Danny Pogue’s whiny breathing seemed to fill the hallway. Bud Schwartz glared, held a finger to his lips. The door to the bedroom was wide open; somebody was switching the channels on the television. Momentously, Bud Schwartz smoothed his hair; Danny Pogue did the same. Bud Schwartz nodded and motioned with an index finger; Danny Pogue gave a constipated nod in return.
When they stepped into the room, they saw the blond woman from the golf painting. She was lying naked on the bed; two peach-colored pillows were tucked under her head, and the remote control was propped on her golden belly. At the sight of the burglars, the woman covered her chest. Excitedly she tried to speak—no sounds emerged, though her jaws moved vigorously, as if she were chewing a wad of bubble gum.
Inanely, Bud Schwartz said, “Don’t be afraid.”
The woman forced out a low guttural cry that lasted several seconds. She sounded like a wildcat in labor.
“Enough a that,” said Danny Pogue tensely.
Suddenly a door opened and a porky man in powder-blue boxer shorts stepped out of the bathroom. He was short and jowly, with skin like yellow lard. Tattooed on his left forearm was a striking tableau: Minnie Mouse performing oral sex on Mickey Mouse. At least that’s what it looked like to Danny Pogue and Bud Schwartz, who couldn’t help but stare. Mickey was wearing his sorcerer’s hat from Fantasia, and appeared to be whistling a happy tune.
Danny Pogue said, “That’d make a great T-shirt.”
With fierce reddish eyes, the man in the boxer shorts studied the two intruders.
“Honey!” cried the woman on the bed.
The man scowled impatiently. “Well, shit, get it over with. Take, you know, whatever the hell.”
Bud Schwartz said, “We didn’t mean to scare you, Mr. Kingsbury.”
“Don’t fucking flatter yourself. And, Penny, watch it with that goddamn thing!”
Still recumbent, the naked Mrs. Kingsbury now was aiming a small chrome-plated pistol at Danny Pogue’s midsection.
“I knew it,” muttered Bud Schwartz. He hated the thought of getting shot twice in the same week, especially by women. This one must’ve had it under the damn pillows, or maybe in the sheets.
Danny Pogue’s lips were quivering, as if he were about to cry. He held out his arms beseechingly.
Quickly Bud Schwartz said: “We’re not here to rob you. We’re here to talk business.”
Kingsbury hooked his nubby thumbs into the elastic waistband of his underpants. “Make me laugh,” he said. “Break into my house like a couple of putzes.”
“We’re pros,” said Bud Schwartz.
Kingsbury cackled, snapping the elastic. “Two hands, babe,” he reminded his wife.
Danny Pogue said, “Bud, make her drop it!”
“It’s only a.25,” said Kingsbury. “She’s been out to the range—what?—a half-dozen times. Got the nerves for it, apparently.”
Bud Schwartz tried to keep his voice level and calm. He said to Kingsbury: “Your office got hit yesterday, right?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah.”
“You’re missing some files.”
The naked Mrs. Kingsbury said, “Frankie, you didn’t tell me.” Her arms were impressively steady with the gun.
Kingsbury took his hands out of his underwear and folded them in a superior way across his breasts, which were larger than those of a few women whom Danny Pogue had known.
“Not exactly the Brink’s job,” Kingsbury remarked.
“Well, we got your damn files,” said Bud Schwartz.
“That was you? Bullshit.”
“Maybe you need some proof. Maybe you need to see some credit-card slips.”
Kingsbury hesitated. “Selling them back, is that the idea?”
Some genius businessman, thought Bud Schwartz. The guy was a bum, a con. You could tell right away.
“Tell your wife to drop the piece.”
“Penny, you heard the man.”
“And tell her to go lock herself in the John.”
“What?”
The wife said, “Frankie, I don’t like this.” Carefully she placed the gun on the nightstand next to a bottle of Lavoris mouthwash. A tremor of relief passed through Danny Pogue, starting at the shoulders. He hopped across the room and sat down on the corner of the bed.
“It’s better if she’s in the john,” Bud Schwartz said to Francis X. Kingsbury. “Or maybe you don’t care.”
Kingsbury gnawed his upper lip. He was thinking about the files, and what was in them.