Penance by David Housewright Page B

hit the stop button on the remote and C. C.’s film debut was replaced by the football game. Chicago had taken a four-point lead. I turned down the volume and went to the door. Ogilvy followed me.
    I peeped through the spy hole and saw Heather Schro-tenboer standing under the porch light, flicking invisible lint off her chest. Heather was dressed to kill, wearing a deep red, closely fitted slipdress that ended just above her knees, with triple spaghetti shoulder straps and a neckline that plunged to her waist. She also wore gold earrings and a gold bracelet but no necklace, although I kept searching for one anyway.
    I opened the door. “Hi, kid,” I said, turning my back to her, leading her into the living room. Did I say she looked like a high school girl? Not in my high school. I flashed on C. C. and Thoreau thrashing about the bed, warning myself to be smart.
    “Nice dress,” I told her.
    “Oh, this old thing,” she replied, grinning.
    “You coming from somewhere?”
    “No,” she said. “I just felt like dressing for the occasion. What I was wearing the last time we met, I’m sure you thought I was a boy.”
    “No,” I admitted. “I never thought that.”
    “Do you think I’m attractive?”
    “Oh yeah,” I said slowly under my breath.
    “Hmm? What?”
    “Yes,” I answered. “I think you’re attractive.”
    She smiled. “I think you’re attractive, too,” she said.
    “It must be the light.”
    She floated—C’mon, Taylor, get a grip!—She walked to me and ran her fingers under my collar. She spoke into my neck; her breath was sweet and warm. “Why did the police arrest you?” she asked.
    “They thought I killed a guy.”
    She didn’t even flinch. “Did you?” she asked, practically begging to become a co-conspirator.
    “How could I? I was with you.”
    “It must be exciting.”
    “What?”
    “Killing a man.”
    “Huh?”
    She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me hungrily, making soft animal-like moans as she ground her lips against mine. I was tempted—oh Lord, I was tempted—only that wasn’t why I invited her to my house. I pulled her arms down and pushed her away. She looked at me, more amused than surprised. Until she saw the gun I was pointing at her heart. She backed away slowly, her eyes never leaving the barrel. I waited three steps, four. On the fifth I squeezed off three rounds, angling the gun toward the carpet, careful not to splatter her dress and all that bare flesh with powder. She fell back into and then out of a stuffed chair, landing on the hardwood floor, the hem of her short skirt hiked to midthigh. She stared at me, terror stricken, her mouth hanging open.
    Ogilvy was also frightened and he squeezed into a corner. I scooped him up with one hand and hugged him to my chest. “That’s okay, bunny, you don’t have to be afraid,” I said, trying to soothe him. I moved to Heather’s side, sat on the floor next to her. I held up the gun, giving her a good look at it. “Blanks,” I said.
    “Are you crazy?” Heather shrieked.
    “No, but you must be, cheating at cards with professionals. In the old days they would have tossed your body out of a speeding car. In these more enlightened times, they’d probably be satisfied with breaking your fingers.”
    “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Let me explain. After a hand, when the cards are being thrown in for a new deal, a body might hold on to one or two to use later, concealing them in her armpits or under her knees. This is called ‘holding out.’ By the way, anyone ever tell you that you have delightful knees? Hmm? Oh, another thing: the next deal is yours, you study all the cards that were discarded during the previous hand. You see five that you like. So you pick up the cards one hand at a time, and as you do so, you put the card you want on the bottom of each group of five cards. Then you put all five hands together on the top of the deck, engage in some flummery while