Deceptions by Michael Weaver

bottle of Napoleon brandy and the house silent and dark around them. Other than
     for a patch of moon silvering the floor, everything was black.
    “Do you know where Vittorio is?” said Gianni.
    “No.”
    “When did you last see him?”
    “About nine years ago.”
    “Is that when you broke up?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “What happened between you?”
    She lifted her snifter and breathed the brandy. “The usual. First, the excitement fades and everything becomes habit. Then
     one of you meets someone new.”
    “Which of you met someone new?”
    “Vittorio.”
    Gianni found it hard to imagine. “Who was she?”
    “I never knew.”
    Mary Yung rose and settled against a wall. She seemed to be leaning on a shadow.
    “You’re a celebrated artist,” she said. “You’re not just anybody. Why can’t you call the police?”
    “And tell them what? That a couple of supposed federal agents beat me up and were going to torture and kill me, so I killed
them
instead?”
    His actually putting it into words appeared to affect her, and she began pacing. In the reflected moonlight, he saw her in
     parts… slender, graceful legs, a hip’s curve, high perfect breasts, a China-doll face under sleek blue-black bangs.
How could Vittorio have left her?
    “Then we spend the rest of our lives hiding in dark rooms?” she said.
    “Hardly.” He could make out her eyes, deeply set in the oval of her face. “But we can’t do much of anything until we find
     out why Vittorio’s suddenly important enough for those two men to have come after me as they did.”
    “How are we supposed to manage that?”
    “By taking one step at a time. By grabbing whoever walks in here looking for you and asking questions. But that’s
my
job. What I’d like
you
to do right now is pack a bag, check into a local motel, and wait for me to call you.”
    She considered him through the dark. “And if you’re dead and can’t call. Where do I go then?”
    “I don’t expect to be dead.”
    “No? You mean that’s not included in your one-step-at-a-time plan?”
    Mary Yung came over and sat down facing him.
    “Well, here’s what
I
don’t expect, Mr. Garetsky. I don’t expect to be anyplace but right here with you when some stranger comes into my house.
     I’m not a delicate, eyelash-fluttering innocent. I own a licensed firearm, I know how to use it, and I’ve rubbed knees under
     the table with some very bad boys. So since Vittorio seems to have dumped my life on the line right along with yours, it looks
     like you’re stuck with a partner.”
    Gianni saw no point in arguing. Besides, it would help to have her with him.
    There were things to consider.
    How many men would be coming?
    Would they play it straight and come right up to the front door, or pick a lock and come in on their own?
    If they did ring the bell, should Mary Yung open the door or let them break in and then surprise them?
    They discussed everything as equals, their lives weighted the same on some invisible set of scales. Her calm, Gianni decided,
     was more than just surface. She was cool straight through.
    She showed Gianni her revolver, a snub-nosed, nickel-plated .38 that looked, in her hand, as though it had been specially
     designed for her by Ralph Lauren. Gianni had never known a woman who actually owned a gun. His wife had hated and feared simply
     the sight of one. She despised violence. All life was sacred to her, even a fly’s. He teased her about it at first but soon
     stopped. She took it too seriously.
    “Why do you have this?” he asked.
    “Because I live and travel alone and there are a lot of crazies around.”
    “Have you ever shot anyone?”
    “So far, I haven’t had to.”
    “But you’ve fired the piece on a range?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you any good?”
    “I can hit what I aim at.”
    “It’s different when you aim at a person.”
    “I’m sure it is,” she said. “But whatever I have to do, I’ll do.”
    Gianni believed her.
    By 2:00 A.M. they