A Spoonful of Luger (20 page)

“Now
look
here
— ”

“You
keep
your
trap
shut,”
Rose
shrieked
at
him.
“Don’tcha
see,
he’s
connin’
you!”

Mike
looked
hurt.
“He’s
suggesting
somethin’.”

I
smiled
at
such
an
idea.
“I’m
not
suggesting
a
thing.
It
merely
occurred
to
me
that
Cleave
gave
your
brother
an
alibi
last
time,
and
your
brother’s
missing
now,
and
you
seem
to
be
expecting
the
police ... ”
 
I
shrugged.
He
was
coming
slowly
to
his
feet,
measuring
me.
“And
there’s
another
little
girl
gone
missing ... ”

I
swayed
sideways.
Rose
screamed,
and
Mike’s
fist
moved
the
hair
sticking
out
of
my
right
ear.
I
caught
his
wrist.
I
had
absolutely
no
faith
in
what
I
was
suggesting,
but
I
needed
his
anger.

He
twisted
free,
crouched,
glared, and
Rose
screamed
for
him
to
push
my
face
in.

“And
why
here?”
I
asked.

“What?”
It
held
him.

“What
was
Cleave
doing
here?
It’s
thirty
miles
from
his
place.”

That
I
was
obviously
mad
restrained
him,
an
instinct
to
preserve
the
weak,
no
doubt.
He
shrugged,
turned
away,
and
thrust
three
fingers
of
each
hand
into
the
pockets
of
his
jeans.

“People
meet.
It’s
gotta
be
somewhere.”
He
whirled
on
Rose,
venting
his
anger.
“And
finish
them
potatoes!”

I
thought
the
knife
was
going
into
his
guts,
but
she
sneered
and
went
back
to
the
sink.
He
crashed
down
again
onto
the
settee.

“Norm
had
wrecked
a
car,”
he
conceded.

“Then
why
didn’t
he
sell
it
to
a
local
scrapyard?
Why
did
Cleave
come
all
this
way
for
it?
You
mean
they
weren’t
strangers?”

“The
best
price,”
he
grumbled.
“You
phone
around.”

“Long
distance?
A
wrecked
car?”

“I
don’t
have
to
talk
to
you.”

“Of
course
you
don’t.
But
you
are.
That’s
not
good.
Where
is
he
now,
then?
Crashing
another
car?”

I
thought
I’d
gone
too
far,
and
it
was
too
early
for
that.
But
he
relaxed.

“I
dunno.”
And
he
didn’t.
Mike
was
worried.

“He’s
your
brother.
He
lives
here.”

“He
comes
and
goes.”

“When
did
he
last
go?”

“Over
a
week.
A
week
ago
last
Saturday.”

Rose
said:
“Shut
your
stupid
gob.”

I
reached
over
for
the
newspaper.
It
was
the
same
one
as
I
took,
so
I
knew
where
to
find
it,
only
a
small
paragraph
but
still
important
enough
to
reach
the
dailies.
I
slapped
the
paper
down
under
his
nose.

“That
Saturday?
The
day
after
Dulcie
Randall
went
missing?”

His
head
remained
bending
over
it,
but
I
knew
he
was
not
reading,
and
didn’t
need
to.
I
waited,
watching
the deltoids
harden.
Then
he
came
up
from
that
settee
as
though
the
broken
springs
propelled
him,
and
there
was
nothing
scientific
about
his
approach.
He
went
for
my
eyes
with
one
hand,
my
guts
with
his
other
fist,
and
lower
down
with
his
knee.
All
that
saved
me
was
his
ambition;
he’d
extended
too
much.
I
stamped
hard
on
his
other
foot.

I
don’t
believe
in
violence.
As
far
as
I’m
concerned,
an
eye
for
an
eye
is
a
musty
creed
from
some
pagan
philosophy.
But
when
you’re
challenged
in
an
alien
tongue
you
respond
in
the
same
language,
or
you’re
apt
to
be
shot
down.
I
therefore
answered
in
the
only
language
he
knew.
While
he
was
still
howling
I
chopped
in
with
a
left
and
a
right,
to
the
twisted
mouth
and
the
distorted
ear.
He
hung
on,
that
wrecked
face
only
inches
from
mine.
It
was
unpleasant.
Then
Rose
was
scrambling
over
my
back,
and
I
felt
the
searing
heat
as
her
knife
ran
along
my
ribs.
That
sort
of
thing
is
annoying.
I
freed
an
elbow
and
jabbed
backwards.
Not gentlemanly,
I
suppose.
But
the
knife
went
away.
I
was
then
able
to
give
full
attention
to
Mike,
who
was
trying
to
eat
my
nose.
His
knee
was
going
up
and
down
like
a
roadmender’s
drill,
so
I
hooked
an
arm
under
it
and
heaved.
He
went
over
the
settee.
I
was
on
top
of
him
before
he
stopped
rolling,
and
the
breath
went
out
of
him.
One
knee
pinned
his
sternum
to
the
carpet,
one
hand
clipped
at
his
throat,
one
fist
slammed
his
head
back
onto
the
quarries.
He
said
something
disagreeable.
I
hit
him
in
the
mouth.