The guy left and Jon started in on the food. It tasted good to him, but wasn’t as good as the last meal he’d eaten, which had also been a breakfast of scrambled eggs. Hell, right now he wouldn’t even have minded the company of Larry, that wide-eyed brat of Karen’s.
Karen.
His gut ached with the thought of her. He put down his fork and rubbed a spot over his left eye.
She’d be worried as hell. She’d have spent a miserable night. He’d called her and told her a little about the situation, not much, but enough to worry her to death, god-dammit. Mentioned she should watch her step about whom she let into the apartment. “There’s a guy with a gun involved,” he’d told her. When he’d told her that, she’d insisted on having a number to call for help, if she couldn’t find him or he didn’t show up or something. Jon had given her Nolan’s number at the Tropical and while he hadn’t liked doing that, he’d supposed an emergency
Piss.
Jon ate. As he did he glanced around the room. All the furniture had been covered up with sheets, but he could tell this was a girl’s room, or had been once; one of the pieces of furniture had the shape of a make-up table with tall mirror, and the walls were papered in pink with blue bells on it. The rest of the room was rugged, running to rough, barn-like wood, from the unvarnished floor to the open-beamed ceiling that followed the slant of the roof. If a girl’s room could be so rustic, Jon figured, the place must be a large cabin or cottage of some kind.
He had just finished his milk when the guy came back in.
“How was breakfast?”
“It was swell. Now if I could just have a cake with a file in it.”
“Listen, I don’t blame you for being bitter.”
“No shit.”
The guy sat wearily down, frustration obvious on his face. For some reason he seemed to want Jon to like him, or approve of his actions. Jesus. Jon studied him.
He wasn’t particularly big; in fact, he was slender, his arms thin. He was wearing a tank-top tee-shirt, blue, and white jeans. He had a college boy look to him, as if he should be out hazing some pledges for a fraternity somewhere.
Jon made his decision. He would watch the guy and find an opening and go with it. Take the guy down and get the hell out. It would be easy. Find an opening and cream the guy. Easy.
“I’d like to tell you what’s going on,” the guy was saying, “but I don’t know myself, really. I’m just as scared as you are, believe it or not, maybe more. I’m in this situation because I wanted to stand beside my father and I guess I didn’t realize just exactly who my father was.”
“That he’s a maniac, you mean.”
“That’s your point of view. He’s still my father, and I’m in this with him, to the end. Whether I like it or not, at this point. I guess I could go to jail a long time.”
“If Nolan finds you, don’t sweat jail.”
“Who is this Nolan?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Wait. Just wait.”
“Look. I’m trying to tell you I’m going to help you, if I can.”
“Oh?”
“I won’t let Dad, uh, do anything... extreme.”
“Like kill me?”
He shrugged. “Like kill you,” he admitted.
“Get me out of here, then.”
“I can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“All right I won’t. But stay cool. It’ll be all right.”
“You’re crazier than your father.”
“Could be. Anyway, can I get you something? We got some beer. Something to read maybe?”
“How about your father’s obituary.”
“I try to help you and you hassle me.”
“I'm just an ungrateful bastard, I guess.”
“I noticed your watch.”
“What?”
“Your watch. I noticed it. What kind of watch is that?”
“It’s just a watch.”
“You some kind of comic book nut or something?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“That watch has, who? Dick Tracy on it? And the tee-shirt you’re wearing is some other cartoon character. Thought it followed, your being a comic book nut.”
“All right, so I like comic books. What of it?”
“Christ, you're hostile. Just thought you might like to look through the box of old comics we got in the attic, up in the other house. At least I think they’re still up there, if they haven’t been thrown in the trash or something.”
Jon perked, getting interested in spite of himself. “How... how old are these comics?”
“I don’t know. They were my cousin’s, and he’s older than I am. My sister and I used to read them when we were kids, coming up here summers.”
“Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind taking a look at them.”
“Okay. Your name’s Jon, right? Mine’s Walter. Walt.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
