under the pipe in the hallway. Inside his studio he hung his Stetson on his easel. He picked up and waltzed Cat across the floor. Cat purred a question and Duncan chuckled an answer. He collapsed laughing on the couch. Cat jumped to the open window.
“Lighten up, Cat! If you can’t stand the painter, get out of the studio!”
The Cadillac started outside. Its stereo blared Only Women Bleed . Cat glanced at Duncan and down at the sidewalk. Then he leaped out to the street. Duncan jumped up and ran to the window.
“Hey!” he yelled, “I was …”
Cat had landed in the Cadillac next to a young woman whose beauty shattered him and sent the shards crashing about her feet. She was maybe three years older than Duncan and oddly familiar. Her hair was as blond as his was red but much longer. Her Caribbean blue eyes smiled above full, laughing lips that had never felt the needle’s collagen sting. Her skin was smooth and her teeth even and white. She wore a black leather jacket over a tight black dress. Black stockings sheathed long, athletic legs, ending in black pumps with sharp heels. Her breasts curved wonderfully within the low neck of her dress. She was as beautiful as any model or actress in print or on screen.
“… joking,” he finished.
“Hell of a way to treat a cat,” she said in a voice suggesting gravel.
“He jumped!”
“Relax, I wasn’t serious. I have a way of attracting strays.”
She caressed Cat and held him to her chest. Duncan would have donated any of his redundant organs to change places. She leaned over and dropped Cat to the sidewalk. Cat jumped back into the car. She laughed.
“Maybe you ought to come get him …”
“Duncan,” he said, “my name’s Duncan.”
“Hi, Duncan. I’m Pris.”
“I’m an artist,” he blurted, ruing the words even as he spoke, thinking them pretentious and hollow. “Painter, I mean.”
“Really. Are you any good?”
“I’m okay. Maybe you could pose for me sometime.”
“Then again maybe not.” She dropped Cat onto the sidewalk and shifted the Cadillac into drive. “See you around, Duncan Delaney.”
“Wait!” Duncan yelled.
He ran from his studio, wondering how she knew his last name. By the time he recalled the pipe in the hallway his head had already contacted cold metal with a sharp thwang at approximately fifteen miles per hour. A galaxy of lights that would have been stars had his life been a cartoon filled his eyes. He missed a step and tumbled down the stairs to the alley. The bum under the stairs drank from a bottle obscured in a paper bag and watched Duncan fall.
“Nice technique,” the bum said, “and a good dismount.”
Duncan looked up the street. The girl and the Cadillac were gone. He dusted himself off, picked up Cat, and climbed the stairs.
“Hey, buddy,” called the bum. “Spare some change?”
“Not today,” Duncan replied, “but thanks for asking.”
Benjamin finally decided he was being followed at a gas station outside Bountiful. He had first noticed the forest green Taurus in Wyoming, but was not immediately wary as both car and color were common. The Taurus disappeared for prolonged periods when Benjamin implemented evasive tactics, like the high speed drift and subsequent u-turn across four lanes of traffic outside Steamboat Springs. The Taurus did not dare that maneuver. But after every such gambit and within fifty miles there would be the Taurus or another like it.
Benjamin had been followed many times, mostly by police, and by eighteen he had developed a healthy paranoia and could spot a plainclothes police car with near ninety-seven percent accuracy. This green Taurus plainly did not contain police, for he had seen soda cans and burger boxes regularly sail out the passenger’s window, and all the cops he knew were fastidious when it came to littering.
Benjamin got out of his truck. He stretched and yawned and scratched his armpit. He gave the attendant twenty dollars and filled his
“Lighten up, Cat! If you can’t stand the painter, get out of the studio!”
The Cadillac started outside. Its stereo blared Only Women Bleed . Cat glanced at Duncan and down at the sidewalk. Then he leaped out to the street. Duncan jumped up and ran to the window.
“Hey!” he yelled, “I was …”
Cat had landed in the Cadillac next to a young woman whose beauty shattered him and sent the shards crashing about her feet. She was maybe three years older than Duncan and oddly familiar. Her hair was as blond as his was red but much longer. Her Caribbean blue eyes smiled above full, laughing lips that had never felt the needle’s collagen sting. Her skin was smooth and her teeth even and white. She wore a black leather jacket over a tight black dress. Black stockings sheathed long, athletic legs, ending in black pumps with sharp heels. Her breasts curved wonderfully within the low neck of her dress. She was as beautiful as any model or actress in print or on screen.
“… joking,” he finished.
“Hell of a way to treat a cat,” she said in a voice suggesting gravel.
“He jumped!”
“Relax, I wasn’t serious. I have a way of attracting strays.”
She caressed Cat and held him to her chest. Duncan would have donated any of his redundant organs to change places. She leaned over and dropped Cat to the sidewalk. Cat jumped back into the car. She laughed.
“Maybe you ought to come get him …”
“Duncan,” he said, “my name’s Duncan.”
“Hi, Duncan. I’m Pris.”
“I’m an artist,” he blurted, ruing the words even as he spoke, thinking them pretentious and hollow. “Painter, I mean.”
“Really. Are you any good?”
“I’m okay. Maybe you could pose for me sometime.”
“Then again maybe not.” She dropped Cat onto the sidewalk and shifted the Cadillac into drive. “See you around, Duncan Delaney.”
“Wait!” Duncan yelled.
He ran from his studio, wondering how she knew his last name. By the time he recalled the pipe in the hallway his head had already contacted cold metal with a sharp thwang at approximately fifteen miles per hour. A galaxy of lights that would have been stars had his life been a cartoon filled his eyes. He missed a step and tumbled down the stairs to the alley. The bum under the stairs drank from a bottle obscured in a paper bag and watched Duncan fall.
“Nice technique,” the bum said, “and a good dismount.”
Duncan looked up the street. The girl and the Cadillac were gone. He dusted himself off, picked up Cat, and climbed the stairs.
“Hey, buddy,” called the bum. “Spare some change?”
“Not today,” Duncan replied, “but thanks for asking.”
Benjamin finally decided he was being followed at a gas station outside Bountiful. He had first noticed the forest green Taurus in Wyoming, but was not immediately wary as both car and color were common. The Taurus disappeared for prolonged periods when Benjamin implemented evasive tactics, like the high speed drift and subsequent u-turn across four lanes of traffic outside Steamboat Springs. The Taurus did not dare that maneuver. But after every such gambit and within fifty miles there would be the Taurus or another like it.
Benjamin had been followed many times, mostly by police, and by eighteen he had developed a healthy paranoia and could spot a plainclothes police car with near ninety-seven percent accuracy. This green Taurus plainly did not contain police, for he had seen soda cans and burger boxes regularly sail out the passenger’s window, and all the cops he knew were fastidious when it came to littering.
Benjamin got out of his truck. He stretched and yawned and scratched his armpit. He gave the attendant twenty dollars and filled his
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