LITMIR.BIZ

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standoff lasted about three seconds. Then there were scrambling, lurching movements on the bed, over my left shoulder. I looked around and Cress was on her knees with her right hand in the suitcase and the one I had brought down by the bed was going after her. I heard a strangled protest from the one at the door and when I got my eyes on him, he had the door open and was going out. I couldn’t shoot him going away, for various good and bad reasons.

      The third one had got up and was hanging onto the chiffonier, still gasping for breath. I was on my knees. Pushing up to my feet, I turned to the bed. Cress had the long knife in her hand, trying to jab at the other guy, who was holding her off with both hands. I yelled at him and he looked into the gun dead level and growled something. There were heavy steps and I knew the one by the chiffonier had left us. I could hear him going down the hall. Somewhere in the building a voice swore loudly.

      On the bed, he was holding Cress down by her wrists, crouching over her. I wiggled the gun at him.

      “Get up off her, no fooling,” I said.

      He was cut in two or three places on the face and neck, but superficially. He had a long nose, slightly bent to one side, and black hair cut square and low across his forehead, with deep sideburns. He stared at the gun for about a watch tick and a half, then let go of Cress’s wrists and started back off the bed.

      At least I’ll hang onto this one, I was thinking.

      Then Cress, in fury and frustration, lunged up at him with the knife. It brought her between us and the gun was useless. The guy threw himself to one side, away from her, rolled off the end of the bed and kept going, on his knees at first, then, with a lunge, on his feet. I ran along the bed to head him off and tripped over the disarranged bedclothes. I went down helplessly, sprawling, and banged my head against the wall near the door. It stunned me and I went through a period of buzzing in the head and then some silence.

      * * * *

      When I came to, my first impression was of pain in my right hand. Working the fingers around, I found they had a death grip on the gun, which was bruising my knuckles against the wall.

      Anyway, I thought, I held onto the gun.

      Then I felt nausea and next a warm wetness on the upturned side of my face. I could hear Cress’s voice nearby but couldn’t make out the words. Finally I understood her to say:

      “…you all right?”

      I rolled onto my back and she was on her knees on the floor with this wet cloth in her hand. My head was still clanging and I felt lethargic. She asked again:

      “Are you all right?”

      “Yeah, I’m all right,” I said. “How about you?”

      “I’m all right. They didn’t hurt me.”

      “I’m glad.”

      She put the cloth on my forehead and pressed lightly, then removed it.

      “Do you believe me now?” she said.

      “I believe you,” I said.

      My left eye was swollen and sightless. I must have looked pretty funny, lying there peering up at her. Anyway, she smiled, not much, but enough to draw up the corners of her mouth and soften the hard line of that stubborn chin. It was the first smile out of her. When she saw I had noticed, she put the cloth over my eyes. I left it for a minute, then took it off and laid it in her hand.

      “We’d better pick up the stuff and go,” I said.

      It took me some time to get up, but once on my feet, I could move all right. All the pain was in my knees and head and I knew it would go away.

      Cress’s hair was mussed; she had lost the little white cap and there was a bruise on her cheekbone, but she was functional. I watched her walk away to the bathroom, with the cloth in her long fingers, and she walked straight and firm.

      Richie Darden, I thought, you got a good woman there. I wonder where you think you are.

      When she came back, I was repacking the suitcase on the bed.

      “Hey, Cress,” I said, “how old are you?”

      “Why?” she said.

      “Just wondered.”

      After a minute she said, “Seventeen.”

      I closed the suitcase, picked up the gun, and we turned off the light and got out of there. I carried the gun in my hand, out in the open. It felt kind of silly, but then, it didn’t feel too bad either.

Chapter Three

      Cress was stretched out under a blanket on the couch in the office, and I was preparing to clean up, when I discovered I’d lost my wallet. It contained little cash but several credit cards, my driver’s license and a photostat of my professional license, everything necessary to lead the finder straight home. If the three musclemen had not gone back to the apartment after we left, they were not really thorough. Even if they hadn’t gone back, they surely would have lingered long enough to spot my car and license number, and soon enough they would know me and my address.

      I thought about it while washing up and smoothing out the lumps on my head and face. When I finished, I was in no shape to pose for any Vitalis ads, but I wasn’t too hideous. I could see all right with the one eye and there was only one spot where a small strip of adhesive tape was essential. The pain had dulled to a headache and my knees had settled down. The bad thing I had left was nerves. Somebody came into the building and before the sound of the outer door had faded, I was in the office with the gun in my hand. Then footsteps clomped through the hall and started upstairs and I knew it was another tenant. There was no sound from the couch, and when I took a close look at Cress, she was asleep.

      I got into a fresh shirt and a tie, took some money and the original of my license from the strongbox on the closet shelf, and sat down at the desk in the dark. After a while I got up and looked out through the blinds. Tony’s joint was closed and I couldn’t see anything hanging around on the street. It didn’t help much. I’d have felt better if I’d seen something, anything. The next time they would come prepared.

      For myself alone the problem was simple; I could lock the doors, stick the gun under my pillow and catch some sleep. But the trouble had more than doubled, and the square root of it was a slender, seventeen-year-old girl with long, blond hair.

      I went back to the bedroom, got down a suitcase of my own and put some things in it. The way it was going, I thought, we’d have enough luggage for a world tour. It was all stacked in the middle of the office: the guitar and her suitcase and the one Richie had left with her, which she had insisted on bringing in from the car. I put mine down with the rest of it and sat on the edge of the couch.

      She was sleeping on her back, her face half hidden in her hair. She didn’t wake when I sat down, but her face twisted, frowning, then relaxed slowly. I looked at my watch and it was getting on to three o’clock. All the hours between now and daylight would be bad ones. She was young; if she could go to sleep so easily, she could wake up.

      I put the back of my hand to her cheek and joggled her lightly. She stretched, lifting her arms. Her eyes blinked and closed.

      “Cress,” I said quietly. “Hey, Cress—come on.”

      Her arms rose again and went around my neck. Stretching upward, she opened her eyes and mouth, searching. I shook her a little and she woke up. She clung to my neck for a while, blinking me into focus, then let her arms fall away.

      “Oh,” she said, yawning, “I thought it was Richie.”

      “I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I’ll have to do for now. Can you wake up? It’s time to go.”

      “Go where?”

      “I don’t know exactly. Somewhere else.”

      She looked thoughtful.

      “Yes,” she said, “I guess so.”

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