said, “See you in the morning if it doesn’t rain,” stepped over Skeet, and proceeded to his car at the curb, still listening to talk radio through his headphones, as though he’d seen people jumping off roofs every day of his working life.
“What a mess,” Ned Motherwell said, frowning at the drenched mattresses.
“I’ve got to check him into rehab,” Dusty told Motherwell, as he helped Skeet to his feet.
“I’ll take care of this mess,” Motherwell assured him. “Just get that cankerous little weasel-dick out of my sight.”
All along the rainwashed circular driveway to the street, Skeet leaned on Dusty. His previous frenetic energy, whether it had come from drugs or from the prospect of successful self-destruction, was gone, and he was limp with weariness, almost asleep on his feet.
The security guard fell in beside them as they neared Dusty’s white Ford van. “I’ll have to file a report about this.”
“Yeah? With whom?”
“The executive board of the homeowners’ association. With a copy to the property-management company.”
“They won’t kneecap me with a shotgun, will they?” Dusty asked as he propped Skeet against the van.
“Nah, they never take my recommendation,” the guard said, and Dusty was forced to reevaluate him.
Rising out of his stupor, Skeet warned, “They’ll want your soul, Dusty. I know these bastards.”
From behind a veil of water that drizzled off the visor of his uniform cap, the security guard said, “They might put you on a list of undesirable contractors they’d rather not have in the community. But probably all that’ll happen is they’ll want you never to bring this guy inside the gates again. What’s his full name, anyway?”
Opening the passenger door of the van, Dusty said, “Bruce Wayne.”
“I thought it was Skeet something.”
Helping Skeet into the van, Dusty said, “That’s just his nickname.” Which was truthful yet deceptive.
“I’ll need to see his ID.”
“I’ll bring it later,” Dusty said, slamming the door. “Right now I’ve got to get him to a doctor.”
“He hurt?” the guard asked, following Dusty around the van to the driver’s side.
“He’s a wreck,” Dusty said as he got in behind the wheel and pulled the door shut.
The guard rapped on the window.
Starting the engine with one hand, winding down the window with the other, Dusty said, “Yeah?”
“You can’t go back to
strike force,
but
crew
isn’t the right word, either. Better call them your
circus
or maybe
hullabaloo.
”
“You’re all right,” Dusty said. “I like you.”
The guard smiled and tipped his sopping hat.
Dusty rolled up the window, switched on the wipers, and drove away from the Sorensons’ house.
7
Descending the exterior stairs from her third-floor apartment, Susan Jagger stayed close to the house, sliding her right hand along the shingle siding, as though constantly needing to reassure herself that shelter was close by, fiercely clutching Martie’s arm with her left hand. She kept her head down, focusing intently on her feet, taking each ten-inch-high step as cautiously as a rock climber might have negotiated a towering face of sheer granite.
Because of Susan’s raincoat hood and because she was shorter than Martie, her face was concealed, but from rainless days, Martie knew how Susan must look. Shock-white skin. Jaw set, mouth grim. Her green eyes would be haunted, as though she’d glimpsed a ghost; however, the only ghost in this matter was her once vital spirit, which had been killed by agoraphobia.
“What’s wrong with the air?” Susan asked shakily.
“Nothing.”
“Hard to breathe,” Susan complained. “Thick. Smells funny.”
“Just humidity. The smell is me. New perfume.”
“You? Perfume?”
“I’ve got my girlish moments.”
“We’re so exposed,” Susan said fearfully.
“It’s not a long way to the car.”
“Anything could happen out here.”
“Nothing will happen.”
“There’s
“What a mess,” Ned Motherwell said, frowning at the drenched mattresses.
“I’ve got to check him into rehab,” Dusty told Motherwell, as he helped Skeet to his feet.
“I’ll take care of this mess,” Motherwell assured him. “Just get that cankerous little weasel-dick out of my sight.”
All along the rainwashed circular driveway to the street, Skeet leaned on Dusty. His previous frenetic energy, whether it had come from drugs or from the prospect of successful self-destruction, was gone, and he was limp with weariness, almost asleep on his feet.
The security guard fell in beside them as they neared Dusty’s white Ford van. “I’ll have to file a report about this.”
“Yeah? With whom?”
“The executive board of the homeowners’ association. With a copy to the property-management company.”
“They won’t kneecap me with a shotgun, will they?” Dusty asked as he propped Skeet against the van.
“Nah, they never take my recommendation,” the guard said, and Dusty was forced to reevaluate him.
Rising out of his stupor, Skeet warned, “They’ll want your soul, Dusty. I know these bastards.”
From behind a veil of water that drizzled off the visor of his uniform cap, the security guard said, “They might put you on a list of undesirable contractors they’d rather not have in the community. But probably all that’ll happen is they’ll want you never to bring this guy inside the gates again. What’s his full name, anyway?”
Opening the passenger door of the van, Dusty said, “Bruce Wayne.”
“I thought it was Skeet something.”
Helping Skeet into the van, Dusty said, “That’s just his nickname.” Which was truthful yet deceptive.
“I’ll need to see his ID.”
“I’ll bring it later,” Dusty said, slamming the door. “Right now I’ve got to get him to a doctor.”
“He hurt?” the guard asked, following Dusty around the van to the driver’s side.
“He’s a wreck,” Dusty said as he got in behind the wheel and pulled the door shut.
The guard rapped on the window.
Starting the engine with one hand, winding down the window with the other, Dusty said, “Yeah?”
“You can’t go back to
strike force,
but
crew
isn’t the right word, either. Better call them your
circus
or maybe
hullabaloo.
”
“You’re all right,” Dusty said. “I like you.”
The guard smiled and tipped his sopping hat.
Dusty rolled up the window, switched on the wipers, and drove away from the Sorensons’ house.
7
Descending the exterior stairs from her third-floor apartment, Susan Jagger stayed close to the house, sliding her right hand along the shingle siding, as though constantly needing to reassure herself that shelter was close by, fiercely clutching Martie’s arm with her left hand. She kept her head down, focusing intently on her feet, taking each ten-inch-high step as cautiously as a rock climber might have negotiated a towering face of sheer granite.
Because of Susan’s raincoat hood and because she was shorter than Martie, her face was concealed, but from rainless days, Martie knew how Susan must look. Shock-white skin. Jaw set, mouth grim. Her green eyes would be haunted, as though she’d glimpsed a ghost; however, the only ghost in this matter was her once vital spirit, which had been killed by agoraphobia.
“What’s wrong with the air?” Susan asked shakily.
“Nothing.”
“Hard to breathe,” Susan complained. “Thick. Smells funny.”
“Just humidity. The smell is me. New perfume.”
“You? Perfume?”
“I’ve got my girlish moments.”
“We’re so exposed,” Susan said fearfully.
“It’s not a long way to the car.”
“Anything could happen out here.”
“Nothing will happen.”
“There’s
Similar Books
