Authors: Richard S. Prather

Kill Me Tomorrow (34 page)

Well, could be, I thought. Could be.â¦

The drapes were drawn and it was cool and dim in my suite. Even the door had been fixed. But even if it had still been flat on the floor, I would have left it there. I was tired. Barely enough gas left to make it into the shower and then into the clean cool sheets of my just-soft-enough double bed.

Ordinarily I hang up my clothes, no matter how pooped I may be. But this time I took everything, my shirt and tie and shoes and shorts and socks and suit â¦ my wonderful, brand-new custom-tailored, gorgeously shimmering color-of-a-drunken-dragon's-eye suit, and dropped it all and kicked it into a corner.

Thenâah, luxuryâinto the shower. Some of the strange garbage I washed off me, out of my hair, even from my ears, had been clinging to me for twenty-four hours. More, since my awakening in the desert last night.

Last night? It was difficult to believe this was only Sunday afternoon. Hell, I still had the rest of Sunday to sleep, and three days left of my week's vacation. A quantity of that time would of necessity be spent among representatives of the lawâwith whom, as may possibly be suspected, I had already spent some. But I was free. As to whether I would remain free forever and ever there was some small question.

At least Dr. Fretsindler, owner of the YAG laser, its trailer, and the automobile to which all that had been attached, was not
also
going to put me in jail. I had returned the entire shebangâundamaged, astonishinglyâto the doctor, and he seemed to bear me no ill-will whatsoever.

When I explained why I had done what I'd done, of what immense help to me the laser had been, and a few of the other circumstancesâonly a few, since it would have taken till August to tell of them allâhe hadn't protested. Now that I considered it more closely, he hadn't said much of anything. Fretsindler had merely looked at me. Just looked and looked. When I was through he sort of edged away and said, “That's all right. Perfectly all right. No harm done. Splendid, old chap. I'm â¦ sure it won't happen again.” Then he shut the door, and I'd heard him lock it.

So that was another worry off my mind.

I had also put Paul Anson's worries to rest. About ten A.M. when I'd gotten a free half-minute, I phoned to tell him,
“I'm alive, I'm alive
!” or words to that joyous effect. After mumbling a few hardly audible mumbles he had finally said, clearly, just before hanging up in my ear, “Damn you, Sheldon, I told you to give me a call at
eight
o'clock.”

It made me feel good all over. It's nice to know people really care.

I let the hot water pound me for a long time, scrubbing off not only the dirt and caked mud and easing some of the aches, but maybe washing away the invisible film of Letch, Weeton, Lucky Ryan, Holyjoe Archibald.â¦ Those last two were dead, of course. Weeton and Fleepo were in the hospital, Lecci and Ace in the clink. David Stephens and even Congressman Kerwin Stephens were being interrogated in a manner which might at the least be described as determined.

I knew now why his pals had given Lucky Ryan Frankie's Colt .45âwhich wasn't Frankie's, but a heater used months before to knock down a liquor-store owner. Since the boys felt sensibly nervous about Lucky Ryan with his own heater handy, they had helpfully given him an automatic with only two cartridges in the clip, and instructions to “put three-four into Scott.” Along about number three, it could be surmised with great confidence, three-four would instead have gone into Lucky.

But his luck had held. Because when I took off running like a fleet hippopotamus, that saved meâ
and
Lucky. Following which, Ace was able to take back the gimmicked Colt. They'd wanted so badly to kill him after he hit me, and it turned out I killed him myself with his own gun. Just, or
almost
, the way they'd wanted it.

And, finally, there was big, baldânow not so much bald as scalpedâBludgett. He, too, was in the hospital, with a rather unusual head. There was no question but that he would recover. He might, however, in the future, have a mite less self-confidence in his ability to dream the impossible dream and then do the impossible do.â¦

At last I stopped using up tons of the hotel's hot water and, much refreshed rubbed down briskly with a towel, brushed my teeth, examined the new me in the mirror, peered into my eyes, stuck out my tongue, beat my chest like Tarzan, pranced out of the bathroom and hopped into bed.

And leaped out, emitting a great yell, like Tarzan.

There had been something in my bed.

That was enough to scare hell out of anybody.

God knows what it was, but it was something soft, and warm â¦ and rounded â¦ and â¦ Come to think of it, whatever it was hadn't felt
that
scarey.

She sat up in bed, holding the sheet an inch under her chin. “I hope you don't mind,” Lucrezia said.

“Mind? Mind?” My mind wasn't functioning smoothly yet.

“Well, that horrible noise you made.”

“Iâwon't do it again.”

“I didn't know you were afraid of girls.”

“I didn't know it, either.”

“I thought I'd surprise you,” she said.

“You surprised me, all right.”

“I was afraid you might think I was mad at youâabout Mary. But I figured that out.”

“Well, then I guess you're not mad at me. Yeah, I guessâ”

“I thought you'd be pleased.”

“Pleased isn't quite the word. I'll bet I could think of maybe a thousandâ”

“Are you just going to stand there like that?”

It was the two words “like that” which started my mind clicking like a well-oiled machine again. Thus reminded, I looked at myself. Yeah, she had a good idea there. Wouldn't do to just stand here like this. So I jumped into the bed and covered myself with the sheet.

And the sheet was pulled from Lucrezia's fingers, brushed the magnificent, thrusting breasts as it fell, brushed and then bared them. It fell to her waist, crumpled upon her thighs. I held the sheet in one hand. For a long moment. Then I stripped it from us, threw it to the foot of the bed.

She sat silently, still erect, head tilted slightly back. Andâsomething changed. Always before, before this moment, we'd been joking or half-joking, there'd been no time to be serious, no time for leisurely words, or glances, or caresses.

There was time now.

The air itself seemed changed. Heavier. Thicker. It was very quiet. Then it was something more than that. It was oddly still. Still the way it must be in the Garden of Kam when the wind dies suddenly and nothing stirs. It was a strange quietness, a stillness, a hush. A hush, here in my room. Or maybe it was merely that something changed in her, and in me.

Whatever it was, that hush was broken by the slow soft rise of Lucrezia's breath, and the rise of her brazen breasts as she breathed. She didn't speak, not then. Nor did I. I leaned toward her, saw her eyes half close, her lips soften and part. Then she was smooth loveliness against me, melting against me, her mouth on my mouth, her body pressed to mine, her lips my lips, her flesh my flesh.

I kissed her and held her close and breathed her name, and heard that voice born in dreams of houris and wantons and bawds, soft as night winds in my ear, “Oh, my darling. Ohâmy darling,” and knew that unimaginably warm and wondrous body, the perfection of her breasts and thighs, the fire in her eyes and lips, and the sweet fast beat of her heart.

Much laterâa little while after darkâshe said to me, “Shell â¦ you murmured something in your sleep. I liked it!”

“What did Iâmurmur?”

“My name.”

“Lucrezia?”

“Lucrezia.”

“Well, naturally,” I said. “You don't think I'd dream about anyone else, do you?”

“You'd better
not,”
she said. And then she smiled that lotus-cooking smile, the smooth lids drooped, embers of burning Rome glowed brighter in velvet eyes, and she said, or murmured, “At leastânot tonight.”

I didn't, either.

About the Author

Richard S. Prather (1921â2007) was the author of the world-famous Shell Scott detective series, which has over forty million copies in print in the United States and many millions more in foreign-language editions abroad. There are forty-one volumes in the series, including four collections of short stories and novelettes. In 1986, Prather was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Private Eye Writers of America. He and his wife, Tina, lived in Sedona, Arizona.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Mauricio DÃaz

ISBN: 978-1-4976-4965-1

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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