Cut and Thrust

44

By the time the first course arrived, the four had, by common consent, divided into two couples. Croft got Pam, Morales got Sherry, and everyone seemed happy with that.

The bottle of wine Pam had selected arrived and was poured, then glasses were clinked.

“Now,” Pam said, taking a bite of her pâté and leaning forward, “tell me everything.”

Croft took a deep breath and started into Barbara Eagle’s history of trying to murder her husband, while Pam listened avidly and Sherry and Chico mumbled to each other. When Croft had finished, Pam said, “Wow.”

Billy Burnett moved through some trees and plantings behind the house until he could see people entering a room at a rear corner and sitting down. Dinner, he supposed. He ran the last few yards to the house, broke through some bordering shrubs, and knelt down, listening. Nothing: no alarms, no footsteps, no dogs. He rolled down his knitted cap, which covered his face but left openings for eyes and mouth, then, carefully, he stood up and looked in the window.

Seven people were around a round table, and Barbara’s back was toward Billy. He unzipped his fanny pack, took out a small battery-operated amplifier, plugged a cord into it, then he licked a suction cup, stuck it to the window, and put an earbud into one ear. They were, apparently, continuing a conversation begun in the living room over drinks.

“I tell you,” Barbara was saying, “Ed Eagle has made my life hell for years. He’s made at least four attempts on my life, then blamed me for trying to kill him. The latest you may have seen on TV. He hired someone to plant a bomb on his airplane, and the man cocked it up somehow and blew himself up, as well. Then, of course, he told the Los Angeles police that I had hired someone to kill him. Two LAPD detectives were here until an hour before you all arrived, questioning me.”

“Why don’t you sue Eagle?” one of the women asked.

“What for? I don’t want or need his money, and, anyway, Ed is one of the best trial lawyers in the country. It would cost me millions, then nothing would happen.”

“Why don’t you go public, then?” the man asked.

“Jack, what do you mean by ‘go public’?”

“Take the offensive — give a few, select interviews to the right members of the press, and turn the whole thing back on Eagle. Show him up for the villain he is, ruin his reputation, cost him clients. Maybe he’d get the message then.”

“I never thought of that,” Barbara said. “But I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about it.”

“A good friend of mine, Hugh Gordon, is the top publicist in the city,” Jack said.

“But I’m not selling anything,” Barbara replied. “I haven’t written a book or anything like that.”

“You’re selling your story, nothing else. Of course, a book might come later. Hugh would know exactly how to handle this situation. He knows every important journalist on the West Coast, and a lot in New York, too. If you like, I’ll have him call you tomorrow. You could discuss it with him and, if you feel it’s the right thing to do, come up with a plan.”

“Perhaps I should at least talk to him,” Barbara said.

Billy heard a noise. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was enough for him to pocket his listening gear and sit very still, huddled next to the house, behind bushes. As he continued to listen, he heard soft footsteps approaching, and a powerful beam of light began flitting around the rear of the house. Billy curled into a ball, his head tucked against his knees, exposing only black to the approaching threat.

“I know you’re here,” a voice said. “You didn’t count on our security system, did you? I’m armed, and unless you come out and identify yourself, I’m going to start firing randomly into the shrubbery.”

Billy uncoiled, stood up, and saw a very large man — Blunt Instrument. He had read about him in his research: ex-NFL player, knee injury. Billy walked confidently toward him, and the man raised his pistol. Billy slowed, but continued, doing what his opponent had not expected, coming closer.

“Hold it right there,” the man said.

Billy took one step closer to him and swung the edge of his left hand at the man’s right wrist. The pistol flew out of the man’s hand. He emitted a short cry of pain, then Billy kicked him, not too hard, in his right knee, and the man collapsed and held the knee.

“That’s the correct knee, isn’t it? If I encounter you again, I’ll ruin it permanently for you. It will take you months to get over the surgery. And you would be wise not to mention this little tiff to your mistress.”

Billy turned and walked toward his car, picking up the man’s weapon along the way and tossing it as far as he could into the darkness. He looked back once and saw the man still lying on the ground, clutching his knee.