She dealt cards mechanically, with remarkable speed. Three men were perched on stools ranged around the table where she worked. No one said a word. The communication was by the slightest lift of a hand, cards turned over or placed under substantial bets, a shoulder shrugged as the up card showed. Two down, one up. Flick, flick. One man scraped the edge of his up card against the surface of the table, asking for a hit. On the second round, one man turned up a blackjack and she paid off — two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of chips. I could see his eyes take her in as she flicked the cards back, shuffling quickly, dealing out cards again. He was thin, with a narrow balding head and a dark mustache, shirt sleeves rolled up, underarms stained with sweat. His gaze drifted down across her body and back up again to the immaculate face, cold and clean, the green eyes blazing. She paid no particular attention to him, but I had the feeling the two of them might do some private business later on. I retreated to another table, watching her from an easy distance. At 1:30, she took a break. Another dealer took her place and she crossed the casino, heading toward the Fiesta Room, where she ordered a Coke and lit up a cigarette. I followed.
“Are you Sharon Napier?” I asked.
She looked up. Her eyes were rimmed with dark lashes, the green taking on an almost turquoise hue in the fluorescent light overhead.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” she said.
“I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “May I sit down?”
She shrugged by way of consent. She took a compact out of her pocket and checked her eye makeup’, removing a slight smudge of shadow from her upper lid. Her lashes were clearly false, but the effect was flashy, giving her eyes an exotic slant. She applied fresh lip gloss, using her little finger, which she dipped into a tiny pot of pink. “What can I do for you?” she asked, glancing up briefly from her compact mirror.
“I’m looking into the death of Laurence Fife.”
That stopped her. She paused, her whole body going still. If I’d been taking a picture, it would have been the perfect pose. A second passed and she was in motion again. She snapped the compact shut and tucked it away, taking up her cigarette. She took a long drag, watching me all the while. She flicked an ash. “He was a real shitheel,” she said brusquely, smoke wafting out with each word.
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “Did you work for him long?”
She smiled. “Well, you’ve done your homework at any rate. I bet you even know the answer to that.”
“More or less,” I said. “But there’s lots I don’t know. Want to fill me in?”
“On what?”
I shrugged. “What it was like to work for him? How you felt about his death …”
“He was a prick to work for. I felt terrific about his death,” she said. “I hated secretarial work in case you haven’t guessed.”
“This must suit you better,” I said.
“Look, I got nothing to discuss with you,” she said flatly. “Who sent you up here anyway?”
I took a flyer on that one. “Nikki.”
She seemed startled. “She’s still in prison. Isn’t she?”
I shook my head. “She’s out.”
She took a moment to calculate and then her manner became somewhat more gracious. “She’s got bucks, right?”
“She’s not hurting, if that’s what you mean.”
She stubbed out her cigarette, bending the live ember under and mashing it flat. “I’m off at seven. Why don’t you come out to my place and we can chat.”
“Anything you’d care to mention now?”
“Not here,” she said.
She rattled out her address and I dutifully jotted it down in my notebook. She glanced off to the left and I thought at first she was lifting a hand to greet a friend. Her smile flashed and then faltered and she glanced back at me with uncertainty, turning slightly so that my line of sight was blocked. I peered back over her shoulder automatically but she distracted my attention, touching the back of my hand with a fingernail. I looked at her. She towered over me, her expression remote.
“That was the pit boss. End of my break.”
She told lies the way I do, with a certain breezy insolence that dares the listener to refute or contradict.
“I’ll see you at seven then, ” I said.
“Make it seven forty-five,” she said easily. “I need time to unwind from work.”
I wrote out my name and the name of my motel, tearing a sheet from my notebook. She made a sharp crease and tucked the slip into her cigarette pack under the cellophane wrapper. She walked away without a backward glance, hips swaying gracefully.
The mashed butt of her cigarette was still sending up a drift of smoke and my stomach emitted a little message of protest. I was tempted to hang around, just to keep an eye on her, but my hands were feeling clammy and I longed to lie down. I didn’t feel good at all and I was beginning to think that my flu symptoms might be more real than reactionary. The headache was creeping up again from the back of my neck. I walked out through the lobby. Fresh air helped me some but only momentarily.
I drove back to the Bagdad and bought a 7Up from the vending machine. I needed to eat but I wasn’t sure anything would stay down. It was early afternoon and I didn’t have to be anywhere until well after suppertime. I put the Do Not Disturb sign on my door and crawled back into my unmade bed, pulling the covers around me tightly. My bones had begun to ache. It was a long time before I got warm.
CHAPTER 13
The telephone rang with startling shrillness and I awoke with a jolt. The room was dark. I had no idea what time it was, no idea what bed I was in. I groped for the phone, feeling flushed and hot, shoving the covers away from me as I propped myself up on one elbow. I flicked on the light, shading my eyes from the sudden harsh glare.
“Hello?”
“Kinsey, this is Sharon. Did you forget about me?”
I looked at my watch. It was 8:30. Shit. “God, I’m sorry,” I said. “I fell asleep. Will you be there for a while? I can be right over.”
“All right,” she said coolly, as though she had better plans. “Oh, hang on. There’s someone at my door.”
She put the phone down with a clack and I pictured it resting on the hard Formica surface of the tabletop. I listened idly, waiting for her to come back. I couldn’t believe I’d overslept and I was kicking myself for my stupidity. I heard the door open and her muffled exclamation of surprise. And then I heard a brief, nearly hollow report.
I squinted, sitting up abruptly. I pressed my ear to the phone, pressing my hand over the receiver. What was going on? The receiver was picked up on her end. I expected to hear her voice and I nearly spoke her name but some impulse made me clamp my mouth shut. There was the sound of breathing in my ear, the sexless hushed tones of someone slightly winded. There was a whispered “hello” that chilled me. I closed my eyes, willing myself to silence; an alarm had spread through my body in a rush that made my heart pound in my ears. There was a small breathy chuckle and then the line went dead. I slammed the phone down and reached for my shoes, grabbing my jacket as I left the room.
The jolt of adrenaline had washed my body clean of pain.
My hands were shaking but at least I was in motion. I locked the door and went out to the car, my keys jingling as I tried to hit the ignition switch. I started the car and backed out rapidly, heading toward Sharon’s apartment. I reached for the flashlight in my glove compartment, checking it. The light was strong. I drove, anxiety mounting. She was either playing games or dead, and I suspected I knew which.
I pulled up across the street. The building showed no particular signs of activity. No one was moving about. There were no crowds gathered, no police cars parked at the street, no sirens wailing an approach. There were numerous cars parked in the slots, and the lights in the building had been turned on in almost every apartment that I could see. I reached around in the backseat, removing a pair of rubber gloves from my locked briefcase. My hand touched the short barrel of my little automatic and I desperately longed to tuck that in my windbreaker pocket. I wasn’t sure what I’d find in her apartment, wasn’t sure who might be waiting for me, but the notion of being discovered there in possession of a loaded gun wouldn’t do at all if she was dead. I left the gun where it was and got out, locking my car, tucking the keys into my jeans.