Schrödinger's Gun by Ray Wood Page B

a snowdrift of makeup. “Could you tell me about the last time you saw your husband? I know it will be tough to talk about. Remember, though—we want to help you. We want to find whoever did this.”
    She nodded, once, and drew a Marlboro from the pack I offered her. It took her a couple tries to get it to her lips.
    â€œYesterday,” she said, once she had taken a drag, “Johnny came home about six.”
    I nodded encouragingly. Watching her suck on the cigarette was making me crave a smoke myself, but I forced my attention onto the possibilities the heisen was throwing at me. The more Kitty’s story varied between universes, the more likely it was that she was making it up as she went along; the more similar, the more likely she was telling me the truth—or that the story had been carefully rehearsed. Shadows of those possibilities stretched out on either side of us, rows of doppelgangers interviewing and being interviewed, as though Kitty and I were caught between two mirrors.
    â€œâ€¦and he went out again at around seven thirty,” Kitty said. “He—”
    â€œâ€”said he needed to go back to his office—
    â€œâ€”wouldn’t tell me where he was going. Said it was nothing to do with me—
    â€œâ€”didn’t say a word when I asked him where he was off to—
    â€œâ€”and he left. By eight o’clock I was getting worried. By nine I was imagining all these terrible things that could’ve happened to him. By eleven … I got a cab over to his office on West 21 st . Heard a gun go off as I was getting out.”
    â€œDid you see anything?”
    She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk and twisted her handkerchief around her finger.
    â€œA man,” three Kittys said in unison. “Running down the street. I didn’t see his face. He might—I think he was wearing a hat.” She glanced up at me. “After that I—I went into Johnny’s office and I saw—I found him—lying—”
    She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. Her shoulders shook.
    â€œTake as long as you need.”
    â€œI ran all the way to a callbox on 20 th ,” she said, “and called the cops. I didn’t—I couldn’t believe it. Him just lying there, I mean. He never meant no harm, Detective, I swear…”
    I poured her a glass of water. She was just a kid, when it came down to it—eighteen, nineteen; easily young enough to be my daughter. Too young to be married to some dead gangster.
    â€œHere.” I held the glass out to her.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€”the water falls into her lap: for a second, the young woman drops her guard—
    I jerked my hand back as Kitty’s fingers closed around the top of the glass. The rim slipped underneath her thumb and the whole thing dropped into her lap.
    â€œAh, darn it, Kitty, I’m sorry … here.” I drew my own handkerchief from my pocket and knelt to dab at her dress. I felt her slim legs tremble through the fabric.
    â€œIt was my fault,” she said, and looked at me with wet, red eyes, like a child. The glass rolled along the floor and stopped at my knee.
    â€œKitty,” I said seriously. The handkerchief still rested on her thigh. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Johnny dead?”
    She sucked her cushioned bottom lip. “I—” She dropped her eyes to her lap. “Two men came to see him a while back. Months ago. I don’t know what they wanted—Johnny made me leave the room as soon as he saw them. But there was one fella the size of a truck—fair-haired, scar on his neck—”
    Big Dakota. Moore reckoned our boys on the east side had already ruled him out.
    â€œâ€”and another guy, dark, a little heavy; I think the other fella called him ‘Quine.’”
    That would be Vincent Quine, I guessed—another Montagnio tough, and a first-rate slimeball.