Missionary Stew by Ross Thomas

Author:Ross Thomas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 1983-06-23T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

At 7:45 that night the two men who sometimes called themselves Yarn and Tighe parked their Oldsmobile 88 behind the Mercedes sedan in Gladys Citron's driveway. John D. Yarn was behind the wheel, Richard Tighe beside him. They examined the house briefly. A light was on in the living room. The porch light had also been turned on.

Without speaking, they got out of the car and walked through the iron gate and up the curving cement walk to the front door. Tighe rang the bell. The door was opened almost immediately by Gladys Citron. Nothing was said. The two men went inside, through the small foyer, and into the living room. Gladys Citron followed them.

Tighe headed for the tray that held the bottles and glasses. He spoke over his shoulder to Yarn. “What d’you want, Scotch?”

“Scotch.”

“Gladys?”

“Nothing,” she said.

Tighe mixed the two drinks, turned, and handed one to Yarn. Gladys Citron crossed to the wing-back chairs, hesitated, then sat down in the one where Drew Meade had died. She was wearing a longdressy robe of dark-blue silk. It went nicely with her hair. She leaned her head back against the chair, closed her eyes, and said, “Well?”

Tighe sat down in the chair opposite her and took a swallow of his drink. Yarn continued to stand, sipped some of his Scotch, and said, “I like that, Gladys. The way you plopped down in old Drew's chair.”

“It's my chair,” she said, her eyes still closed. “He merely died in it.”

“Well, it went about like we thought it would,” Tighe said. “They dumped him over in Culver City.”

“And?”

“They found the card.”

“You’re sure?” she said.

“It was gone, anyway.”

“I wonder which one,” Tighe said.

Yarn looked at him. “Which one what?”

“Found it.”

“Haere. I’d say Haere.” “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Yarn said. “Maybe just because he's foxier.”

Gladys Citron opened her eyes. “I won’t have him hurt.”

Tighe smiled at her. “You should’ve thought of that before, Gladys.”

“He's still my son. They won’t have to hurt him.”

“We’ll tell them that, won’t we?” Tighe said to Yarn.

Yarn grinned and nodded. “Maybe we can hang a sign around his neck. ‘Handle with Care.’ Something like that.”

Gladys Citron leaned forward in her chair. When she spoke, her tone was surprisingly soft, but her stare was hard and unwavering. “I must not be making myself clear.”

Tighe finished his drink. “Sure you are, Gladys. You’re playing Mommy—maybe forty years late, but you’re playing it pretty well. You have to understand something, though. If it comes to choosing between your son and us, and I’m talking about all of us, then a hard choice will have to be made. I mean, if it comes to us or him, who do we choose?”

Gladys Citron leaned back in the chair and again closed her eyes. “I’ve got a migraine,” she said. “Why don’t you two run out and play somewhere.”

“Who, Gladys?” Yarn said.

“It needn’t come to that,” she said, her eyes still closed.

“But if it does?”

She opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. “He was a very pretty baby.

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