Wild by Gil Brewer

me—you have got to! It’s wrong and you know it’s wrong. Can’t you see? Don’t you realize that….”
    He had gouged the rest of it with the pencil until the lead broke. Between the wall and the desk was a small waste-paper basket. I looked at the wadded sheets in it. They were covered with the same blaring nothing, written in some kind of a frenzy. Drunk, maybe. Maybe he decided suicide was the only way.
    I stared at the sheet of paper on the desk. Something glinted in a partly open desk drawer. I slid the drawer open, reached in and brought out a .32 automatic. I stood there looking at it. It was a Savage. I started to smell it and heard a car purr along the shell and grind to a stop.
    I made it fast to the living room and looked out a window. Ivor Hendrix was paying off the driver of a yellow cab. The cab spurted off along the shell, and she turned, stumbling, toward the cabin.
    She was so drunk she took the top three steps on her hands and knees.

THIRTEEN
     
    S HE GOT TO HER FEET on the porch and moved toward the door.
    “Vince,” she called softly. “Vince?”
    I put the .32 automatic in my pocket, walked over to the front door, unlatched and opened it.
    She stared at me, huddled against the door jamb. She looked very unhappy. She wore a thin cotton sheath dress and black pumps. The thick auburn hair was snarled. She carried the white cylindrical purse.
    “You,” she said. “I promised you.”
    She began to slide down the door jamb. I reached out, caught her arm, hauled her inside, and closed the door.
    Her eyes roved the room.
    “Vince,” she said. “Vince.”
    She looked as if she had tried to fix herself up before she came to see him. The dress fit her very tightly and was as smooth as skin. Then I noticed she only had on one shoe.
    “You’ve lost a shoe,” I said.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at me. “I promised you, and I’m sorry. I had to see him.” Her eyes were like buckshot in one of these games you used to find in Cracker-Jack boxes, rolling loosely, trying to find home. She was crocked to the hairline. “I sat there,” she said. “I waited. There was a fifth o’ wishkey in frigerdar-er-ater.”
    I put one arm around her slim waist and led her toward the kitchen. She began to move her lips around the name, “Vince,” without speaking. She dropped her purse.
    “What’s happening?” she said.
    “A little bit of everything, I’m afraid.”
    “You mad at me?”
    “Yes.”
    “I sorry.”
    We reached the kitchen. I held her steady as we both looked at the body of Vince Gamba.
    She shuddered and said softly, “He’s dead.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    She twisted and writhed in my arms. Small cries of fright were muted in her throat, and fright ruthlessly changed her expression. Her mouth was red confusion. Facing me, she fought to break free.
    I tried to keep from feeling sorry for her. She was drunk, wishing she could be sober. It wouldn’t work.
    “How did he die?” she gasped.
    “He was murdered,” I said. There was no sense in trying to explain right then. I told her, anyway—how he had phoned me, that he had been drunker than she was. “Somebody found him lying passed out on the floor. They fixed a suicide picture; stuck his head in the oven and turned on the gas. His car was seen leaving the grounds not too long ago.”
    She stilled. Her eyes seemed to clear somewhat.
    “Why did you come here?” I said.
    “You told me Vince was looking for me.” Her words were clearer. She was far from sober, but the shock of seeing Gamba had evidently touched her emotions harshly enough to bring her partially around. “I knew it must have been something serious.” She leaned back against my arms, her head wobbling. “I kep’ drinking. I don’t drink much, as a rule. Suppose that’s why I finally came here. What you tol’ me—it kept working on me. Vince and I agreed not to see each other.”
    Her gaze crept around toward the body. Abruptly, she wrenched free