Serpent's Kiss (17 page)

    "Then next time you can pay."

    "And will I get to be macho then?"

    "You know," he said, crossing his eyes like an old vaudevillian comic, "That's a very good question."

    Before she could respond, the pair from the back were at the counter. One young man-portly with long greasy hair-set down two science fiction paperbacks. The other young man- skinny and already balding even though he couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three-set down a copy of
Locus
and
Science Fiction Chronicle
.

    As she checked them out-Richie still waiting around-she felt them staring at her. Occupational hazard, Brewster always told her. "You're so pretty, half the guys who come in here are going to have crushes on you. You wait and see." And so they did. While she was flattered by this kind of attention-heady stuff for a girl who usually thought of herself as some drab and crippled drudge-it also unnerved her. She didn't know how to respond.

    When the two young men left, one of them pointing to a copy of an art magazine with a beautiful nude on the cover, Richie said, "Boy, you've got fans everywhere."

    "They're nice guys. They come in here a lot."

    "And I know why, too. To see you."

    "They really like science fiction."

    "They like you better."

    "Strawberry."

    "Huh?"

    Tired of the subject of other boys-wanting to talk about

    Richie if the subject had to be about boys at all-she said, "Strawberry. My Blizzard."

    "Oh."

    "You sound disappointed."

    "Somehow I thought you'd be more adventurous. You know, a Blizzard with everything in it."

    "Everything?"

    "Sure-M&Ms and strawberries and 7-Up and-everything." He laughed. "It's the only way to live."

    "Well, if you're going to go macho on me again I don't suppose I have any choice. Everything."

    He was already on the way out the door. "You won't regret it. Believe me."

    Then he was gone, the bell above the door tinkling, the air the sadder for his absence.

    She couldn't believe how much closer she'd felt to him during the past fifteen minutes of conversation.

    That was one thing her first date fantasy hadn't allowed for-real friendship to accompany the passion.

    

    

    "Then do you know of a Marie Fane?"

    "I think she's Kathleen's daughter. I'm not related to Kathleen but I know of her through a relative. She's like a shirt-tail cousin or something."

    "How old would Marie be?"

    The woman on the other end of the phone paused. "High school age or thereabouts, I'd guess."

    "And her mother's name is Kathleen?"

    "Yes, ma'am."

    "I'll give it a try then. And thank you very much."

    "Oh, you're most welcome. Like I said, we watch you on TV all the time. We like you a lot."

    Chris Holland smiled. Sometimes a compliment could make you feel better than getting a new car. "Thanks again."

    The woman hung up.

    Chris put the phone down and said to Emily Lindstrom, "According to her there's a Kathleen Fane."

    "Wonder why it isn't in the book?"

    "Don't know. I'll try information."

    They were still in the apartment Dobyns was using. The dead meat smell was as bad as ever.

    When the wispy voiced male operator said "Information." Chris gave him the city and name she was looking for.

    After half a minute, the live operator vanished and a recording took over.

    "We're sorry but at the customer's request, the number is unpublished."

    "Shit," Chris said, slamming the phone down. Then, "Excuse my French."

    "What happened?"

    "Unlisted number."

    "Oh. Great. We've got to find this Marie Fane and warn her. Dobyns is on the way right now."

    Chris snapped her fingers. "Cameron."

    "Who?"

    "Frank Cameron. He's a cop I know. He'll get the number for me."

    She quickly dialled the Sixth Precinct. She wasn't used to rotary phones so the dialling was somewhat awkward.

    "Detective Cameron, please."

    She waited.

    "Hello."

    "Frank."

    "Oh, God."

    "You know who this is?"

    "If I didn't, would I have said 'Oh, God'?"

    "Good point."

    He laughed. "It's something illegal, isn't it?"

    "What is?"

    "What you want me to do."

    Cameron loved to tease her and she loved to be teased by him. He was like an older brother. A divorced man with three kids, Cameron had asked her out a few times. Great fun but no sparks alas. Fortunately both of them felt that way. Now they were just friends, just two more overworked, overstressed lonely middle class people anonymously going about the business of living and dying.

    "Well, I'm not sure, actually."

    "So what is it? The shift commander's called a meeting in five minutes."

    "Unlisted number."

    "Is that all? You mean I don't have to plant any evidence or run any drugs?"

    "Not tonight."

    "What's the name?"

    She told him.

    "Hold on a sec," he said.

    "He's getting it for you?" Emily Lindstrom asked.

    Chris nodded.

    He came back moments later and gave her the number.

    "You owe me a lunch," he said.

    "McDonald's all right?"

    "Sure."

    "Good. That I can afford. I'll call you next week."

    "Really?"

    "Sure really. You helped me, didn't you?"

    "Actually, it'll be nice to sit down with a woman who isn't a cop and talk. I'm not doing too well in the old dating department."

    Chris laughed. "Well, I'm not doing too well in that department either, Frank, so we can commiserate."

    "There you go again with those big words. Talk to you later."

    After hanging up, Chris waved the number at Emily Lindstrom. "Well, here it is. Let's just hope somebody is home."

    Emily crossed her fingers and held them high.

    Chris dialled Kathleen Fane's number.

    And waited for somebody to pick up on the other end.

    

    

    Dobyns reached the street. In the pale glow of the mercury vapour lights, he stood taking polluted air deep into his lungs and getting himself ready to walk inside the bookstore.

    A pimp and a hooker passed by. The pimp was obviously upset with the heavily made up black woman. He had gripped her tight by the elbow and was shaking her as they moved toward a Caddy convertible.

    
What am I waiting for?
Dobyns wondered.
I should just walk right in there and-

    Until now, he had not confronted the unspoken reason he was going into the bookstore.

    The reason the knife was lashed to his leg.

    The bookstore.

    Inside.

    Marie Fane.

    Now.

    He went inside.

    Even from the threshold, he could see how neatly- lovingly-the store was laid out. Tidily categorised, all the books fitted perfectly into their pockets.

    "May I help you?"

    She was no great beauty but she was very pretty. One of those attractive, earnest looking girls boys actually seem to prefer to great beauties.

    "Just looking for some old John Steinbeck novels, I guess," Dobyns said casually.

    She had a nice body, the right combination of roundness and leanness.

    "You'll find that to your right behind you in American literature."

    He watched her carefully. He could see that his gaze upset her slightly, that she didn't know how to interpret it.

    "Do you sell a lot of him?"

    "Not a lot," Marie Fane said. "Mostly
The Red Pony, The Grapes of Wrath
and
Of Mice and Men
."

    "That's my favourite."

    "
Of Mice and Men
?"

    "Right. You ever read it?"

    "Yes. I loved it. Especially the ending. It was so sad."

    He saw her earnestness again. The simple but almost moving way she talked about the novel. The fact that she found it so sad told him a lot about her. She was a sensitive and intelligent girl.

    Now, she seemed even prettier to him.

    "When he puts the mouse in his pocket," Dobyns said. "That's the part I always remember."

    The girl nodded. "He was a great writer."

    "I guess one of the novels I'm looking for is
In Dubious Battle
. You think you have that?"

    "It'd be in the Steinbeck section if we did."

    He'd been trying to lure her out from behind the cash register. He didn't want to grab her up front. Too near the door. Too close to somebody walking in on them. Or seeing them struggle through the glass front door.

    "Thanks," he said, and walked back to the American literature section.

    

    

    Richie ended up walking around the block to smoke his cigarette. Even in a run down neighbourhood such as this one, spring was meant to be enjoyed.

    At first he was a little nervous-drunks and homeless people had the most baleful eyes on the planet-but soon enough he relaxed and appreciated the soft sweet breeze and the aromatic sprays of apple blossoms and dogwood that bloomed on a nearby hill.

    He felt pure exhilaration. He'd never before trusted anyone enough to tell them the story about his father. For months now he'd had this secret crush on Marie but he hadn't ever expected it to lead to the kind of relationship where you talk, really talk, to somebody.

    His problems hadn't gone away. There still wasn't enough money at home. His mother still looked worse and worse each day. Attending college still seemed a dimmer and dimmer hope for him. But even given all this, the fact that he'd unburdened himself with Marie made him feel as if he now had an ally. Somebody on whom he could rely.

    He had a friend.

    He had walked four blocks from the bookstore without even realising it. On one corner was an adult bookstore where two winos with paper bags covering their wine bottles sat hassling customers as they came out the door, apparently trying to panhandle some cash. On another corner was a Hardee's, a brilliant glowing white against the darkness and gloom of this neighbourhood. And on the third corner sat a small stone Catholic Church. He wasn't sure why, but he felt like going over there, mounting the stairs and going inside to sit in the quiet shadows and watch the votive candles flicker green and yellow and red in the darkness. Even though he wasn't sure he even believed in a personal God anymore, the prospect of sitting in church always cheered him. He'd spent many such hours following the revelations about his father.

    He decided it was time to start back, pick up the Blizzards, and head for the bookstore.

    He took out another cigarette and got it going. He probably wouldn't have another one for an hour or two.

    When the light turned green, he crossed the street.

    

    

    THERE WAS SOMETHING about the man. She wasn't sure what. The odd thing was that he should unnerve her when other types of customers didn't. He was well dressed, well spoken, and certainly friendly enough. At least outwardly. But while he physically resembled the majority of the university related customers, still there was something troubling about him.

    The man remained in back, looking at Steinbeck novels. She opened the lid on the box and peered down at the.38. At least that's what Brewster had called the weapon. A.38. For all she knew it could have been a.45 or an.889 or some other crazy number. Small, silver, smelling now of cleaning solution and oil, the gun lay waiting for her to pick it up. Brewster had shown her several times how it worked. She would, she felt, have no trouble firing it.

    She reached down. Touched it. Despite the fact that guns made her nervous and uncomfortable-and despite the fact that on the debate team she always wanted to take the pro gun registration side-feeling the gun now gave her a measure of self-confidence. She occasionally took out her father's gun at home and held it, felt the grip clutched in her palm, felt her finger on the trigger. Much as she might try to deny it, and despite her feelings about registration, holding a handgun gave her a certain self-confidence.

    She looked down the aisles. Empty.

    The man had disappeared. Her heart began to pound. Where had he gone?

    "Hello," she said. "Hello."

    On the dusty air of the old building, her voice sounded strained and very young.

    "Hello. May I help you find something?"

    Nothing.

    Where had he gone?

    Was he hiding?

    Never before had she realised how many places there were to hide in the bookstore. Divided into four long, tall lanes with a full back wall packed with additional books, a person could easily hide behind one of the corners where the lanes ended.

    Or could easily sneak down into the basement and wait.

    "Hello," she called again.

    She didn't really expect a response. None came.

    Where was Richie?

    God, it seemed as if he'd been gone an hour now.

    How long could it take to get two Blizzards and smoke a cigarette? He shouldn't be smoking anyway. It was such a stupid, deadly habit-