popular figures in Gullytown), nodded. Her suede ankle boots hovered two inches from the floor.
“Please! Whatever you do, don’t hurt him!”
“Then tell me what you know—and be quick about it!”
While he was waiting, Celia produced from his pocket a small rectangular cellophane packet which contained white powder, some of which he proceeded to remove and lick from the ends of his fingers.
As she hobbled away, Babbie Connolly thanked God that her mother wasn’t alive.
“Please, mister,” she pleaded shakily, “all I know is that that was the man I saw through the window. And there was some kind of argument. I don’t know what it was about—I think it was over money. They were—”
“Go on!” snapped Celia, interjecting and sniffing some “snow.”
“No! Don’t hurt me! They were arguing and shouting. And then—one of them pulled a gun!”
“And—?”
“Then all I remember—I heard shooting. And when I looked again—they were all dead. That was when the other man appeared.”
“Other man?” shouted Celia, a small cloud of white dust ghostily ascending between them. “What in the hell are you talking about? What did he look like? Who was he with? What was he wearing? What did he say? How long did he stay? What was his name?”
Babbie Connolly covered her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffled.
“As God is my judge, mister, I don’t know,” she pleaded. “I’m only telling you what I know. That I saw the man and he took the money and ran away with it.”
Celia smashed his fist into the wall.
“What did he look like? How did he speak? What did he wear?”
Babbie Connolly’s cry was a heartrending plea from the pit.
“I don’t know, God help me! All I know is—he was wearing a big long coat!”
“Coat? What color was it?”
“Black. Like yourself,” replied Babbie.
Celia released her and retreated slightly. The kitchen seemed full of his breathing.
“You’d better be right, pussyface,” he said, “because if you’re not—”
He kissed the butt of his Walther PPK. Babbie Connolly recoiled in horror, the eyes of her trusted pet seeming to transmit coded signals which sheepishly declared, “If only I was bigger and could help.”
The small cottage rocked to its foundations as the door slammed behind the cold-blooded, ring-wearing Gun for Hire.
The following day was the hottest for months. There was no indication of any letup. “Torrential rainstorms are expected for the next three weeks,” the radio had said. Parked in a lay-by, Celia watched as his windscreen wipers swept back and forth in a sickening watery dance of tedium. To top it all, the only tape in the car was Sergio Mendes—Brasil 66, Greatest Hits Compilation.
“How the muggafuggin’ fug did that get here?” he growled, tossing it out into the driving rain. He tapped the walnut-paneled dash with his amethyst ring. How he wished he was back in Detroit. With a long cool drink in front of him and Quincy Jones on the hi-fi. “Damn!” he repeated. “Fuggamuthin’ damn!”
The old man with the umbrella and the tan raincoat shook his head emphatically.
“No!” he repeated irksomely. “You’re way off! You’ll have to go back the way you came!”
Celia swore as he spun the steering wheel and negotiated the coupé backward along the erratic necklace of potholes and puddles.
“You’re not on Route 66 now! I suppose that’s what you’re thinkin’!” called the pensioner after him. “Aye! Well, you’re not!”
His thin, ungenerous face confused Celia. How he would have loved to reach in his pocket and—but no. He wasn’t worth it, the piece of—
A huge swoosh of dirty brown water engulfed the pensioner as the coupé swept by.
“You effing bastard!” he shouted, umbrella-stabbing the air wildly. “Look at me, you big black miserable string of misery! Come back here and I’ll run Route 66 right up your hole!”
It was clear there was going to be some fun in Sullivan’s whenever Pat would arrive in for his nightly drink. As he did now, dressed up to the nines in his swanky paisley shirt and matching de, not to mention a beige safari jacket absolutely guaranteed to stop the street in its tracks. Timmy was the first to speak, spreading his hands on the marble counter and marveling: “Well, Pat! You’re the man that’s looking well tonight! I suppose you’re for the dance, eh?”
Pat smiled as he settled himself on the high stool.
“Maybe, Timmy. Just maybe,” he replied, rubbing his hands as he surveyed the multicolored xylophone of upended bottles before him.
“Right so, Pat,” continued Timmy. “Now what’ll it be? A pint, I suppose, as usual?”
Pat