Clement glared at Sandy. “Turn that goddamn goat-tit music off!” As she hesitated, startled, he stepped over to the record player and swept the arm scratching across Donna Summer’s Greatest Hits. “That disco shit just ricochets off my mind!”
There was a silence.
Sandy said quietly, very slowly, “I think somebody ought to calm down and quit acting like a spoiled brat. You’ll live longer.”
Skender seemed glad to look at Sandy as she spoke. He said, “I don’t understand why he did that.”
“Little misunderstanding,” Sandy said. “Everything’s okay now.”
Clement said, calm again, “How much you got in your checking account?”
Sandy grinned and shook her head as Skender looked up at Clement.
“I don’t keep much there. This time of the month maybe a few hundred.” Skender seemed to prepare himself then and said, “Why do you want to know this?” Hesitant, as though the question might be out of line, an affront to Clement.
“You have a little sister,” Clement said, “you want to be sure she’s taken care of.” He was looking around the room now, hands on his hips.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Skender said. “Can I have the gun back now? I put them away.”
Sandy was watching Skender. She saw his serious, almost-sad expression now. Disappointed. Or finally getting suspicious.
Clement, still looking around, wasn’t paying any attention to him, not even looking at him as he said, “When you’re hiding in here and the door’s closed, can you open it if you want?”
“Yes, there’s a switch.” Skender nodded. “There.”
Clement walked over to the metal switch housing mounted on the side wall, turned the Browning automatic in his hand to hold it by the barrel and whacked at the housing with the gun butt until it hung loose and he heard some excited words in Albanian. Clement turned and put the Browning on Skender, who was pushing himself up from the floor. “Stay right there, Skenny. Be a good boy.” He tore the switch from the wall, threw it out into the basement, then paused and reconsidered what he was about to do. Locking the guy in wasn’t going to teach him anything. Introduce him to reality. Clement stepped toward the Albanian.
“You got the EMS number handy?”
Skender was staring hard at him, black eyes glowing. Yes, Albanians could get sore at you, Clement decided. He heard Skender say, “I want you to leave here, now.”
“We’re going, partner, but first I want to call the Emergency Medical Service.”
Skender frowned, taking his time. “Why do you need them?”
Yes, they could get pissed at you, but my Lord, they were innocent about things. Place a level on this boy, up one side and down the other and get a true square.
“I don’t need the EMS,” Clement said. “You do.”
He heard Sandy say something like, Oh God, as he lifted the K-mart cowboy hat off the Albanian’s head and placed the nose of the Browning against the man’s hairline, the man’s forehead creasing in furrows as he tried to raise his eyes. “Now edge over to the door,” Clement said.
The Albanian tried to look at Sandy and Clement wrist-flicked the gun, giving him a backhand whack across the head. Skender came to attention. He began moving on his knees toward the opening in the wall, Clement prodding him along.
“Go on out, then turn around and sit down.”
Sandy said, “What’re you gonna do to him?”
“Just bring the phone out, hon. There’s enough cord. Tell the operator you want the Emergency Medical Service. When they answer, tell ’em to send a van over here to twenty-seven eighty-one Cardoni, corner of Caniff.” He looked at Skender, sitting outside the opening in the wall, and said, “Hold on, partner, I’ll be right with you.”
Sandy hurried out of there with the phone, edging past Skender. Clement followed, roughing Skender’s hair with his hand as he came out.
Skender was swallowing. He said something in a language Clement didn’t understand, then said, “You are crazy…”
“Lay back and stick your leg in the opening,” Clement said. “Either one, I don’t care.” He walked over to the furnace, reached up, and looked over his shoulder as he flicked the switch. With the hum of the motor the wall began to swing slowly closed. He saw Skender, twisted around watching him, draw his leg away from the wall and Clement switched the motor off. He said, “It’s up to you, partner”-walking over to him and placing the muzzle of the Browning against Skender’s head-“put your leg down or get your fur-cap head all over the basement.”
Sandy was saying into the phone, “Hi, we’re gonna need an ambulance. I mean we do need one, right now…”
Clement walked back to the furnace, reached up, flicked the switch on again and watched the wall moving in again, touching Skender’s leg now and pushing it up against the stationary section of wall-Skender staring, not believing it was happening to him-and Clement pulled the switch down. As the hum of the motor stopped, Skender looked around, eyes wide with fright and perhaps a little hope.
Clement said, “I want to impress something on you, partner. I’m disappointed, but I ain’t really mad at you, else I’d be pulling the trigger by now. See, but when you’re laying in the hospital with your leg in a cast, I don’t want you to have any bad thoughts like wanting to tell the police or the FBI or anybody. You do, I’ll come visit you again and stick your head in there ‘stead of your leg. You hear me? Nod your head.”
Sandy was saying, “No, the person didn’t have a heart attack…”
Clement flicked up the switch and let his hand come down.
Sandy was saying, “Course it’s serious…”
With the hum of the motor Skender began to cry out. He sucked in his breath, holding it, his face straining, then let the sound come out, his eyes closed tightly now and his face upturned, the sound rising, building to a prolonged scream.
Sandy said into the phone, “Hey, does that sound serious enough for you? You dumb shit…”
RAYMOND HAD A VISION. Or what he imagined a vision might be like. Herzog told him the Albanian was in the hospital and Raymond saw clearly, in the next few moments, what was happening and very possibly what was going to happen.
He saw the Albanians going after Clement.
He saw Clement running to get his gun, to defend himself.
He saw Mr. Sweety, yes, with the gun, the Walther P .38.
He saw Clement holding the gun, the Guy-Simpson murder weapon, and saw himself extending the Colt 9-mm in two hands and saw… the clarity of the vision began to fade. He wasn’t sure if visions were always accurate. He told himself to back up, look at it again, carefully, beginning at his desk in the squadroom. He remembered…
Wendell on the phone saying to someone, “What you know for a fact and what you believe, that could be two different things. I want to know what you know.”
Norb Bryl saying to a middle-aged woman sitting at his desk, “We can help her, I give you my word as a man.” And the woman saying something and Bryl saying, “Well, I hope somebody doesn’t kill her.”
Hunter saying to Maureen, imitating a voice out of Amos and Andy, “ ‘Yeah, she come up to me and says she wants to pet my puppy.’ I’m thinking, ah-ha, he got it on with her, before he killed her, right? Isn’t that what it sounds like?” Maureen grinning expectantly. “No, the guy’s got a dog in his car and she wants to pet the dog.”
Inspector Herzog coming in, approaching Raymond’s desk: “You mentioned, wasn’t Mansell’s girlfriend-what’s her name, Sandy Stanton-going with one of the Albanians?”
This was where the prevision began, Raymond feeling the jab in his stomach, realizing he had forgotten to talk to Skender, to warn him, be careful…