Last Call (Last Call 1)

She smiled up at him. "I don't need any help, thank you. My husband left a long time ago, looking for a phone. He should be back with a tow truck in a second."

"You shouldn't be crouched in the road like that, Diana," the stranger said. "A car could easily hit you. And if I know Scott, I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts he's gone off to find a Poker game."

Diana stood up slowly, unable to take a deep breath. This must be a partner of the crazy man up the hill.

"You and I can be friends, can't we?" the young man asked. He was smiling, but his face was puffy and blotchy in the moonlight.

"Sure," she said eagerly. Apparently this man was crazy, too. Humor these people, she told herself.

He exhaled as if in relief and put his arm around her shoulders. She forced herself not to recoil, to maintain whatever sort of smile was tensing her cheek muscles.

"Tell me the truth," he said. "Do you find me attractive?"

Oh, God, she thought. "Of course, I do," she said. He didn't move—his head was still cocked down, listening. Apparently what she'd said had not been enough. "I"—she went on helplessly—"I can't imagine any woman not finding you attractive." What are you doing, Scott? she thought. Have you got Scat? Kill the nut up there and then come down here and kill this one.

The man chuckled. "There are some weird women in this town, Diana, I kid you not. Scott can take your car back to town, can't he? What say you and I get in my Porsche and go have dinner? Las Vegas can be a very romantic town"—he squeezed her shoulders—"if you have the maturity, the self-confidence, to let yourself be open to new experiences."

"I thought you … people … wanted to talk to me, both of you, I mean. What about my son?"

"You have a son? That's good, I like women who've had some experience of life. I—"

"Do you know why I'm here?"

"Car trouble, I assume. Probably something simple, something Scott doesn't have the mechanical aptitude to deal with. After dinner we can—"

Diana squirmed out of his half embrace and backed two steps across the pavement. "You're just some guy? You're not involved in this?"

"I want to be involved," he said earnestly. "Let me help you. I'm a good man in a crisis—"

Diana was sobbing with fury. "Get the fuck away from me, you piece of shit! Haul your worthless little ass back to that jerk-off car and crank it out of here. Go!"

He was backing away. "D-D-Diana, I don't tolerate—"

She opened the Mustang's passenger door and got in and slammed it. "Clear off, queer bait," she said.

He ran back to his car, started it, and then sped past her so closely that she braced herself against the impact of a crash. Then he had narrowly hurtled past, and his white car was just twin red spots dwindling in the rearview mirror.

"I ought to kill you, Dad."

Crane's sweaty face was cold in the hilltop breeze, and he was panting, largely from the effort of having climbed up here to the crest. "You don't know the whole story," he said. He wanted to look back down the hill toward where Diana waited, but he made himself smile confidently into Snayheever's eyes and peripherally focus his attention on the little automatic in the young man's fist.

"Have I seen your body before, this new one?"

"I don't think so," said Crane, grateful that his sweaty hair was down across his forehead, and that he had been out in the parking lot of The Mad Greek during most of Saturday's Go Fish game.

For ten full seconds Snayheever kept the gun pointed at him, while the wind hissed in the sparse, dry brush, and then he turned and pointed it away across the desert. "Let's go to the box. I'm glad you're here, is what the truth is. I need to know more about my mother before I talk to her."

Crane knew he should pull out his own gun and shoot the young man right now—and his hand wavered up toward his flapping shirttail—but then Snayheever had swung the muzzle of his automatic back into line, aimed at Crane's solar plexus.

The moment was gone.

"After you, Dad," said the young man.

Raging inwardly at his own indecisiveness, Crane shrugged and plodded forward.

The box proved to be a low plywood shack. Crane had to stoop to enter. There was a skylight, and inside by filtered moonlight he saw a little boy sitting in a chair. Duct tape gleamed on his mouth, and on his wrists where they were held against the chair's rear legs. The boy's eyes were wide.

Crane looked back at Snayheever, who had come in right behind him. Snayheever had the gun pointed halfway between Scat and Crane.

Not yet, Crane thought. Wait till it's pointed away, or at least fully at me.