Good Lord, Deliver Us (28 page)

"I don't think so. Anyway, there will be no
charge."

"You're working for him, now! He's bought
you off! Has he hired you to kill me?" And what would be Z's answer
to that? The facts, he supposed, for he had nothing better to
offer.

"No.
He
told me the truth.
You
lied to
me."

"Lied to you? How?"

"To start with, you didn't tell me he'd
filed to get custody of your son."

"I ... didn't see that making a difference.
If he kills me, I'm just as dead, no matter what else he's
done."

"And you lied to me when you said he was a
hit man." Z wasn't certain about that, though the poverty in which
the man was living argued that way.

Another silence over the
phone. "
I
understand the kind of man he is. But getting people who
don't know him to believe how violent he can be, isn't easy. So to
get you to take this seriously, I ... made up that story. About my
husband being a killer. Which, if he kills me, he
will
be! For all I know,
he could have murdered a lot of other people." Z waited. "But don't
you see? I had to get you to realize how serious this
is."

"You set me up to kill him."

"No! ... Maybe. ... I don't know. To defend
their lives, people do desperate things."

"Yeah."

"But now, I can prove it to you! Now, I've
got the proof what a beast my husband is!"

"What?"

"I can't ... tell you over the phone. I have
to show you.

"Listen," she continued, in a softer tone.
"It's been a terrible week. My dog died." Z had seen the dog. Could
believe it. "Please, I'm begging you! Come over one more time. Just
one more time. And look at what I've got to show you. Then, if it's
nothing, you can drop me and go on about your business. I think
it's too late for me to get anyone else, but you be the judge. I'm
tired of living like a bat in a cave. With the blinds pulled down.
Afraid of staying home. Afraid of going out. I want an end to this
one way or the other. You can't blame me for fighting for my life,
can you? For my boy's life?" Z noted that this was the first time
the lady mentioned her son. Could mean something. Maybe not.

"OK."

"Tonight. Late."

"Eleven?"

"Midnight."

Z sighed. Was he
ever
going to get any
rest? No wonder he was catching a cold. "All right."

"Thank you! Oh, thank you!"

"Yeah."

After Z had hung up, he wondered what good
this midnight trip would do, the lady's lies cutting his connection
with her for all time. On the other hand, Z knew he was as much a
sucker for a woman's wiles as any man. For let a woman claim be in
trouble, and it was Z to the rescue.

Join the patsies of the world, Mr. Z. No
recommendation needed. No references called for. No need, even, to
fill out a form.

* * * * *

Judging the car's speed about right, Z
switched off the engine and parking lights to coast quietly down
the raven dark street toward the modest home of Vivian Smith. The
only remaining sound in the lukewarm, late-night air was tire
crunch on a scattering of road sand as Z angled toward the curb.
That, and a sleepy insect scraping its shrill call to its equally
sleepy mate.

It was the witching hour when sensible
people signed the cross to counteract the spells of sorceresses.
Specifically, an uncomfortably empty spot in Z's stomach warned him
to be ready for whatever unpleasant surprises the
attractive-and-decidedly-unpredictable Mrs. Smith might have in
store.

As susceptible as Z was to
any woman's charms, there was no sense in buzzing into a Venus
flytrap unprepared,
particularly
since the woman had stung him once before, the
lady admitting she'd told him that "hit man story" to make Z
trigger-happy. Nor could there be a doubt that, using a disguised
voice, it was the woman herself who'd warned her husband about Z's
approach; done that to panic hubby into going for
his
gun.

Finding the husband armed, believing him to
be a hitter, Z was supposed to have shot him in self defense.

Since Z was
also
in the business of
playing-dangerous-games, he could admire both the woman's plan and
the diabolical way she'd set the plot in motion.

Z sighed. It was at times like these he
wished he was still a child. At home in bed. Guarded by the hoary
Scottish prayer: "From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety
beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver
us!"

Returning to the Smith woman -- Z's mind
easily distracted for some reason -- what did she think she was
going to reveal to him that would convince an already skeptical Z
that her husband was a "beast"? A threatening letter sent by the
mister? If so, how did she propose to make Z believe she hadn't
doctored the letter for Z's benefit? (Z didn't even think he'd be
impressed by a cut-off dog's head nestled in the lady's bed.) Once
someone lied to him in any fundamental way, it was next to
impossible for that person to cozy up to Z again.

Of course, the lady didn't
know Z well enough to realize that, for him, the detective/client
relationship called for absolute trust at the minimum. Z
had
to believe in the
innocence of his clients in order to justify using an occasional
extralegal procedure to get justice. Shatter that confidence, and
Z's methods became no more than those of a thug, Z reduced to the
level of heavy hitter hired to break a rival's thumbs.

And what was this nonsense about Z needing
to come to the lady's house at midnight? Did she think her husband
was watching the place until then, that if she came to the door
before twelve he'd Uzi a scarlet letter on her chest?

More likely, she believed that late-night
disorientation set the proper mood to sell her histrionics as the
truth.

These were the thoughts jumbling Z's brain
as he coasted to a stop beyond the dark of the lady's house, the
house set in the greater blackness behind the Bateman College
hill.

What was she doing, hiding inside, afraid a
light might scare her with her own dark shadow?

Increasingly, Z had come
to believe
Mr
.
Smith's views of his wife's behavior, that the lady was some kind
of kook. A man-hater, the hubby had maintained -- a charge, yet to
be disproved.

She was certainly a waste of a beautiful
woman; a sterile lady living in an arid house, no comfortable
cooking smells in there, no scent but furniture polish and the odor
of the lady's self-indulgent sweat.

Z stared out the open window of his little
car to see that the night was shadow-thick in spite of a distant
sheen of stars.

Nothing moved along the street.

Not cats.

Not rats.

Shrinking into the distance were other
shadows on that midnight street, smaller and ever smaller doll
house-homes, seeming to have been lined along the road by giant
children who'd since been trundled off to bed.

Parked, observing his surroundings, an
ominous sensation seized Z each time he looked across the street,
the Smith house beckoning like a blackened maw, Z cast as "fly" in
the age-old web/fly game.

Knock on the front door and step into the
lady's parlor? ... "Not bloody likely!" as the Brits would say.
........

Z felt ... sick. So weak, even his case
would weight him down. Shook his head to clear it.

When expected in the front, Z had extended
his P.I. career -- to say nothing of his life -- by appearing
around the back.

Turning to click open his detective satchel,
by feel, Z removed his lock-picks, slipping the soft leather packet
in his right hip pocket.

What else -- keeping in mind his limited
carrying capacity? (When preparing for this evening's "jaunt," Z
had debated whether or not to put on his "night fighter" jacket,
but in the end, had let the heat make up his mind to leave it
behind. The consequence of that decision giving him his pants
pockets for carrying what he needed.)

Z took out his sap, of course, stuffing it
in his right pants pocket.

Since Z had no idea what
entertaining experiences the lady might have prepared for him, the
next decision was difficult. He felt he should have
something
else with him,
just in case, but ......

Just in case of what?

Z dug out his cigarette lighter, cupped it
with his hand and snapped on the flame, using the flickering light
to examine the other items in the case. (When possible, Z much
preferred the soft, warm waver of a lighter flame to the cold glare
of a soulless penlight.)

Again, Smith's gun was a temptation. He had
to get rid of that piece!

Z felt chilly. Shivered. Willed himself to
stop shaking.

From the rest of the contents, Z finally
selected a couple of cherry bombs -- always good for a distraction.
Made to be thrown, they'd explode on contact with any hard surface,
producing a satisfying bang ... a long ways away from Z. He put
them in his pocket.

What else?

For inspiration, Z turned to look across the
street at the shadowy house.

Was the lady even there? ............

Back to ... the problem ............

The one thing Z
didn't
want to do when
entering the blacked-out house was switch on a light, the sudden
glare blinding him to possible disaster.

Preferring to dazzle someone else if
necessary, an alternative source of illumination might come in
handy.

Z considered taking the small fireworks
fountain he had in the traveling bag. Set off the fountain and its
sparkling fire spray would light up any house.

The negative of that idea
was that a fountain might
really
light up the house, fountains, like their
directions said, to be used out of doors, well away from flammable
material.

Compromising, Z picked up
a couple of medium-sized sparklers --
their
draw back that they were
awkwardly long and thin -- an obstacle Z overcame by pulling up one
pant leg and sticking the fat ends of the sparklers down the inside
top of one sock.

Brushing down his pant's cuff to hide the
wire handles, he hoped he'd get used to the powder-encrusted wires
sticking up the groin-side of his calf.

Next, Z pocketed the can of lighter fluid
... and that was about all he could carry, dressed as he was, in a
flimsy short-sleeved cotton shirt and a pair of worn-out jeans.

Before setting out tonight, Z had put some
folded Kleenex in his back pocket, the same pocket where he had the
lock-picks, unnecessary since the prospect of danger was all it
took to dry up nasal drip, Z feeling as good right now as he had
all day.

Releasing the lighter's gas valve, the flame
winking out, Z slipped the warm cylinder back in his pocket.

As ready as he was going to get, closing the
valise, leaving it on the passenger's seat, Z popped the catch on
the car door and eased himself into the street, a street that, in
spite of a heavenly banner of spangled stars and a hook of golden
moon, was little more than shadow.

In hushed reverence for the world in dark
perfection, Z pushed the door shut softly, finding himself in the
still of night, the air not even stirred by the gentle passage of a
midnight ghost. Standing by the Cavalier -- Z gave in to the
temptation to lean forward and press his hot forehead on the car's
cool steel roof.

Closing his eyes, imagining his walk to the
house, Z remembered he didn't have to worry about the dog. Poor
dog. Still, if you were going to be that sick, better to be out of
the world than in it, infirmity and age the "reaper's" calling card
-- creation's sardonic invitation to embrace the certainty of
death. ..........................

Able to think of no good reason for
remaining in the street, Z straightened with a sigh; turning,
limped slowly across the asphalt divide.

A twinge of pain saw him over the curb
where, going up the walk, he slipped past the mournful
doghouse.

Detouring around the windowless, closed
garage, arriving at the corner of the house, Z began to slide down
the house's right side, the ground soft underfoot.

At the back of the house, Z turned the
corner to find .....

Unable to see through the night's
impenetrable gloom, what Z was sensing was an empty territory back
there, rather like the area surrounding the ghost house ... though
an extensive garden accounted for part of this open ground ... Z
smelling fresh-plowed earth, chemical fertilizer, and
insecticide.

A garden? An odd hobby, Z thought, for the
Smith woman, particularly since his clear impression of the lady
was that she was the indoors type.

Bang!

Funny, how the brightest bolts of insight
come in the dark of night, the picture that had just flashed into
Z's mind one of himself standing in that miserable mist, under that
miserable overpass, holding that miserable, "Work for Food" sign.
As if in a vision, he again saw the big, four-door American car
slow down, Z having the thought that the driver could be Mrs.
Smith. Dismissing that notion because he'd just been thinking about
the lady, his mind projecting the woman's image on the driver.

The car had then burned rubber getting out
of there; an extreme reaction, no matter how ugly the driver found
Z to be.

The idea that had just
occurred to Z was that the lady in the car might actually
have
been
the
Smith woman. Could she have been shopping for cheap labor to work
this very garden, gunning off when she'd recognized Z?