Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006
- Автор: Бетанкур Джон Грегори, Jr. William J. Carroll,
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
Twenty minutes later, I’d washed my face, run a razor over a three-day growth of beard, combed my hair, and put on nearly clean slacks and a sweater. I almost felt human again, and I’d gotten rid of the worst of the whiskey smell.
Unfortunately, I had also begun to sober up, and with returning mental sharpness came all-too-familiar pains in both legs. Alcohol blunted my senses better than drugs; that’s why I drank as much and as often as possible. I only stopped when I had to.
Finally I limped back out to the family room. Bob leaped up when he saw me, running one hand quickly across his nearly shaved head and pulling his suit jacket straight.
“Let me guess,” I said, really studying him for the first time. His too-short hair and well-developed muscles screamed military. “You just got out of the service and decided to pay your sister a visit. She suggested Davy might be able to find you a job.”
He gaped. “Did you talk to Cree?”
Slowly I settled into one of the wingback chairs, folded my hands across my belly, and stretched out both legs; they hurt less that way.
I said: “Why else would an ex-Marine come to Philadelphia, if not to see your sister and her fiancé? You’re dressed up — I assume for a job interview — though I’d lose the baseball cap next time. But the real question,” I said, warming to the subject, “is why Davy Hunt sent you here.”
Bob frowned, brow furrowing. “He said he trusted your opinion. If you think I’m good enough, he’ll take me on.”
“In what capacity?”
“Bodyguard.”
I raised my eyebrows slightly. “Davy needs a bodyguard?”
“My sister thinks so.”
After their problem with blackmailers, I understood Cree’s concern. Davy’s net worth ran somewhere upwards of fifty million dollars — more than enough to make him a target for opportunists.
I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, the doorbell rang again. From outside came faint childish giggles.
“You can start by taking care of those kids,” I said to Bob. “Ask them not to bother me again.”
“Sir!” Like a panther, he sprang to the door and threw it open. Ten-year-old boys scattered, screaming, as he gave chase. I heard Bob shouting something about “whooping hides” if they bothered me again, then several doors slammed shut.
When he returned, he was grinning. “I love kids,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll bother you again, sir. At least, not for a few days.”
“Thanks.” Maybe bodyguards had their uses.
“Then you’ll give me a try?”
I stared at him blankly. “I don’t follow you.”
“Sir, I’m supposed to be your bodyguard for the next few days. You can kick the tires. Try me out. Make sure I’m everything I ought to be to keep David safe.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard. I don’t want a bodyguard. I leave my apartment once or twice a month at most!”
“David knew you’d say that.” His brow furrowed. “He told me to tell you — beg your pardon, sir — to shut up and pitch in.”
Just like Davy to be blunt with me. Maybe I did object too much. Maybe it did take a kick in the pants to get me moving. But did I really need a bodyguard?
It wasn’t for me, though. It was for Davy. If he valued my opinion this much... well, I needed to get him a Christmas present anyway. This would be it, as I would let him know the next time I saw him!
“Very well.” I motioned unhappily with one hand. I’d need rent money soon, anyway. “You can start bodyguarding in the morning. It’s time I ran some errands, anyway.”
Rent money meant a trip to Atlantic City and the casinos. Sometimes having a trick memory helped, like when I needed to know the number of face cards played from an eight-deck blackjack shoe.
“It’ll be over sooner if I start tonight, sir.”
“‘Over sooner’?” I chuckled. “Bob, you sound like you don’t want to babysit a seedy drunken cripple!”
“Sir!” He looked alarmed. “I never said that!”
“Then you do want to babysit a seedy drunken cripple?”
“That’s a fool’s argument, sir.” He shrugged with wry humor. “You know I can’t win. I just thought you’d want me out by Christmas Day.”
“I don’t care. Start when you want. End when you want. It’s all the same.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you have a place to sleep?”
“Uh... not yet. I was hoping to bunk here.”
It figured. Why did I suddenly feel like Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple, with an eager-beaver Felix about to move in?
“There’s only one bed,” I said, “and I’m usually passed out in it.”
“The sofa is fine — after sleeping in a humvee for six months, pretty much anything will do. Just give me a blanket and I’ll be out like a log.”
“There’s one in the linen closet.” I jerked my head toward the back of the apartment. “And an extra pillow on the top shelf.”
Using my walking stick, I levered myself unsteadily to my feet. My legs ached again. Slowly I limped toward my bedroom, thoughts of Jack Daniel’s and sweet oblivion dancing in my head.
Sometime later — it could have been hours, it could have been days — a loud humming filled my ears. It took a few minutes, but I finally realized the noise came from outside my skull. It shrilled on and on, incessant and very annoying.
When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I rolled over and opened my eyes. Daylight leaked in around the blinds, casting a pallid gray light over my bedroom. Groaning, I got my feet to the floor and sat up.
The world swung and tilted. My head throbbed and my eyes burned. It had been a long while since I’d felt this sick. Usually when pain and nausea and headaches hit I can lie still and wait for them to pass. This humming grated on my nerves so much, though, that I rose and stumbled toward the door.
When I entered the kitchen, the noise grew louder. But what brought me up short was the brilliant, blinding light.
Every surface gleamed. Steel and chrome and glass shone and glistened. The burnt-out bulbs in the ceiling fixture had been replaced, the dishes in the sink had been washed, and my months-old collection of pizza boxes had disappeared from the counter. Underfoot, the white-with-gold-specks linoleum had a new glossy sheen. Even the trash can had a fresh white plastic liner.
The humming came from the family room. Bob Charles slowly moved into view, pulling a little canister vacuum around the floor, sucking up dirt and dust bunnies. He wore a clean white shirt and tie, but had on the same brown pants as yesterday.
“Good morning,” he called cheerfully, switching off the vacuum. “Ready for breakfast?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. My voice came out as a croak.
“Tidying up.”
“Don’t you know the difference between a maid and a bodyguard? I was still in bed!”
“It’s ten-thirty in the morning. You’ve been asleep for more than sixteen hours, Pit. Half the day is gone!”
“Not asleep. Unconscious. Delightfully, painlessly unconscious. And how do you know my nickname?”
“Nickname?”
“Pit. Short for Pit-bull. Got it in college.”
“Didn’t you mention it yesterday?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
But I hadn’t. I could remember every word we had exchanged from the second I opened my front door to the second I’d gone to bed. Names, faces, facts, figures — I never forgot anything.
Maybe Davy had called me Pit, and Bob picked up on it subconsciously. I could only think of one other person besides Davy who still called me by my old nickname, and it seemed unlikely that Bob had ever met an organized crime figure like “Mr. Smith,” as he called himself.