‘Incidentally, Turk...’ I heard the click on the other end of the line, and I knew he’d hung up. I really didn’t have anything more to tell him, but I had felt like talking a little more. Slowly, I put the phone back into the waiting cradle.
The apartment was quiet, very quiet. I walked into the bedroom and stood before the dresser, looking down at the framed picture of Betty. I looked at it for a long time.
Then I went to the phone and sat down near it, wondering who I could call, wondering who I could talk to. I lit a cigarette, studied the burning end.
I knew who I wanted to talk to.
I put her out of my mind. I thought of other things. I thought of Georgie Davis, the young punk who’d eyed me at the party. And I thought of all the other punks who’d stare at me with the bright gleam in their eyes and the hungry look on their faces. The young punks eager for a kill, eager for a lot of things.
I thought about them for a long time.
When the doorbell rang, I knew it was the girl.
I knew it couldn’t have been anyone else, but it took me a long time to open that door. And when I did open it, I had one hand on the slippery .45 in my pocket, and I was sweating. I wasn’t scared, but I was sweating.
I was sweating because I knew I’d have to open a lot of doors in the days and nights to come-
And one of them would not open on a smiling girl.