The Devil's Only Friend by Mitchell Bartoy Page B

old roadster, illegally parked.
    â€œLloyd sent over a Chrysler? He couldn’t send something newer?”
    â€œThere’s a bit of travel in the steering,” said the secretary. “But you’ll find it suitable.” There was the trace of a smile in his voice. “The engine has been modified.”
    â€œAnyway, it beats the streetcar.” It’s like a dream, I thought. What have I fallen into?
    I caught him looking at his wristwatch as I turned back toward him. He stood patiently while I crossed the few feet toward him, and he dropped the key into my shaking palm. His face was placid in the main, except that now and again his eyebrows would get close together and his head would tip to one side.
    â€œYou’ll want to make a visit to the younger Mr. Lloyd. He maintains an office at the big plant. He’s forced at present to curtail his travels due to some pressing business with the board of directors.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œGood luck to you, sir. Good-bye.”
    So far I hadn’t done anything. I kept the key pressed into my palm and wondered how far I could get if I left right away and kept driving until I hit ocean. How long would it take me to get to a place where the sky was big and the clouds swept away farther than you could see? Along the back roads the hayseeds might part with some of the gasoline they’d kept in rusty tanks since before the war, and I could put the windows down on the Chrysler and let the air whip away the ringing and the buzzing that now plagued my ears. I could just walk out to the middle of a great field of wheat and lay down until I melted into the earth.

CHAPTER 11
    I started drinking right after the secretary left, though it was only midafternoon. I was surprised to find a pint of whiskey in my cupboard with the seal still on it, and I put it to good use. The doctors will tell you how bad liquor is for the old carcass, but that’s only true in the long run. The booze cleared out my sinuses right away and eased my breathing. Before long I felt right, and some of the pain in my muscles loosened and drained away. If my liver rotted out in a few years, it was a proper trade-off for an evening of comfort. I thought I knew enough not to drink myself into a wicked hangover.
    Since I didn’t have anything else like a weapon, I spent a good hour or two trying to put a proper edge on my meat cleaver with a tiny whetstone. It was not a blade to do a butcher proud, and I knew that my swollen grip was not firm, but it was better than nothing, and it was soothing enough to keep me from thinking too much. As the day faded I gave up trying to sharpen my only other blade, an ancient paring knife with a broken tip and a wooden handle that rattled against the tang and the rivets.
    I became tired from the booze and from all the work it took to heal. What I needed was sleep, a solid block to let my body take care of itself. It was early still, but I capped the dribble of whiskey left in the bottle and got up to pull the shades. Something made me pause at the window. I was light-headed, and I looked for a good place to fall over. The spell passed, but I stood for a moment more, all abuzz from the booze. I heard someone in the hall coming to my door, and I knew it was Federle.
    He rapped in a syncopation, like a secret code.
    â€œPete? Pete?”
    It seemed to take me a long time to get to the door.
    â€œPete? Pete?” More knocking.
    When I pulled the door open, it made a puff of cool air on my red face. I don’t think I knew how tall Ray Federle really was until that moment. He was very slender, and he had a kind of restless energy that seemed to burn him up from the inside. It reminded me of the partner on the police force I had known so briefly—Bobby Swope, until he was gutted.
    â€œHey, Pete. Listen, I didn’t know you were going to bug out of the hospital so fast.”
    I stood aside so he could enter.
    â€œIt’s better