and got the
hell out of town.
He laid low for several weeks, forgoing even the
hustling. His reserve cash dwindled to a piddling
amount. For all his affectations and polished mannerisms,
when Bobby looked in the mirror, he saw himself
as he'd been years ago--a brash, smalltime
hustler running second-rate cons. That self-doubt was
never so strong as when he was broke, when it set in
with a vengeance. One night, feeling desperate and a
little afraid, he got drunk in a bar and wound up in a
fight with another customer.
It was the best thing that could have happened.
That barroom brawl had been observed by the right
person. It had set him on his present course. The culmination
was in sight. If it worked out the way he
planned, he would make a fortune. He would have
the wealth that befitted the Bobby Trimble he was
now. There would be no going back to the loser he
had been.
However--and this was a huge "however"--his
success rested with his partner. As he had earlier established,
women were not to be trusted to be anything
other than women.
He drained his drink and raised his hand to the bartender.
"I need a refill."
But the bartender was engrossed in the TV set. The
picture was snowy, but even from where he sat
Bobby could make out a guy talking into the microphones
pointed at him. He wasn't anybody Bobby
recognized. He was an unsmiling cuss, that was for
sure. All business, like the welfare agents who used
to come nosing around Bobby's house when he was
a kid, asking personal questions about him and his
family, butting into his private business.
The guy on TV was one cool dude, even with a
dozen reporters stepping over each other to crowd
around him. He was saying, "The body was discovered
this evening shortly after six o'clock. It has been
positively identified."
"Do you have--"
"What about a weapon?"
"Are there any suspects?"
"Mr. Smilow, can you tell us--"
Bobby, losing interest, said louder, "I need a drink
here."
"I heard ya," the bartender replied querulously.
"Your service could stand some improve--"
The complaint died on Bobby's lips when the picture
on the TV screen switched from the guy with the
cold eyes to a face that Bobby recognized and knew
well. Lute Pettijohn. He strained to catch every word.
"There was no sign of forced entry into Mr. Pettijohn's
suite. Robbery has been ruled out as a motive.
At this time we have no suspects." The live special
report ended and they returned to the eleven o'clock
news anchor desk.
Confidence once more intact, grinning from ear to
ear, Bobby raised his fresh drink in a silent salute to
his partner. Evidently she had come through for him.
"That's all I have to tell you at this time."
Smilow turned away from the microphones, only
to discover more behind him. "Excuse me," he said,
nudging his way through the media throng.
He ignored the questions shouted after him and
continued wedging a path through the reporters until
it became evident to them that they were going to get
nothing further from him and they began to disperse.
Smilow pretended to hate media attention, but the
truth was that he actually enjoyed doing live press
conferences like this one. Not because of the lights
and cameras, although he knew he looked intimidating
when photographed. Not even for the attention
and publicity they generated. His job was secure and
he didn't need public approval to keep it.
What he liked was the sense of power that being
filmed and quoted evoked.
But as he approached the team of detectives who
had gathered near the registration desk in the lobby of
the hotel, he grumbled, "I'm glad that's over. Now
what've you got for me?"
"Zilch."
The others nodded agreement to Mike Collins'
summation.
Smilow had timed his return to Charles Towne
Plaza from the Pettijohns' home to coincide with the
eleven o'clock news. As he had predicted, all the
local stations, as well as others from as far away as
Savannah and
hell out of town.
He laid low for several weeks, forgoing even the
hustling. His reserve cash dwindled to a piddling
amount. For all his affectations and polished mannerisms,
when Bobby looked in the mirror, he saw himself
as he'd been years ago--a brash, smalltime
hustler running second-rate cons. That self-doubt was
never so strong as when he was broke, when it set in
with a vengeance. One night, feeling desperate and a
little afraid, he got drunk in a bar and wound up in a
fight with another customer.
It was the best thing that could have happened.
That barroom brawl had been observed by the right
person. It had set him on his present course. The culmination
was in sight. If it worked out the way he
planned, he would make a fortune. He would have
the wealth that befitted the Bobby Trimble he was
now. There would be no going back to the loser he
had been.
However--and this was a huge "however"--his
success rested with his partner. As he had earlier established,
women were not to be trusted to be anything
other than women.
He drained his drink and raised his hand to the bartender.
"I need a refill."
But the bartender was engrossed in the TV set. The
picture was snowy, but even from where he sat
Bobby could make out a guy talking into the microphones
pointed at him. He wasn't anybody Bobby
recognized. He was an unsmiling cuss, that was for
sure. All business, like the welfare agents who used
to come nosing around Bobby's house when he was
a kid, asking personal questions about him and his
family, butting into his private business.
The guy on TV was one cool dude, even with a
dozen reporters stepping over each other to crowd
around him. He was saying, "The body was discovered
this evening shortly after six o'clock. It has been
positively identified."
"Do you have--"
"What about a weapon?"
"Are there any suspects?"
"Mr. Smilow, can you tell us--"
Bobby, losing interest, said louder, "I need a drink
here."
"I heard ya," the bartender replied querulously.
"Your service could stand some improve--"
The complaint died on Bobby's lips when the picture
on the TV screen switched from the guy with the
cold eyes to a face that Bobby recognized and knew
well. Lute Pettijohn. He strained to catch every word.
"There was no sign of forced entry into Mr. Pettijohn's
suite. Robbery has been ruled out as a motive.
At this time we have no suspects." The live special
report ended and they returned to the eleven o'clock
news anchor desk.
Confidence once more intact, grinning from ear to
ear, Bobby raised his fresh drink in a silent salute to
his partner. Evidently she had come through for him.
"That's all I have to tell you at this time."
Smilow turned away from the microphones, only
to discover more behind him. "Excuse me," he said,
nudging his way through the media throng.
He ignored the questions shouted after him and
continued wedging a path through the reporters until
it became evident to them that they were going to get
nothing further from him and they began to disperse.
Smilow pretended to hate media attention, but the
truth was that he actually enjoyed doing live press
conferences like this one. Not because of the lights
and cameras, although he knew he looked intimidating
when photographed. Not even for the attention
and publicity they generated. His job was secure and
he didn't need public approval to keep it.
What he liked was the sense of power that being
filmed and quoted evoked.
But as he approached the team of detectives who
had gathered near the registration desk in the lobby of
the hotel, he grumbled, "I'm glad that's over. Now
what've you got for me?"
"Zilch."
The others nodded agreement to Mike Collins'
summation.
Smilow had timed his return to Charles Towne
Plaza from the Pettijohns' home to coincide with the
eleven o'clock news. As he had predicted, all the
local stations, as well as others from as far away as
Savannah and
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