Good Lord, Deliver Us (14 page)

Drifting along slowly, checking
addresses, the heat rising inside the Cavalier, Z got his first
glance of what had to be the Smith residence up ahead, a faded
green cottage in the middle of a line of similar dwellings, all
with grass and bushes and trees and garages on the
right.

Approaching the boxy structure, Z
could see no sign of life, on a day this hot, not meaning
much.

Nuzzling to a stop in front of the
house, Z pried his body from the cramped seat of the little car, Z
rounding the front of the Cavalier to stumble across the tree-lined
curbing, there to cross the brick sidewalk to go up the house's
concrete walk (most of it mercifully under the shade of a big elm
to the right-center of the postage-stamp yard).

To the other side of the yard was
something Z could have done without: a peaked roof dog house. Dogs
having never made Z's list of "favorite things," it was natural for
Z to notice -- excellent detective that he was -- a healthy-sized
stake driven in front of the little house, a substantial chain
snaking from the iron peg to the inside blackness of the four-foot
tall structure.

Large-sized kennel for a big dog. An
old dog, was Z's hope. Inside in the shade. Too hot to want any
part of Z.

No canine smell because the wind, what
there was of it, was blowing in the opposite direction.

Swinging wide beyond what he hoped was
the doggy-chain's length, Z reached the lady's house at last, the
dog not yet showing himself.

Climbing three concrete steps to the
narrow cement porch, Z pushed the door bell, faint chimes bringing
their two-note announcement of a visitor. (Excellent deadbolt on
the door. He'd installed a hundred of them. .... Ten, at
least.)

Three rings -- followed by a white
flash of face at the door's small, four-pane window, the door then
opening ... just a little. "Yes?"

Z was tempted to say he was a cop, in
spite of not having a cop's badge. (A man could get into too much
trouble carrying one of those.) Instead, he flashed the detective
card he'd had made up for himself.

"My name is Zapolska. Bob
Zapolska."

"Are you from the police?" the woman
asked in a frightened voice.

Good! She couldn't tell one badge from
another. "This won't take long," Z said, doing his best to sound
official, letting her believe her guess was right.

The door closed again to a chain lock
rattle, the Smith woman swinging back the door and motioning Z in
with quick waves of her free hand, Z entering, the woman hardly
waiting for him to clear the door before slamming it shut behind
him.

Eyes adjusting to the dark of the
house, Z saw he was in a square living room, lamps on occasional
tables, chairs, coffee table, an ultramarine divan, end table with
white phone, heavy, midnight-blue drapes at all windows.

Oak-framed paintings decorated the
room's smoky walls. Desert vistas; cactus below pink and purple
buttes; rocky wastes. Z's eyes were not yet focused enough to tell
if the pictures went beyond the "starving artist" kind.

No ... flowers in the room.

Z tested the air again.

No plants at all.

He sniffed once more, delicately. The
lady had been eating out. Zero cooking odors.

The only fragrance Z could pick up was
lemon-scented furniture polish. And ... sweat. Which Z thought ...
an odd combination.

The living room had a
picked-up, spotless look, the orderly appearance of the place
typified by a low pile of magazines on a coffee table that fronted
the blue cloth divan. Curiously, Z noticed that the magazines had
been more than straightened; recognized they'd been
sorted
, so that the
largest periodical was on the bottom, the smallest on top --
pyramid-style.

Compulsive. ... Anyone who would
arrange magazines like that had to be compulsive.

"Sit down, please," the lady said in a
high, worried voice, motioning Z toward a ladder-back chair
opposite the coffee table and divan, the woman remaining in the
middle of the room, kneading her fingers, the lady of medium
height, slender more than fleshy. She wore a navy blue linen dress
with a white blouse that looked like it could be silk. Her shoes
matched her dress. Her small earrings and necklace featured
regimental blue stones, jewelry that complimented her skirt and
high-heel shoes.

In the room's twilight, Z
could see that she was ... blond, her hair the color of honey.
Soft-waved; shoulder-length. She was pretty, in a big-blond,
broad-faced way. At least she
would
be pretty if she'd had some sleep. As it was,
indigo circles ringed her light blue eyes, circles, of course, that
matched her dress. She seemed ... shaky, skittish. If anyone could
be said to be "pacing" while standing still, that was what she was
doing.

"I wanted to ask about a Dale
Ruble."

"I don't know him."

"A cousin?"

"Doesn't mean I know him."

"You've been questioned about the
situation before?" She nodded. "No reason to believe he'd come
here?"

"No."

"Did the cops talk to you about being
careful?"

"Said Liberty police would watch the
house when they could. ... Say, who are you? Not police!" Her eyes
looked ... wild.

"
You
said that, I didn't. I'm
official, though. I'm a detective. Private."

"A ... private detective?" She seemed
relieved.

"Yes, ma'am."

"People ... hire you?"

"Yes, ma'am, though I'm asking about
Ruble on my own."

"Could
I
hire you?"

"Sure." What was going on, here? Was
the lady so scared she thought she needed a bodyguard?

"How much will it cost? He doesn't pay
like he's supposed to."

Z had already heard enough. This had
nothing to do with Ruble. The "he" who "doesn't pay" was a
reference to the woman's wayward husband, Z to be hired to track
down the miserable wretch. Or, if the husband's whereabouts were
known, shake money out of him. It was the kind of case Z disliked
most, nothing nastier than the mutual hatred of ex-husbands and
ex-wives. Fortunately, Z's current job allowed him to turn the
woman down.

Since he'd pushed his way into her
house, however, the polite thing to do was listen to the lady's
story.

Z now became aware that
his eyes had
stopped
adjusting to the room's "light." Because ... there was no
light in the room, except what leaked in around drawn curtains. The
woman had traveled farther down fear road than he'd thought; even
with the windows
covered
, she'd not turned on a
light. And this was in the middle of the
afternoon
. ... Why? ... Not because
of the cousin, apparently. ... For fear of the husband? Maybe
Z
ought
to listen
to her. Anyway, Z could always use the money another case would
bring.

"Tell me."

"I don't know why I married him," she
began, speaking slowly, hands twisting and twisting. "I don't think
it was because of his money. I'm sure it wasn't. But how I could
fall in love with that kind of man, I don't know."

It
was
the money, of course. Women
didn't care much about a man's looks, or about his age. (Maybe they
cared about the size of his dick, though Z would never have cause
to worry there.) What turned women on was money and power (neither
of those "turn ons" adding to
Z's
attractiveness.) "I guess he was nice to me in
the beginning. All men are. In the beginning. Even my father ...."
The woman stopped that line of thought. Fast. "I didn't know what
he did for a living. And I never even asked. Do you believe that?"
She looked across at Z, Z nodding encouragement.

Out of the corner of his eye, Z saw
something he hadn't expected to see in the living room,
particularly in the living room of an obsessively tidy woman: a set
of weights on a rack, plus a gray padded lifting bench with barbell
support, placed against the left wall. Lined up neatly, of
course.

Her husband's set?

Z took another, longer look at the
lady, trying to see her clearly in the dim light, finding her ...
fit. Sleepless, but fit, with the "sculpted" shape of someone who
worked out regularly. Making it was a good bet the barbell set was
hers.

Furniture polish ... and sweat.
Figured.

Continuing to observe the
woman, Z decided that, though it might be something of an enigma
why she'd married her husband, Z could see why men found
her
attractive.

"They say women marry their fathers."
Starting up again, her voice was lower, softer. "And if there's any
truth in that, that's what I did. My father was a ...." She stabbed
a look in Z's direction; drew a quick, deep breath. "If you must
know, he was a child molester." She shook her head; looked down at
her fumbling hands. "Me."

Z
hadn't
wanted to know. Like other
sensible men of his generation, he saw no reason to pick the scabs
off sexually embarrassing incidents in the long-dead
past.

Colored
rubbers? .... That was last night. He had to
concentrate on today.

"But I got away from him. They've got
safe houses for women like me. Even North-of-the-River. Battered
wives, they call us." If her old man had knocked her around, it
must have been some time ago, Z thought, but didn't say, the woman
without the usual facial bruises of marital abuse. "But you can't
stay there forever. So I came out. Rented this house.

"Now, he's found me. At first he said
he didn't care, as long as he didn't have to pay me one nickel. But
when I started divorce proceedings, he threatened to kill me." She
looked at Z. Hard. "I can see it in your face. You don't think he'd
do it."

Of
course
Z didn't think her husband
would kill her -- Susan's ex the lone exception that proved the
rule. That was just the way men talked when they got angry. (It had
been Z's experience that most of the trouble between men and women
was caused by women refusing to understand the male point of view.)
What bothered Z was how easily the woman had understood
Z's
skepticism, how
quickly she'd figured out that Z didn't believe her. A poker face
was more of an asset in the life and death games a P.I. played than
in gambling.

She was just guessing. Had to
be.

"He would, you know," the
lady said, her voice going softer still. "In a minute. Oh, it
wouldn't
look
like murder. It'd be an accident. Something going wrong with
the brakes on my car. A truck jumping the curb as I stood on a
corner. Hit and run. Or, as I'm shopping, I'd be struck by a stray
bullet. Too bad. Just an accident. Happens to innocent bystanders
all the time." Said bitterly.

Z could see a glisten of tears in the
woman's eyes, tears that suddenly overflowed to be swiped away
quickly by alternating palms.

She was either a good actress or in
genuine terror.

Still, to claim her husband planned to
do away with her by arranging an accident? What did she think she
was, married to the mob?

"I know how this sounds," she said,
shaking her head, her soft blond hair brushing her shoulders. "It
sounds ... crazy." She tried smiling. "And this won't help. The
reason I didn't know what his job was? The reason he didn't tell
me? It's because he's ... a professional killer."

She stared at Z again. "Go ahead and
laugh. But that's what he is."

As if absolved of a guilty secret, the
woman sighed. "No one knows it, but the Mafia's come
North-of-the-River. And he's part of it. Connected to it,
anyway."

Z
wasn't
laughing. Nor was he one of
the people who thought wise guy business stopped at the river's
edge. Z knew Johnny Dosso.

Still, what were the odds that the
lady's husband ....?

There was a noise to the right, Z
flinching in that direction like a cat's ears twitch toward any
sudden sound.

The door.

Opening! ......

To let in nothing but a child. A small
boy. White-blond hair. Solemn, colorless eyes, standard issue
uniform of jeans and shirt. Maybe seven. Eight.

Turning, the boy closed the door.
Softly.

"Hi, honey," the woman said, smiling
too much.

"'Lo," the boy answered in his high,
child's voice, the boy cautiously turning to face the
room.

"This is a friend of mine, Mr.
...."

"Zapolska."

"'Lo," the boy said.

"Hi," Z croaked, never knowing what to
say to children. If Z had ever been that young, he didn't
remember.

Introduction time over, the boy began
walking slowly, almost carefully, into the room, making a wide
circle around both Z and his mother to disappear through a center
arch leading to the back of the house.