So Nude, So Dead Read Free Page A

completely.
    A shot.
    Several shots, and all pumped into her belly. Why hadn’t he heard them? Sure, he’d been blind, but wouldn’t the shots have penetrated, wouldn’t they have shaken him from his stupor? Or wouldn’t someone in the hotel have heard them? Surely someone would have heard the shots.
    Unless a silencer were used. And if there had been a silencer on the murder gun, then the killer had come to this room intent on doing murder. This wasn’t a question of Eileen’s surprising a sneak thief or— I need a shot, I need a shot!
    Quickly, he picked up his shirt from the floor. He buttoned the shirt rapidly, slipping his tie under the collar and hastily knotting it. He removed his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugged it onto his shoulders. From the bureau drawer he took his cuff links and fastened them at his wrists with trembling fingers.
    He took the crumpled package of Camels from the drawer, put one between his lips, and struck three matches before he finally lighted it. When he looked into his wallet, he found it was empty. His mind almost screamed at the discovery.
    When would he learn? When would he ever learn? Good God, how could he leave himself wide open like this? The sixteen ounces of stuff, where was it? Hell, he’d been over the room with a fine comb. The stuff was gone, vanished, poof!
    If he didn’t get a shot soon, he would vanish, blow up, dry away; dry up, blow away, he meant. He didn’t know what he meant. Typical hophead, he thought with disgust. Typical muddled jackass. Leaving himself in this predicament. Leaving himself wide open for the monkey to hop on his back. He bit his lip, clenched his hands together. He wanted to feel sorry for himself, but he couldn’t. He had too much pride—yes, pride, damn it— to indulge in self-pity. A strange bittersweet memory of the Ray Stone that used to be crossed his mind, to be immediately stifled by a fresh pang of desire.
    He needed money!
    What day was it? Saturday? No, it was Sunday. His father would be home. He couldn’t call his father, not after all he’d put him through. But he needed money. He could count on his father, he had to call him. Quickly, he walked to the phone on the end table near the bed. He lifted the receiver, held it to his ear, waited.
    “Yes?” the crisp voice asked.
    He hesitated, wondering if he should answer, wondering if the girl would remember his voice when the cops started asking questions later.
    “Yes?” the voice repeated.
    “Line, please,” he said, trying to keep his voice muffled.
    “Yes, sir; just a moment.”
    He waited until he heard a dial tone, then rapidly dialed, repeating the numbers to himself as he spun the dial, breathing harshly, the pain eating at his insides.
    He fidgeted while he listened to the buzzing on the other end.
    “Hello.”
    “Hello, Dad? This is Ray.”
    “Ray! Where are you? Are you all right?”
    “I—I need help, Dad.” He felt sick, disgusted at himself for crawling back to his father like a little boy whenever he needed help. His father should refuse. After all the slaps he’d given him, after all the things he’d said, his father should refuse. He waited.
    “What is it?” His father’s voice was tired. He sounded as if he’d always been tired.
    “I’m in a jam, Dad.”
    There was a long pause, and Ray heard an audible sigh on the line. He knew what his father was going through. He knew, and he hated it. But he needed a shot.
    “I won’t give you any more money, Ray. Not for that. We’ve already been over—”
    “I don’t want any money,” he lied. “I just want to talk to you. I’m in trouble.”
    His father sighed again, the sigh of a man who has taken more than he can bear. Ray listened, and the sound sliced through him like a dagger. “What kind of trouble?” his father asked gently.
    “There’s a dead girl with me, Dad.”
    “What?”
    “A girl. She’s been shot.”
    “Oh my God!” There was a long silence on the line.