Exercise in Terror by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Author:Stuart M. Kaminsky [Kaminsky, Stuart M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784085902
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd
Published: 2012-12-14T19:51:00+00:00

5

“N OW DO YOU TWO MIND telling me what the fuck that was all about?” the woman said, readjusting her wet shirt. Her name was Myrna. She was married to a cab driver named Sol, and she spent most of her spare time—which was, as far as Marty could see, as ample as her ass—in a trio of bars on Howard Street east of Clark.

They were in the van driving west on Diversey, and neither of the men on either side of her answered. “There it is,” the smaller man said suddenly, pointing a finger past her at a hot dog stand.

“I see it,” the big one answered without looking.

“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?” Myrna said, shifting her weight.

They had picked her up the night before. Marty, Cal, and Myrna had been the last customers at Irvine’s Bar, lingering until two in the morning. She’d been drunk and Cal had been plastered out of his head, moaning about not being able to find a goddamn television store.

Myrna had accepted a drink from the two of them, though she might have turned them down had it been a few hours earlier and she a little less stewed. She was pretty good at picking out the crazies, the brawlers, the talkers. Marty was sure of that. He had seen the type from Carbondale to Calabasas. When the bartender had told them it was time to close up, Cal had gotten that look in his eye that could have meant trouble. It was Myrna who had said that she would take them to a place she knew where they could have a good time any time of the day or night.

She had led them to a place called the Gold Tack, one of the crummiest bars Marty had ever seen, and in his travels with Cal he had seen places that a pus-covered rat wouldn’t go in. He’d hated the place, but Cal had wanted to stay. There’d been a few guys at the bar who looked like trouble, but Marty had made it clear that he was far from drunk, and they’d turned their eyes away.

After trading dumb shit talk with the woman for an hour and fumbling for her tits, Cal had passed out. Marty had dropped a ten-dollar bill and picked up his cousin. He had been surprised when Myrna followed him out.

“Where are you going?” she’d said in the hot night air.

A cruising cop car had been coming down Clark Street, so Marty had hustled toward the van, opening it and pushing the limp body of his cousin into the back.

“Hey,” Myrna had said, running after him, “you dumping me out here in this neighborhood at this time of night? You know what could happen to me here?”

Whatever it was, Marty had been sure it had already happened to her more than once, but with the cops cruising closer, he wasn’t about to start something.

“Can I come with you or what?” she’d said loudly.

“Suit yourself,” Marty had said, and she’d jumped in, closing the passenger door behind her.

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