Vixen by Bill Pronzini

draw my own conclusions? Well, I won’t draw them—I don’t believe it.” She looked half wild now, her face twisted out of shape. “You’re a goddamn liar.”
    â€œNo, ma’am, I’m not—”
    â€œLiar! Liar!”
    And all in one motion, with no warning, she threw the glass at me.
    I was half-turning away from her and I didn’t see it coming in time to dodge. The heavy crystal bottom edge slammed into my forehead, just above the bridge of my nose, with enough force to jerk loose a yelp of pain and knock me cockeyed. I staggered backward, banged into an end table and sent an unlighted lamp crashing to the floor. I went down after it, hard on my side on the rough-weave carpet. My vision was still out of whack; I swiped a hand across my forehead, felt an open stinging gash and the stickiness of blood mixed with whiskey. The liquor stench made my gorge rise.
    Dimly I heard the maid come running into the room, calling out querulously in Spanish. Margaret Vorhees told her to shut up, go get some towels, look at all that damn blood. The maid hesitated, said something about first aid; there was a brief argument, the words all jumbled together through a sharp buzzing in my ears. I twitched around on the floor, still trying to swipe my vision clear so that I could see. More sounds flowed around me, but no more voices, and when the room finally swam back into focus I saw that I was alone.
    I shoved up onto my knees. My right hand was smeared with diluted blood; little streams of it spilling down around my nose kept trying to screw up my vision again. I caught hold of the table and hauled myself upright, but I had to keep leaning on it for support, woozy and wobbly, aware now of a blistering, throbbing pain across my forehead into both temples.
    I was still standing there, trying to pull myself together, when the maid hurried back into the room. She made concerned noises at me in both English and Spanish, only some of which penetrated—asking if I was all right, if I needed a doctor. I managed to say yes and then no, and let her take my arm and guide me to one of the couches and sit me down. She’d brought a first-aid kit and an armload of wet towels; gently, she sopped up most of the blood around the wound and on the rest of my face, said something that sounded like “not too bad,” and then went to work with an antiseptic that stung like hell and some gauze and adhesive tape.
    By the time she was done, the dizziness and disorientation were gone and I was all right except for the headache. Margaret Vorhees hadn’t put in an appearance, and wouldn’t, but not because she was contrite or ashamed. She just didn’t want anything more to do with me, with or without the blood. There was nothing I could do about the glass-throwing incident and she knew it. It was her house, I hadn’t been invited, and I’d upset her with vague and unsubstantiated claims. The hell with me.
    Yeah, and the hell with her, too.
    I felt like the damn fool I was for coming here.
    Pretty soon I tried standing up, and that was all right; then I tried walking a little and that was all right, too. The maid was down on her knees now, scrubbing at the spatters of blood and whiskey on the carpet—orders from Mrs. Vorhees, no doubt. She gave me a sad, sympathetic look underlain with something that might have been bitterness or exasperation, or maybe both. I thanked her in Spanish, and she said, “De nada, por favor.” She would have dutifully gotten up to show me out if I hadn’t made a stay-put gesture and told her I could find my own way.
    Outside in the car, I peered at myself at the rearview mirror. Christ. The area around the bandaged wound was puffy and already starting to discolor. The maid had gotten most of the fluids off my face, but there were still spots and streaks here and there. On my shirt, tie, and jacket, too. It looked as though I’d been in a fight and