whoever this was clearly wanted to talk.

“You can feel this gun in your neck, right?"

“Yes, I can. Look, spit it out. I haven't got all night."

I heard her sigh. Not to sound sexist or anything-I know women today have this whole “libber” thing happening, but the fact remains I know how to diffuse a hostile female. It was the affectionate ones I had trouble with.

“Alright, Paul. I came here to talk."

Did I call this one, or what?

“Okay. Talk."

“Not here.” She nudged the gun into my head. “Over there. On the fire escape."

I walked over and through the door like a compliant puppy. Then I turned to face the woman. Of course. The murderess, Leah Farrell. I hadn't had the chance to fully study her during our recent encounter in the middle of Market Street. She was a handsome woman, despite beady eyes and lips that were a shade too thin.

“You know why I'm here. I want to know the new score. If you can satisfy me, I'll let you continue breathing for a while."

“Ooh, let me satisfy you,” I said.

Leah didn't seem to enjoy the crack. “Who's the bimbo?"

“Now that's not nice."

She poked the gun into my throat again. “Answer, please."

“She's nobody. She's a neighbor who's got the hots for yours truly."

“Hmm. I'd bet she would be real disappointed to discover you're screwing another chick."

“And who would that be?"

“Don't play dumb, Paul. Ray told me everything. Of course, everything up to a point. That's why I'm here. I want to know how the two of you did it. Most importantly, I need to know if you two got authorization from the Man."

Now I had no choice but to play dumb. Authorization? The Man, once again? I can only assume “the two” she was referring to was myself and Susannah Winston. Here was my chance to figure out the connection. If I didn't receive a bullet in the head first.

“Yes,” I bluffed. “We had authorization."

Leah's face collapsed like a condemned building. “I can't be-lieve it! All this time… What was the deal? He give you double what he promised Ray?” I noticed her pistol arm droop a bit. Keep her going, keep her going.

“I don't know. What did he promise Ray?"

“Far above the standard. He said it was almost too good to be true."

“Come on. How much?"

She looked at me and spat it out. “Half a million."

I whistled. Probably not the coolest thing to do, under the circumstances.

“What?” she asked. “They offer you the same thing?"

Had to think fast. Why would I whistle if my own fee was double?

“No, they didn't,” I said. “My offer was generous, but certainly not one million dollars."

“I don't understand it,” Leah said. “Why all this hassle to bump Ray out of the picture? He was nothing."

“You too seem to be getting along famously."

“I'm a babysitter. You should know that.” Then, logic must have set in. “Wait… wait… this still doesn't fit. Why did you fake your own death, only to meet up with Ray's tramp later?"

Now I was completely flummoxed. I could barely keep up with the conversation as it was, let alone try to fake a rationale for something I obviously didn't do. Did Brad fake his death? Of course not. He was dead when I found him. The idea was ridiculous. Yet, this was the course I steered myself into, and I was stuck driving it. That is, if I didn't want to arrange accommodations in the Brain Hotel for a hot spinning bullet.

I tried the usual way out: abrupt subject change. “Don't call her that."

“Are you going to tell me different? Come on, you don't think Ray was the first to have the little cooze. Besides, does Lana know you're diddling the girl next door?"

“Girl next door” obviously meant Amy; Leah must seen us together, waited for her to leave, then sprung on me like a viper. But who the hell was “Lana"? I took a chance and closed my eyes for a second. The Brain Hotel lobby fizzled into view. I ran to the front desk and snatched the courtesy phone from its receiver. “Paging Paul After,” I said. “Paul, we've got a Grade-A situation here, boy. Request immediate assistance. And I mean pronto, Tonto."