Night Kills by John Lutz Page A

messages?”
    â€œSometimes.” Brief.
    â€œMaybe your machine erases mine. What I wondered, dear, is if you and Milton Kahn left each other on good terms.”
    Huh?
    â€œ I mean, after last night,” her mother said.
    What? This was unacceptable. “Who told you? What do you mean?” Unacceptable!
    â€œThat’s two questions, dear.”
    â€œThen answer them both.”
    â€œDon’t snap, Pearl. That’s very rude. Mrs. Kahn told me. And why not? It’s no secret you and her nephew Milton are hotsy-totsy.”
    Pearl had a pretty good idea where Mrs. Kahn had gotten her information. She fell silent, noticing Quinn watching her from the corner of his eye. “Some things you don’t talk about,” Pearl said.
    â€œDon’t you know I agree with you, dear? But these were extraordinary circumstances. Mrs. Kahn tells me Milton is worried sick about you. About your personal safety. They—Mrs. Kahn and wonderful Milton—thought I should talk to you about it.”
    Wonderful Milton’s going to learn to keep his mouth shut. “I appreciate his concern, but it’s really none of his business. Or the business of whomever he might have told.”
    â€œThe people who love you, darling Pearl, they’re concerned. What else do we have in this world where everything, including your own mother, will someday turn to dust? Someday soon, I might add in all sincerity, feeling more and more distressed every day as I do here in this nursing home hell.”
    â€œAssisted living. It’s not a nursing home. Assisted-living apartments with televisions, comfortable beds, kitchens, private baths, recliners, all the food you can eat—including the pot roast you like so much. People who were on The Lawrence Welk Show come there to perform. There are game rooms, buses to Atlantic City. They’re assisted-living apartments.”
    â€œDeath’s waiting rooms, dear.”
    Pearl was seething. “I think not.” She so yearned to terminate this conversation. “Is that all you wanted? If so, I’m busy.”
    â€œYou’re being snappish again.”
    â€œI mean to be.”
    â€œWhat I want is for you to consider the future, Pearl. Milton and a home—and children, God willing. A place without killers and guns and knives and rap talk. There are other jobs, Pearl. Milton said to Mrs. Kahn that you could work as his receptionist. It would be safe there. He wants you off the streets, Pearl. We all do. The people who—”
    â€œYeah, yeah. This is my job.”
    â€œWhat I’m saying, Pearl, is there are other jobs.”
    Like dermatologist receptionist.
    Quinn blasted the horn and cursed at a battered, dusty cab that had cut him off.
    â€œIs that that nice Mr. Quinn I hear, Pearl?”
    â€œThe same.”
    â€œSuch a good man. A protector and a provider. You should feel blessed, Pearl. You have your choice between two good men—one a mensch policeman retired with a generous pension, and the other a medical doctor, no less.”
    â€œAn obsessive maniac and a weasel.”
    â€œWhat?” Quinn asked.
    â€œI was talking into the phone.”
    â€œWhat, dear?”
    â€œI have to end this conversation, really.”
    Quinn blasted the horn again, still focused on the cab that had cut him off. The driver extended his arm out the window and raised his middle finger.
    Quinn leaned on the horn again. “If we had time I’d pull that bastard over.”
    â€œWe’ve got time,” Fedderman said from the backseat. “Lady we’re going to see is dead.”
    â€œLook at that asshole, Feds!”
    â€œCabbies think they own the road like cops,” Fedderman said.
    â€œScrew a buncha cabbies.”
    â€œPearl? Dear?”
    â€œI need to go now. Sorry.”
    Pearl broke the connection and sat seething over weasel Milton yammering his business to his motormouthed aunt.
    What was