Peril by Thomas H. Cook Page A

thanks.” He touched his hat, then went up the stairs, leaving Abe alone on the street.
    He was still there when Lucille was brought down and loaded into the ambulance. Her body seemed infinitely small beneath the sheet, far too small to have contained the heavy life she’d lived, the huge obstacles she’d overcome just to get this far. It wasn’t that she’d killed herself that struck Abe as particularly sad, but that she’d had to fight that urge for so long, and in that protracted struggle lost what small amount of happiness she might otherwise have grasped.
    Once the ambulance pulled away, Abe walked back up the stairs and into the apartment. The super was there, looking around, as if already calculating the trouble this would cause him.
    â€œShe have any relatives?” he asked.
    Abe shook his head.
    â€œSo, what you want I should do? With her stuff, I mean.”
    â€œI’ll have it picked up.”
    The super looked relieved that clearing the apartment would fall to others’ hands. “No rush. I mean, she’s paid up through the end of the month.”
    The super left, but Abe lingered a few more minutes in her room. He was not sure why, save that some part of him simply hated letting things go. He’d hated to admit that Mavis had actually gone. Hell, he realized, he’d even felt the same about that fucking cat she’d left him with, Pookie, who’d died on him three weeks later.
    He headed down the stairs and out onto the street, where he stood absently, his eyes cast upward into the misty sky, and tried to make himself believe that there might really be someplace toward which Lucille’s unburdened soul was now ascending, its slender wings beating softly to the ballad she’d always used to close her set, “Bird Alone.”
    TONY
    â€œShe was acting strange the last few days,” Tony said.
    His father shrugged. “She was always a fruitcake.”
    Tony took the wedge of orange from the rim of the glass, squeezed it, then dropped it into his glass.
    â€œWhat the fuck you drinking?” his father asked.
    â€œScotch sour.”
    â€œThat’s a pussy drink, Tony,” the Old Man said. “Scotch sour. Jesus Christ. You go in a real bar and order something like that, they take you out back and stomp the shit out of you.”
    Tony shrugged. “Anyway, she just left, that’s all. Out of the blue.”
    Labriola scowled. “Out of the blue means another guy, right?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Tony answered weakly.
    â€œYou don’t think so?” the Old Man barked. “What are you, Tony? Stupid? That fucking bitch run out on you.”
    â€œI don’t know, Dad, Sara’s not the—”
    â€œNot the what?”
    â€œI just don’t think she would have—”
    â€œWould have what?”
    â€œWould have . . . you know . . .”
    â€œFucked around on you?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOkay, Tony, so where’s her car? You said it was sitting in the driveway, right?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSo, your theory is, she leaves but she don’t take the car? So what do you think, she’s on foot? Walking to where? California? Jesus, Tony, think!” The Old Man slapped him lightly on the side of the head. “Think about it! This bitch ain’t on foot or thumbing a ride. Or maybe you figure she’s in some big fucking balloon. Floating in the air.” His laugh was clanking brass. “Face it, Tony. She run off with some guy.”
    â€œI don’t know what to think, Dad.”
    â€œHow about money? She take any money?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Tony answered weakly.
    â€œYou don’t know? You ain’t checked the accounts?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œJesus,” the Old Man muttered. “Your wife takes a hike and you don’t check the fucking accounts.”
    â€œI didn’t think of it, Dad. I been . . . you