"Answer the fucking question, motherfucker!"
"What the hell was I supposed to do?" Ketcham said. "The cop had just ripped me off of twenty thousand dollars, and I was handcuffed to the toilet. You think I liked what the cop did to her?"
"What cop? Did he have a name?"
"I don't know what his name is," Ketcham replied. "He was an undercover narc. Probably from that special squad of narcs."
"And what did he do to your lady that made her so upset?"
"He made her blow him," Ketcham said.
Cassandro looked at Mr. Savarese. His face was expressionless, but tears ran down both cheeks. When he saw Paulo looking at him, he gestured with his hand for him to continue.
"He made her what?" Cassandro asked.
"First he made her take off her clothes, and then he made her blow him."
"What did this cop look like?" Paulo asked.
"I don't know," Ketcham began, and then, quickly, to ward off another kick to the head or jab at his scrotum, went on. "White guy. Thirty years old. Average size-"
"What's his name, motherfucker?"
"I told you, I don't know. I never saw him before." Paulo Cassandro, sensing movement, turned to look at Mr. Savarese. Mr. Savarese was walking out of the room.
Cassandro went after him. Mr. Savarese stopped walking halfway down the corridor, took the white Irish linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, and dabbed at his eyes and cheeks with it.
"What do you want me to do with this bag of shit, Mr. S.?"
"Nothing," Mr. Savarese replied.
"Nothing?" Cassandro parroted incredulously.
"Get Pietro. Make sure we will leave nothing behind that belongs to us, and then close the door."
"Whatever you say, Mr. S.," Paulo said.
Mr. Savarese nodded, then walked down the corridor toward the door and the Ford flat-tire truck outside.
They were almost back at Classic Livery, Inc., before Paulo finally understood what Mr. S. had in mind for Ketcham.
Nothing didn't mean nothing. Nothing meant that the miserable fucking cocksucker who had dishonored Mr. S.'s granddaughter would have a long fucking time in the fucking dark to think over what he had done before he died. And there wasn't even anything in that fucking room he could use to kill himself, unless maybe he could bang his fucking head against the fucking wall until his brains came out.
That's really better than what I was going to do to the bastard.
Paulo Cassandro had taken the crowbar with him, thinking it would be the thing to use to break Ketcham's fingers and arms and kneecaps and legs before he put an ice pick in his ear.
He considered Mr. Savarese's decision on how to properly deal with Ketcham one more proof of Mr. Savarese's profound wisdom.
SEVENTEEN
After a long time in the bathroom-much of it looking at her reflection in the mirror, as if there was going to be some kind of answer there-Susan finally came out, wrapped in a hotel-furnished terry-cloth robe.
Matt was propped up against the headboard of the bed, naked except for a corner of the sheet over his groin, the telephone to his ear.
Matt said "Thank you" into the telephone and hung it up and looked at her.
"Who were you talking to?" Susan asked.
"Room service. You were in there so long, I got hungry. I told them to send up oysters and a bottle of champagne. "
Been watching a lot of Cary Grant movies, have you, Matt? A little elegant counterpoint to hot and heavy sex?
"Oysters and champagne?"
"Yeah. It seemed appropriate under the circumstances. "
"I don't like oysters," Susan said.
He reached for the telephone and dialed. The sheet over his groin was dislodged.
He either didn't notice or doesn't care.
"This is Mr. Payne," he said. "If it's not too late, make that one dozen oysters."
He hung up and moved back to his propped-up-against-the -headboard position and looked at her. He did not pull the sheet over his nakedness.
Why does that annoy me so much? What is he doing, exposing himself like that? Saying, "Now that I know what a hot-blooded bitch-what a good fuck-you are, why worry about decency?"
"You apparently have a lot of experience in circumstances like this," Susan heard herself say.
"Actually," he said wryly, "I have absolutely no previous experience in a circumstance even remotely like this one."
"Would you mind covering yourself?" she heard herself ask in the voice of a bitch.
"Sorry," he said, and grabbed for the sheet.
"I can't believe I did this," she said.
Matt shrugged. The shrug-his whole attitude-infuriated her.
He made it worse by asking, "You ever hear the expression 'These things happen'? Or, 'Sex is what makes the world go around'?"
"Goddamn you!" Susan said.
He looked at her without expression.
"What if I'm pregnant?" she heard herself blurting.
That surprised him.
"You're not on the pill?"
She felt herself blushing as she shook her head, "no."
"Why not?"
"I don't need it."
"That was an admission, in case you weren't aware of it, that there is no good ol' Whatsisname, the boyfriend your parents can't stand."
"Yes, there is-"
"Stop the bullshit, Susan," he interrupted her rather unpleasantly. "We don't have time for it. It'll only make things worse than they are. If that's possible."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she challenged.
He patted the bed beside him.
He's ordering me to shut up and get back in bed! Goddamn him!
"What makes you think we're going to do that again? Ever?"
"I told you we don't have time for bullshit. Sit down," he said, and then went on, "I said 'sit,' not 'lay.' "
Not knowing why she decided to give in, Susan went to the bed and sat on the edge. Matt took her hand in his.
For a moment, thinking he was going to put her hand on him under the sheet, she debated jerking her hand free. But she sensed, somehow, that having her fondle him was not-at least for the moment-on his mind.
"You were a little surprised about this, right?" Matt asked seriously. "What's happened to us?"
"That's the understatement of the century," she said.
"Well, me, too, fair maiden. This is the last thing I expected to happen, or wanted to happen."
"That's not the impression you gave me."
"The cops are onto you, fair maiden."
"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged again, and again it infuriated her.
"Truth time," Matt said, "For example, to clear the air: When you were not in your room in the Bellvue with the nonexistent boyfriend, you were off meeting a guy named Bryan Chenowith and/or one or more of his fellow fugitives."
"Oh, my God!"
"Yeah," Matt said. "In other words, the jig is up. You are what is known in the criminal statutes, state and Federal, as an accessory after the fact. And actually, I want to be sure about the after the fact."
"You son of a bitch! You went to my house! You had dinner with my parents. And all the time-"
"You left out 'made love to me.' Guilty on all counts. And I'm going to take great pleasure in seeing your pal and his friends hauled off to the slammer without possibility of parole for the rest of their natural lives. My problem is what to do about you."
She looked at him with horror in her eyes, but didn't speak.
"I don't want you to go to the slam, fair maiden. That would distress me terribly."
"Why should that bother you, Mr. Detective?" Susan flared, and started to get off the bed. She wondered if she was going to throw up.
He held her wrist, and he was too strong for her.
"I'm not through," he said, not very pleasantly.