Nolan noticed what great legs the girl had and that her shortie terrycloth robe was belted at the waist, not too securely, enabling him to see one-third of two melony breasts. She was a tall girl, which made sense with Tillis being so big, and Nolan put his hand over her mouth and dragged her back inside the apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot.
The kitchen was ordinary, tidy. He showed her the gun and whispered into her ear, “Don’t scream,” and marched her into the next room, his one arm around her waist with the gun poking her side, the other arm reached up across melony breasts to cover her mouth; they walked in step together, clumsily, as though doing a dance they just learned together at Arthur Murray’s.
The room was high-ceilinged, trimmed in carved woodworking that isn’t done these days, and had once been the house library, judging from the walls of bookcases on either side of the room. They moved quickly through the library, which with lounging pillows and shag carpet and couch and easy chairs and TV had been reconverted into a living room, and on to the bedroom, where an air conditioner stuck in a window was cooling Tillis, who was asleep on his stomach, on top of the covers, naked.
Carefully, like a contortionist, without moving the arm across melony breasts or the one around her waist, Nolan stretched out a foot and kicked the bed.
Tillis roused, rolled over, sat up in bed, said, “What the fuck,” rubbed sleep from his eyes.
Nolan said, “Surprise.”
Tillis said, “Nolan?”
“Tell this girl I’m a friend and not to scream when I let her go.”
“Phyllis, honey, he’s my friend, don’t go screaming, honey.”
“And tell her not to jab me in the balls or anything.”
“Don’t go jabbing him in the balls or nothing, honey.”
He let her go and she squirmed onto the bed and put her arms around Tillis. She was whiter than usual, being scared, and up against the big naked black man she made quite a contrast. Her eyes were full of confusion and hate, and she twisted up her face at Nolan and spat, “Pig.”
“Hardly,” Nolan said.
“Racist motherfucker,” she said.
“Peace,” Nolan said, making the sign.
“Cool it, Phyllis honey,” Tillis said laughing, patting her backside, “He really is a friend. Sorta. He just got reason to play things a little close to the vest. He’s a little more cautious than some people I know.”
Phyllis said, “You mean I should have been more careful about just opening the door for him like I did?”
“We talked about that before, honey. I ain’t no goddamn plumber, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Tillie.”
“It’s okay. You gonna put the gun down, Nolan?”
“Down,” Nolan said, lowering it. “Not away.”
Tillis grinned, his white smile flashing in the darkened room; he looked like a sinister Louis Armstrong. He turned to Phyllis, said, “Be a good girl and get me some pants.”
“Just pants,” Nolan told her as she crossed in front of him, going to a dresser.
“What makes you so goddamn paranoid, man?” Tillis wanted to know.
“Old age,” Nolan said, watching Tillis climb into his trousers.
“I thought you’d be in one of those homes by now,” Tillis said, “boppin’ round the grounds in a wheelchair with a shawl around your shoulders.”
“Last time you told me that, I just finished knocking you on your black ass.”
“And this time you caught me cold, with my black ass
Nolan grinned back at him, said, “This time I thought we’d skip the preliminaries. My ribs hurt for a week last time we tangled.”
“Must be that arthritis gettin’ to you.”
“Must be. Let’s go talk in the other room. How about your friend getting us some coffee?”
“Good idea. Phyllis, honey, do what the man says.”
“Is there a phone in the kitchen?” Nolan asked.
“No,” Tillis said, pointing to the nightstand phone. “Only one in the apartment’s here.”
“Okay,” Nolan told the girl, “go make the coffee.”
“Get fucked,” she told him.
“Fine with me,” he said. “First take off your robe.”
She started to spit back a reply, but saw that Tillis was laughing at what Nolan said, and she shrugged helplessly and went off to the kitchen.
Nolan and Tillis took seats in the library-living room. Tillis sat on the couch, Nolan on an easy chair across. He glanced at the books in the case behind him and recognized only one author; he hadn’t heard of James Baldwin, Leroi Jones, Germaine Greer or Joyce Carol Oates, but he knew Harold Robbins.
Tillis said, “You’re early, man.”
“I made good time on the tollway.”
“I wouldn’t’ve called Harry in on you, you know.”
“Thought crossed your mind, though, didn’t it?”
Tillis grinned, then got serious fast. “What’s this about, anyway?”
“You asked me that on the phone.”
“Want you to tell me, man. Want to hear you say it.”
“It’s Charlie, Tillis.”
“Charlie’s dead.”
“Yeah. And you helped crucify him. Only on the seventh day he rose.”
“What makes you think he’s alive?”
“Nothing much. Just that yesterday he murdered a friend of mine, stole around a million dollars from me, and kidnapped a kid I know. That’s all.”
