“They’ve got thirty-six employees. All but eleven of them are black, Doc, and out of that eleven honkies, six of them are women. That leaves, what? Five? Three of them is under twenty, meaning they were eight, nine, back when Frankie was at Valhalla. So we know that ain’t right. The other three don’t fit, either, for various other reasons.”
“What various other reasons?” I asked.
“Like they was just hired during the last couple of months, weren’t even working there when Beryl would have been bringing in her ride. Not to mention their physical descriptions aren’t even close. One guy’s got red hair, another one’s a munchkin, almost as short as you are.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’ll keep checking,” he said, turning away from the bird feeder as Sammy Squirrel watched us with pink-rimmed eyes. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
‘Tour office downtown know you still work there?”
Marino asked.
He was looking strangely at me.
“Everything’s under control,” I added.
“I’m not so sure about that, Doc.”
“I’m quite sure of it.”
“Me”–Marino wouldn’t give it a rest–“I think you ain’t doing so hot.”
“I’m going to stay out of the office for a couple more days,” I explained firmly. “I’ve got to track down Beryl’s manuscript. Ethridge is on my case about it. And we need to see what’s there. Maybe the link you were talking about.”
“Just so long as you remember my rules.” He pushed back from the table.
“I’m being quite careful,” I assured him.
“And nothing more from him, right?”
“That’s right,” I said. “No calls. Not a sign of him. Nothing.”
“Well, let me just remind you his style wasn’t to call Beryl every day, either.”
I didn’t need the reminder. I didn’t want him starting in again. “If he calls, I’ll simply say, ‘Hello, Frankie. What’s going on?'”
“Hey. It ain’t a joke.”
He stopped in the foyer and turned around. “You were kidding, right?”
“Of course.” I smiled, patting his back.
“I mean, really, Doc. Don’t do nothing like that. You hear him on your machine, don’t pick up the damn phone–”
Marino froze as I opened the door, his eyes widening in horror.
“Holy shiiiiit …”
He stepped out on my porch, idiotically reaching for his revolver, casting about like a madman.
I was too stunned to speak as I stared past him, the winter air alive with the crackle and roar of heat.
Marino’s LTD was an inferno against the black night, flames dancing, licking up toward the quarter moon. Grabbing Marino’s sleeve, I yanked him back inside the house just as the wailing of a siren sounded in the distance and the gas tank exploded. The living room windows lit up as a ball of fire shot into the sky and ignited the small dogwood trees at the edge of my yard.
“Oh, God,” I cried as the power went out.
Marino’s big shape paced the carpet in the dark like a crazed bull about to charge as he fumbled with his portable radio and swore.
“The fucking bastard! The fucking bastard!”
I sent Marino away shortly after the incinerated heap that was left of his beloved new car was hauled off in a flatbed truck. He had insisted on staying the night. I had insisted that the several patrol units staking out my house would suffice. He had insisted I check into a hotel, and I had refused to budge. He had his wreckage to deal with and I had mine. My street and yard were a sooty swamp, the downstairs hazy with vile-smelling smoke. The mailbox at the end of my drive looked like a blackened match-stick, and I had lost at least half a dozen boxwoods and just as many trees. More to the point, though I appreciated Marino’s concern, I needed to be alone.
It was well past midnight and I was undressing in candlelight when the telephone rang. Frankie’s voice seeped like a noxious vapor into my bedroom, poisoning the air I breathed, fouling the privileged refuge of my home.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared blindly at the answering machine as bile crept up my throat and my heart thudded sickly against my ribs.