Knight. She’s staying with her sister, Evelyn.”
“You working an apartment door around here?” he asked looking at my uniform.
“Yeah,” I said. “Boyleton Arms.”
He shook his head.
“What’s it about?”
“Miss Knight was at the Boyleton a little while ago,” I said. “She left her keys.”
I took out my own keys and jiggled them. He held out his hand.
“I’ll give ’em to her.”
“Got to do it myself,” I said. “No offense. Manager told me I had to give them to her myself. You know how it is?”
“She in a show there or something?” the doorman asked. “She came runnin’ in maybe a minute ago wearing one of those … a tiger costume or something.” He ran both hands up in front of him fluttering, as if that would create a clear picture for me of what she was wearing.
“Right,” I said. “She’s in a show. Blackstone the Magician at the Pantages.”
He put down his hand, shrugged, and said, “Four-twelve. Elevator’s on the left.”
“Anyone else come in here from the show in the last ten minutes or so?” I asked.
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“She was with a guy with a beard, turban,” I said.
“No guy like that,” he said. “I don’t see why….”
I pocketed the keys, went through the lobby door, and headed for the elevator. There was no one in the small lobby. The elevator doors were closed. I pushed the button and watched the brass arrow move down 4-3-2-1. There was a ding and the doors slid open.
She was sitting on the floor, her back against the rear wall, sleek in an almost skin-tight stripped costume. Both of her hands were pressed against her stomach.
“He shot me,” she said, eyes open wide in surprise.
Blood was beginning to seep through her fingers. She looked down, saw it, and then looked back at me.
“I think maybe he killed me,” she said.
The elevator door started to close. I held it back with both hands and reached for the switch to turn it off.
“I’ll be right back,” I said and ran to the doorman.
“Call an ambulance, quick,” I said.
“What?”
“She’s been shot.”
“Who?”
“Just call an ambulance. Hurry.” I turned and called back, “Elevator.”
Gwen Knight had gone pale. There was more blood. I’ve seen plenty of blood, much of it my own. I knelt next to her and gently moved her hands.
“I’m dying right?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“You’re just sayin’,” she said.
“No, I can see the bullet. It didn’t even break your rib. Just keep your hands on it to stop the bleeding.”
“It was a little gun, you know?”
“A little gun.”
“Like …,” and she moved her hands, bloody palms facing each other to show how little the gun was that shot her.
I placed her hands back on the wound.
“Like they use in the show. Pellets,” she said. Her eyes rolled back. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Why did he shoot you?” I asked.
“I saw him coming out of my dressing room,” she said. “I went into the dressing room and there was poor Robert.”
“Dead?”
“Almost,” she said. “You’re sure I’m not dying?”
“Positive,” I said, though I was thinking more along the lines of ninety-five percent that she would be all right. “He say anything?”
She closed her eyes and said, “The guy with the turban?”
“No, Robert.”
“Yeah, but it didn’t make any sense.”
“What did he say?”
“Wild on Thursday.”
“Wild on Thursday?”
“What did he mean?”
“Search me,” she said.
She tried to shrug, but it sent a twitch of pain through her.
The doorman came running up and looked down at Gwen, whose eyes moved back in focus. She had great, even white teeth.
“They’re comin’,” he said. “Ambulance. And the cops.”
“Thanks,” I said, and then to Gwen, “The one who shot you?”
“Same guy who shot Robert,” she said. “Sure I’m not dyin’?”
“Sure, cross my heart,” I said.
“That guy I told you about with the beard and
“You working an apartment door around here?” he asked looking at my uniform.
“Yeah,” I said. “Boyleton Arms.”
He shook his head.
“What’s it about?”
“Miss Knight was at the Boyleton a little while ago,” I said. “She left her keys.”
I took out my own keys and jiggled them. He held out his hand.
“I’ll give ’em to her.”
“Got to do it myself,” I said. “No offense. Manager told me I had to give them to her myself. You know how it is?”
“She in a show there or something?” the doorman asked. “She came runnin’ in maybe a minute ago wearing one of those … a tiger costume or something.” He ran both hands up in front of him fluttering, as if that would create a clear picture for me of what she was wearing.
“Right,” I said. “She’s in a show. Blackstone the Magician at the Pantages.”
He put down his hand, shrugged, and said, “Four-twelve. Elevator’s on the left.”
“Anyone else come in here from the show in the last ten minutes or so?” I asked.
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“She was with a guy with a beard, turban,” I said.
“No guy like that,” he said. “I don’t see why….”
I pocketed the keys, went through the lobby door, and headed for the elevator. There was no one in the small lobby. The elevator doors were closed. I pushed the button and watched the brass arrow move down 4-3-2-1. There was a ding and the doors slid open.
She was sitting on the floor, her back against the rear wall, sleek in an almost skin-tight stripped costume. Both of her hands were pressed against her stomach.
“He shot me,” she said, eyes open wide in surprise.
Blood was beginning to seep through her fingers. She looked down, saw it, and then looked back at me.
“I think maybe he killed me,” she said.
The elevator door started to close. I held it back with both hands and reached for the switch to turn it off.
“I’ll be right back,” I said and ran to the doorman.
“Call an ambulance, quick,” I said.
“What?”
“She’s been shot.”
“Who?”
“Just call an ambulance. Hurry.” I turned and called back, “Elevator.”
Gwen Knight had gone pale. There was more blood. I’ve seen plenty of blood, much of it my own. I knelt next to her and gently moved her hands.
“I’m dying right?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“You’re just sayin’,” she said.
“No, I can see the bullet. It didn’t even break your rib. Just keep your hands on it to stop the bleeding.”
“It was a little gun, you know?”
“A little gun.”
“Like …,” and she moved her hands, bloody palms facing each other to show how little the gun was that shot her.
I placed her hands back on the wound.
“Like they use in the show. Pellets,” she said. Her eyes rolled back. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Why did he shoot you?” I asked.
“I saw him coming out of my dressing room,” she said. “I went into the dressing room and there was poor Robert.”
“Dead?”
“Almost,” she said. “You’re sure I’m not dying?”
“Positive,” I said, though I was thinking more along the lines of ninety-five percent that she would be all right. “He say anything?”
She closed her eyes and said, “The guy with the turban?”
“No, Robert.”
“Yeah, but it didn’t make any sense.”
“What did he say?”
“Wild on Thursday.”
“Wild on Thursday?”
“What did he mean?”
“Search me,” she said.
She tried to shrug, but it sent a twitch of pain through her.
The doorman came running up and looked down at Gwen, whose eyes moved back in focus. She had great, even white teeth.
“They’re comin’,” he said. “Ambulance. And the cops.”
“Thanks,” I said, and then to Gwen, “The one who shot you?”
“Same guy who shot Robert,” she said. “Sure I’m not dyin’?”
“Sure, cross my heart,” I said.
“That guy I told you about with the beard and
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