couldnât see it well enough to know what it wasâa woman, he would have guessedâbut when he looked directly at where the thing ought to be, there was nothing. A pleasurable shiver ran up his back. It had been a long time since heâd imagined things watching him in the dark. (What had it been? A moth, perhaps, much closer to his eye than heâd imagined? A bat?) The place wouldnât seem so eerie, of course, when you were used to it. In any event, eerie or not, it was beautiful.
He ground out his cigarette, let smoke float slowly out through his nostrils, and decided to make an offer.
That night, when he climbed the crooked, dimly lit stairs to his apartmentâin his left arm his meagre weekâs supply of groceries, in his right hand his mail, all of it depressing (bills, two letters marked âOccupant,â another computerized stern complaint from the I.R.S.)âhe found a note poking out from below his door. He froze, then looked around as if whoever it was that had crept in on him might still be lurking near, in the shadows just beyond the reach of the cheaply shaded bulb. All around his door stood bulky, misshapen cardboard boxesâjunk books heâd never bothered to unpack, junk appliances (the portable radio he had no use for anymore, his iron, probably his toaster, he wasnât certain)âthe shadows of the boxes low on the wall, as if trying to hide behind the boxes. There was no one there. He unlocked the door, carried the groceries in and set them down, then went back to stoop over and pick up the note. It was written in a stiff, old-mannish hand, and signed, with a sudden dissilient flourish, Michael Nugent. He read the first words: âIt is extremely urgent that â¦â
He closed the door and, without reading further, crumpled the note in his fist.
2
âA what?â Finney wailed, dramatic. It was the omnipresent potential for theater that had gotten him into the law-game, Mickelsson was convinced. It was better than acting; he wasnât impeded by some humdrum playwrightâs lines.
âHouse,â Mickelsson repeated, reaching toward the pocket where he kept his pipe, then changing his mind, getting out his cigarettes and hunting around under papers and books for matches. No luck.
âHouse! Well, saints preserve us!â Finney said. He cracked his voice, old-time Irish. Mickelsson could see him: fat and sweat-washed; gold-rimmed glasses; black toupee, gray sideburns below; little blue eyes crossed with anger or, more likely, impatience as he stared for just an instant at the phone. While he talked heâd be reading and signing letters, motioning to his secretary, furtively scratching himself, raising his rear end off the chair to catch a breeze. âThatâs good, Pete! Cute! Give the feds something solid to aim their pissers at.â
âI know,â Mickelsson said. âLookââ
âAlso makes your generous offer to your wife more interesting.â Abruptly solemn.
âBelieve meââ
âI can see youâre not wild for good advice, Professor, but take it from me, ole pal ole sock, by all the little golden, curly hairs onââ
âItâs relatively cheap, Finney. If I canât manage it, then I canât. Are you listening?â
âOK.â There was a pause, no doubt while Finney ran his eyes over some paper, then handed it back to his secretary. âOK, cheap. Gotcha. Spare me the details! I donât suppose you could get it in a friendâs name? That might be a very good idea, you know. Keep the fedsâ sticky fingers off the moolaââ
âNo chance.â
Finney laughed. âYou oughtta be nicer to people, you know that, Professor? Let âem see your sweet side! But OK, OK. I dig. Iâm glad you touched base on this. If it looks like this is where the cheese starts to bind Iâll get back to you.â Another pause, then: âOK,
Learning to Kill: Stories