American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,26

buried him today, for God’s sakes. So who is this one meant for?” Her eyes thin. “And, if you’re making me run her again, the next?”

Bolan, who has been perfectly still throughout this, grows even stiller. Then he stands up, walks around his desk, and sits down in the chair beside her. He watches her with his hooded eyes, disappointed. Because they are not discussing a murder: this is business, and Mal is inconveniencing him.

He takes a breath, the air whistling through his nostrils, and lets it out. Then he snatches out with his thick boxer’s hands and grabs Mallory’s head by the temples. Mallory cries out and tries to push back, but Bolan is extremely strong, and this is a dance he knows too well.

He pulls her close, close enough that his breath washes over her face. “Are you going to fucking do it?” he asks. “Huh? You had better, girl, you had fucking better. Because though I need you, and I do need you, you got an easy job here. I ain’t asking you to put a bullet in her or cut her any, but I could and I’d expect you to do it. I’m just asking you to give her a dose. And you’re going to give her a dose, Mal. Because like I said, the hard way is hard on everyone, but it’ll be especially hard on you.”

Mallory groans and screams and struggles against him, but Bolan knows no one can hear over the noise from downstairs. “What do you say?” he breathes. “What do you say, Mal? What do you fucking say?”

Then he stops. She stops moving as well.

A small white light has just lit up on his desk. Both of them freeze and look. Then they look back at one another, wondering what to do next.

Bolan’s mouth twists. He shoves her away and stands up. “Stay right there,” he says.

Mallory laughs and looks up at him, grinning. “They whistle and you come running, is that it?”

Bolan makes a move to hit her, and she flinches and raises an arm. But he lowers his hand and adjusts his collar. “Stay right fucking there,” he says again, and he goes to his closet door and opens it.

Behind it is a low, dark hallway with foam-soundproofed walls. There is only one light, a bare bulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling at the very end. This bulb is always on. Bolan has to change it every two weeks.

Below the light is a very curious contraption. It stands on a small iron pedestal, and is protected by a tall glass dome. It has a wide, round, heavy base, and a bronze frame, and many small gears and wheels laid against one another. The biggest wheel holds a large roll of white tape, and the machine is clacking and clicking away merrily, writing something out on the tape. Once, decades ago, the machine was used to print out the prices of stocks, recording the falling and rising of fortunes and making a small pile of financial data on the ground. But Bolan knows that what it is printing now is definitely not stock prices.

He shuts the door carefully behind him and locks it. This side of the door has been soundproofed as well. He cannot afford to have anyone listening to the conversations he has in here.

He takes a breath and walks to the stock ticker. It has just printed out a very small message, composed in neat, staggered writing. He picks it up (trying hard not to notice his trembling hands) and reads:

WHO WAS THE GIRL

“What?” Bolan asks. He does not direct this to the stock ticker, but to the air just above it. “What girl? Which girl do you mean?” He wonders if they mean Bonnie, or Mallory, or maybe even some other girl they used for… whatever. Bolan has so many plates spinning on so many poles, sometimes it’s hard for him to keep them straight.

And then, despite all the soundproofing, and no one being nearby that Bolan can see, a response ticks out. As it always does.

THE GIRL AT THE FUNERAL IN THE RED CAR

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Bolan. “I had a man at the funeral. He didn’t see…” He pauses. Then he sighs, shuts his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Fucking Dord! he thinks, but he dares not say this out loud. Fucking dumbshit fucking Dord! Didn’t see or hear anything, did you?

Bolan swallows. “You may