examine Happy. He’d been hovering nearby, looking hopeful. He was clearly of the opinion that with two firearms in sight and one shot fired there should be something for a good retriever to retrieve, damn it, just tell him where. I called him to me and inspected him carefully for blood, poked him for indications of pain, and drew a long breath of relief when I found neither; apparently the bullet had gone elsewhere.
“Will you stop playing with your damn dog; this woman is badly hurt.”
I gave Happy a pat and released him, looking around. Madeleine was kneeling beside the unconscious figure by the gate. She was wearing an old plaid robe of mine and her high heels.
I said, “You’re making me feel bad. I was trying to brain her. You mean I failed?”
“Don’t be so tough. And you didn’t have to hit her all that hard!”
I looked at her in amazement. “The dame was waving a gun, baby! If she’s breathing at all, she’s way ahead of the game; she should be dead.”
Madeleine started to speak hotly; then she threw back her head and laughed instead. “Sorry, Matt, I’ve just been living too long with respectable people in that beautiful dreamland they inhabit where violence is unspeakable and death is unthinkable and if you have a problem you just call a policeman and he’ll come right over and fix it for you. Wish-fulfillment country. Thanks for kicking me back into the crude real world again; it’s like coming home.” She looked down at the woman on the ground. “So what do we do with this, cut its throat?”
Something was nudging my thigh. I said, “Happy, stop it, I can’t play with you now.”
“He wants to give you something,” Madeleine said. “It looks like a purse.”
Getting no cooperation from me, he’d found a retrieving object on his own; and he was holding it in his mouth, sitting properly to deliver it with his tail working happily. I told him what a great dog he was and took the rather shabby brown leather bag. It was of good quality, I noted, just well-worn; perhaps a favorite best purse relegated, after many years of faithful dress-up service, to informal occasions when the owner was wearing jeans and shooting people. Happy had left a little saliva on it, but no tooth marks. Like I said, softmouthed. I wiped it off and opened it. A small wallet inside, also pretty good leather, yielded up several credit cards and a driver’s license in the name of Ruth Stephanie Steiner, 22 Butterwood Road, Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501.
For a moment the name meant nothing to me; then I put the stuff into the hands of Madeleine, who’d come over to look, and knelt beside the unconscious woman, turning her over carefully so I could see her face. I hadn’t really got a good look at her during the action. Pale and dirt-streaked, her features didn’t look very familiar; the girl I was thinking of had been very different in appearance, a grave young woman with big blue eyes hiding behind big horn-rimmed glasses, and a ragged mop of short blond hair. I spoke a rude word as I got to my feet, realizing belatedly that I was wearing only shoes and underwear shorts, and a number of rosebush scratches. I listened for a moment, but the lone shot seemed to have aroused no neighborhood interest. I noted that the woman hadn’t got the gate completely closed after slipping into the yard. I closed and padlocked it, reminding myself not to leave it unlocked again, since there seemed to be no telling what might come through it.
“Keep an eye on the dame, I’ve got to get to the phone,” I said.
“You know who she is.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll tell you later. Hold the fort.”
Although I’d called the number a couple of times in the past few months, I didn’t have it in my head or written down; I had to dig it out of the book. A young-girl voice answered on the fourth ring. I asked the kid to call her daddy.
“Popsy, it’s for you,” I heard her
“Will you stop playing with your damn dog; this woman is badly hurt.”
I gave Happy a pat and released him, looking around. Madeleine was kneeling beside the unconscious figure by the gate. She was wearing an old plaid robe of mine and her high heels.
I said, “You’re making me feel bad. I was trying to brain her. You mean I failed?”
“Don’t be so tough. And you didn’t have to hit her all that hard!”
I looked at her in amazement. “The dame was waving a gun, baby! If she’s breathing at all, she’s way ahead of the game; she should be dead.”
Madeleine started to speak hotly; then she threw back her head and laughed instead. “Sorry, Matt, I’ve just been living too long with respectable people in that beautiful dreamland they inhabit where violence is unspeakable and death is unthinkable and if you have a problem you just call a policeman and he’ll come right over and fix it for you. Wish-fulfillment country. Thanks for kicking me back into the crude real world again; it’s like coming home.” She looked down at the woman on the ground. “So what do we do with this, cut its throat?”
Something was nudging my thigh. I said, “Happy, stop it, I can’t play with you now.”
“He wants to give you something,” Madeleine said. “It looks like a purse.”
Getting no cooperation from me, he’d found a retrieving object on his own; and he was holding it in his mouth, sitting properly to deliver it with his tail working happily. I told him what a great dog he was and took the rather shabby brown leather bag. It was of good quality, I noted, just well-worn; perhaps a favorite best purse relegated, after many years of faithful dress-up service, to informal occasions when the owner was wearing jeans and shooting people. Happy had left a little saliva on it, but no tooth marks. Like I said, softmouthed. I wiped it off and opened it. A small wallet inside, also pretty good leather, yielded up several credit cards and a driver’s license in the name of Ruth Stephanie Steiner, 22 Butterwood Road, Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501.
For a moment the name meant nothing to me; then I put the stuff into the hands of Madeleine, who’d come over to look, and knelt beside the unconscious woman, turning her over carefully so I could see her face. I hadn’t really got a good look at her during the action. Pale and dirt-streaked, her features didn’t look very familiar; the girl I was thinking of had been very different in appearance, a grave young woman with big blue eyes hiding behind big horn-rimmed glasses, and a ragged mop of short blond hair. I spoke a rude word as I got to my feet, realizing belatedly that I was wearing only shoes and underwear shorts, and a number of rosebush scratches. I listened for a moment, but the lone shot seemed to have aroused no neighborhood interest. I noted that the woman hadn’t got the gate completely closed after slipping into the yard. I closed and padlocked it, reminding myself not to leave it unlocked again, since there seemed to be no telling what might come through it.
“Keep an eye on the dame, I’ve got to get to the phone,” I said.
“You know who she is.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll tell you later. Hold the fort.”
Although I’d called the number a couple of times in the past few months, I didn’t have it in my head or written down; I had to dig it out of the book. A young-girl voice answered on the fourth ring. I asked the kid to call her daddy.
“Popsy, it’s for you,” I heard her
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