Hard Case Crime: The Vengeful Virgin Read Free Page B

always very sharp. He still is, but he says and does crazy things, sometimes. It worries me.”
    She was at it again. Telling me her business. I decided to go along with it. “You told his doctor?”
    “No.” She hesitated. “He’ll pay for staying up on his feet, like that. He shouldn’t be up at all. But the doctor lets him stay up for ten minutes at a time.”
    She wanted me to feel sorry for her. “He’ll get well.”
    “No.” She was firm. “He’ll only get worse and worse.”
    “Until he dies.”
    She nodded.
    “How long?” I said.
    “Hard to tell. It could go on and on.”
    I didn’t say anything for a minute. She looked sad and tired, and she wanted me to know it.
    “Sit down,” I said. “We’ll have a look at this stuff.”
    Her voice was flat. “It would be a terrible expense if he were in a hospital.”
    “Thought you said he was wealthy.”
    “Oh, yes—he is. Very.”
    “Why would it matter to him, then?”
    “It wouldn’t matter to him.” She paused, then added quickly, “I mean, the expense wouldn’t matter. He could practically buy the darned hospital. But he just won’t go to a hospital. Not him.”
    “I see. Well—here’s some things I’d like you to look at.”
    She didn’t sit on the couch. She went over and dragged up a low chair, placing it at the corner of the couch where I sat. I put the box of literature and junk on the cocktail table. She kept watching me. She didn’t give a good goddamn about that literature.
    “I was thinking,” she said. “You’ll need some sort of remote control. One of those cords, with the gadget on it. So he can work the TV from bed.”
    “Thought of that.”
    “Oh. Swell.”
    “I brought along a couple of TV sets. But first, I’d like you to glance through these folders—ask any questions you want. Oh, by the way, I can give you a good allowance on your old set.”
    “I thought I’d just stick that in the kitchen.”
    “I see. A set in every room, to keep you occupied.”
    “That’s what I thought. It gets so—” She shrugged.
    She cupped one hand over her brow, looking down at a colorful folder in her lap. I couldn’t see her eyes. She didn’t say anything, staring down at the folder. Then I saw something. It jarred me. She was only pretending to look. It was a Westinghouse electric kitchen range showing on the folder. The TV blurbs were on the other side.
    “That one’s a real hot seller,” I said. “We call it our oven-grille special.”
    She didn’t move. Then, slowly, she turned the folder over and looked at the other side. She kept the hand cupped over her brow. I still couldn’t see her eyes. It was playing it close, but she wasn’t fighting it worth a damn. Eighteen years old, I thought. The nipples of her breasts showed through the thin white sweater.
    I looked across at the bedroom door. It was closed but it was still nearby. Too near. I wondered what he was doing in there? Maybe playing leap-frog with his oxygen tanks.
    “Wonder if I could have a glass of water?” I said.
    She stood up fast. The folder fell to the floor.
    “I’m sorry. I should have offered you a drink. I hardly ever drink, you see. It always makes me crazy. I do crazy things. I always seem to lose my head.”
    “Water will be fine.”
    Her eyes looked different from the way they had looked a moment before. Something passed between us—something direct and hot.
    She turned and walked toward the kitchen, not making a sound, and I watched the way she moved, liking every bit of it. I picked up the folder and dropped it on the table and went out there.
    I could walk softly, too. But not that softly. She made as if she didn’t hear me. She had the refrigerator door open. I went over beside her and looked at her and she stood there, holding the door, with one hand moving slowly in toward the water bottle. I caught the hand and it crawled up my arm. I put my other arm around her, and she came up against me, watching me with big round