military forty-five automatic. He took the pistol out, inserted a clip and went back into the kitchen.
With the gun in his right hand, he gathered up as many of the hamburgers as he could manage with his left and went to the bedroom.
“Meat trip,” he said.
She had the blue curtains drawn against the morning light. The covers were pulled up over her ears; in the space between her pillow and the wall were a rolled magazine and a spilled ashtray that had fouled the sheet with butts. Tabor moved around her bed, delicately setting hamburger patties at neat intervals along the edge.
“Kathy,” he called softly.
She stirred.
“I killed the dogs,” he said.
“You did what?” she said, and as she came awake she saw the little circle of meat in front of her.
She started to turn over; Tabor let her see the barrel of the gun and forced her back down on the pillow with its weight.
“Pab,” she said, in a small broken voice. He held the gun against the ridge of bone beside her eye and let her listen to the tiny click the safety made when he released it.
She had begun to tremble and to cry. Her nose was scarcely two inches from the waxed-paper edge of the hamburger in front of her.
“You want to go out on a meat trip, Kathy? Just you and all those ratburgers all over hell?”
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, Pab.”
He was thinking that when he had pressed the safety the thing was as good as done. If I moved, he thought, it would be like the dogs.
“Shall I count off for you? You want to read one of them Jehovah books before you go out?” He reached behind him and pulled a littlechair nearer the bed and sat down on it. “No use in getting out of bed, baby. ’cause it’s good-night time.”
He watched her mouth convulse as she tried to breathe, to speak. Like the dogs, he thought.
A fecal smell rose from the covers; he lifted them and saw the bottom sheet soiled with bile. He covered her again.
“You fuckin’ little pig,” he said wearily.
The voice broke from her trembling body.
“Baby,” she said. “Oh, baby, please.”
He stood up and put the gun down on the chair. From his wallet he took two singles and dropped them on her covers.
“That there’s for all the good times,” he told her, and picked up the gun and put it in his pocket.
She was still screaming and sobbing when he went out with his bag. It was like a bad dream outside—the traffic on the highway just shooting on by, the derricks across the highway up and down up and down. Craziness. He was weak in the knees; he put the bag in the back seat and walked to the playground to call his son.
“Hey, you gonna drive me now, Daddy?”
“Looks like I ain’t today. I gotta go somewhere, so you can just hang out and play.”
“Neat,” the boy said. “You ain’t goin’ to sea, are ya, Daddy?”
“Yeah, I am,” Tabor said. “The South Sea.”
He leaned on the wire fence and took a deep breath.
“You be good to your mother, hear? She needs you to be real good to her.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said.
At Miami Airport, Holliwell had a change of planes.
Inside he found the Gateway to the Americas number in full January ripeness. It was not a gloomy scene; the crowds of tourists were cheerful enough. There were abrazos and reunions, an unselfconscious flaunting of native pottery and palm straw hats. But under the fluorescent vaults, Holliwell began to sniff out the old curse, to see around him the gathering of a world far from God, a few hours from Miami.
He spied it in small things. A purple jewelry bag lying among butts and spittle in an urn ashtray. A Cuban checking the wall clock against his Rolex. Actual fear in the eyes of a chic South American woman, as she clutched at the sleeve of her plump young son, to the pocket of whose preppy blazer a Parker pen was neatly clasped.
Of course it was all in the mind. He was tired and anxious. But as he made his way through the crowds toward the Aerochac desk, the brightly lit
With the gun in his right hand, he gathered up as many of the hamburgers as he could manage with his left and went to the bedroom.
“Meat trip,” he said.
She had the blue curtains drawn against the morning light. The covers were pulled up over her ears; in the space between her pillow and the wall were a rolled magazine and a spilled ashtray that had fouled the sheet with butts. Tabor moved around her bed, delicately setting hamburger patties at neat intervals along the edge.
“Kathy,” he called softly.
She stirred.
“I killed the dogs,” he said.
“You did what?” she said, and as she came awake she saw the little circle of meat in front of her.
She started to turn over; Tabor let her see the barrel of the gun and forced her back down on the pillow with its weight.
“Pab,” she said, in a small broken voice. He held the gun against the ridge of bone beside her eye and let her listen to the tiny click the safety made when he released it.
She had begun to tremble and to cry. Her nose was scarcely two inches from the waxed-paper edge of the hamburger in front of her.
“You want to go out on a meat trip, Kathy? Just you and all those ratburgers all over hell?”
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, Pab.”
He was thinking that when he had pressed the safety the thing was as good as done. If I moved, he thought, it would be like the dogs.
“Shall I count off for you? You want to read one of them Jehovah books before you go out?” He reached behind him and pulled a littlechair nearer the bed and sat down on it. “No use in getting out of bed, baby. ’cause it’s good-night time.”
He watched her mouth convulse as she tried to breathe, to speak. Like the dogs, he thought.
A fecal smell rose from the covers; he lifted them and saw the bottom sheet soiled with bile. He covered her again.
“You fuckin’ little pig,” he said wearily.
The voice broke from her trembling body.
“Baby,” she said. “Oh, baby, please.”
He stood up and put the gun down on the chair. From his wallet he took two singles and dropped them on her covers.
“That there’s for all the good times,” he told her, and picked up the gun and put it in his pocket.
She was still screaming and sobbing when he went out with his bag. It was like a bad dream outside—the traffic on the highway just shooting on by, the derricks across the highway up and down up and down. Craziness. He was weak in the knees; he put the bag in the back seat and walked to the playground to call his son.
“Hey, you gonna drive me now, Daddy?”
“Looks like I ain’t today. I gotta go somewhere, so you can just hang out and play.”
“Neat,” the boy said. “You ain’t goin’ to sea, are ya, Daddy?”
“Yeah, I am,” Tabor said. “The South Sea.”
He leaned on the wire fence and took a deep breath.
“You be good to your mother, hear? She needs you to be real good to her.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said.
At Miami Airport, Holliwell had a change of planes.
Inside he found the Gateway to the Americas number in full January ripeness. It was not a gloomy scene; the crowds of tourists were cheerful enough. There were abrazos and reunions, an unselfconscious flaunting of native pottery and palm straw hats. But under the fluorescent vaults, Holliwell began to sniff out the old curse, to see around him the gathering of a world far from God, a few hours from Miami.
He spied it in small things. A purple jewelry bag lying among butts and spittle in an urn ashtray. A Cuban checking the wall clock against his Rolex. Actual fear in the eyes of a chic South American woman, as she clutched at the sleeve of her plump young son, to the pocket of whose preppy blazer a Parker pen was neatly clasped.
Of course it was all in the mind. He was tired and anxious. But as he made his way through the crowds toward the Aerochac desk, the brightly lit
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