“No,” Chemo said.
“Good. Makes for a cheaper tombstone.”
Chemo told Maggie to close the door, but Maggie didn’t move. The sight of the pistol had made her nauseated all over again, and she was desperately trying to keep down her breakfast bagels.
“What’s the matter now?” Chemo snapped.
“She doesn’t look so hot,” Christina said.
“And who the fuck are you, Florence Nightingale?”
“What happened to your arm?” Christina asked him. A cool customer she was; Stranahan admired her poise.
Chemo got the impression that he was losing control, which made no sense, since he was the one with the pistol. “Shut up, all of you,” he said, “while I kill Mr. Stranahan here. Finally.”
At these words, Maggie Gonzalez upchucked gloriously all over Chemo’s gun arm. Given his general translucence, it was impossible to tell if Chemo blanched. He did, however, wobble perceptibly.
Mick Stranahan stepped forward and punched him ferociously in the Adam’s apple. The man went down like a seven-foot Tinkertoy, but did not release his grip on the gun. Maggie backed up and screamed, a primal wail that poured from the hole in her bandage and filled the hallway. Stranahan decided there was no time to finish the job. He pushed Christina Marks through the doorway and told her to go for the elevator. Gagging and spitting blood, Chemo rolled out of his fetal curl and took a wild shot at Christina as she ran down the hall. The bullet twanged impotently off a fire extinguisher and was ultimately stopped by the opulent Plaza wallpaper.
Before Chemo could fire again, Stranahan stomped on his wrist, still slippery from Maggie’s used bagels. Chemo would not let go of the gun. With a growl he swung his refurbished left arm like a fungo bat across his body. It caught Stranahan in the soft crease behind the knee and brought him down. The two men wrestled for the pistol while Maggie howled and clawed chimp-like at her swaddled head.
It was a clumsy fight. Tangled in the killer’s gangliness, Stranahan could not shield himself from a clubbing by Chemo’s oversized left arm. Whatever it was—and it wasn’t a human fist—it hurt like hell. His skull chiming, Stranahan tried to break free.
Suddenly he felt the dull barrel of the .38 against his throat. He flinched when he heard the click, but nothing else followed. No flash, no explosion, no smell. The bullet, Chemo’s second and only remaining round, was a dud. Chemo couldn’t believe it—that asshole in Queens had screwed him royal.
Stranahan squirmed loose, stood up, and saw that they had attracted an audience. All along the corridor, doors were cracked open, some more than others. Under Maggie’s keening he could hear excited voices. Somebody was calling the police.
Stranahan groped at his coat to make sure that the videotape was still in his pocket, kicked Chemo once in the groin (or where he estimated that the giant’s groin might be), then jogged down the hallway.
Christina Marks was considerate enough to hold the elevator.
19
Dr. Rudy Graveline was a fellow who distrusted chance and prided himself on preparation, but he had not planned a love affair with a Hollywood star. Heather Chappell was a distraction—a fragrant, gorgeous, elusive, spoiled, sulky bitch of a distraction. He couldn’t get enough of her. Rudy had come to crave the tunnel of clear thinking that enveloped him while making love to Heather; it was like a sharp cool drug. She screwed him absolutely numb, left him aching and drained and utterly in focus with his predicament.
For a while he kept cooking up lame excuses for postponing Heather’s elaborate cosmetic surgery—knowing it would put her out of action for weeks. Sex with Heather had become a crucial component of Rudy Graveline’s daily regimen; like a longdistance runner, he had fallen into a physical rhythm that he could not afford to break. TV people were after him, his medical career was in jeopardy, a homicide rap was on the horizon—and salvation depended on a crooked halfwit politician and a one-armed, seven-foot hit man. Rudy needed to stay razor-sharp until the crisis was over, and Heather had become vital to his clarity.