Murder on the Rocks. Talmage Powell

dropped the nail file in his pocket, turned and walked toward the door, moving with those odd, anky-losed steps. Opening the door, he went into the hall. The door closed.

      I went over to the liquor cabinet and put a fifth to my lips. Cold out of the bottle the liquor tasted like steel. I shivered. I wasn’t planning a big drunk. Just enough alcohol to get the blood moving again, however slowly. Putting away the bottle, I thought about latching the snub chain in case Cadena had any afterthoughts. Only it seemed kind of useless. If he wanted in, he could poke his hand through the panel as if it were wet cardboard. Tough. But Vance Bodine’s lieutenants had to be tough. If you gambled with Bodine and lost the bet, you paid and no argument. Nobody welshed and lived. And so Vance Bodine lived like a baron on a white-fenced estate in Fairfax County’s lush bluegrass, gave bigger parties than a movie magnate, and collected tribute from his fiefs.

      I thought of Tip Cadena and shivered again. He must have been tailing Iris today, watching the Georgetown duplex. Tip or one of his monkeys. Or maybe Iris was only part of the reason for this little call. Maybe Vance Bodine had assigned his boys to my tail at the Hotel Flora. After all, Bodine supplied people like Silvio with their kicks. Maybe Silvio was doing a job in repayment and here I was messing into a theft and a murder. Or I could be just dreaming up a lot of nightmares for myself. I sure as hell hoped that was all they were.

      Turning off the light, 1 went back to the bedroom and sat down on the bed. Hogan’s, I thought bitterly. Why the hell did I have to stop there for lunch when the icebox held plenty of coldcuts? Why, after all these years, did Jean Ross remember me as a fellow both reliable and discreet, and feel obliged to impart my name to Iris Calvo Sewall?

      Keep out of the public places, I told myself. The office and the ketch, they’re for you. Exclusively.

      Lying back, I touched my numb shoulder. Gently. It would be a week before his prints wore off.

      Finally the liquor began to work and I fell asleep.

      Sometime during the night a big Siamese cat clawed its way onto the bed. Its eyes were milky sapphires and its fur was brushed silk. It curled up on my face. I tried to push it off but I was too weak, and so it lay there, smothering me until dawn.