Dead Bang (42 page)

“I can't go back to my show,” said Mark.

“They love you, Mark,” I said. “Thought you'd like to know, before I shot you.”

Mark handed me the revolver.

I put the Ivor Johnson in my coat pocket and walked Mark toward the door with my good arm around him.

“You didn't shoot me,” he said, but it didn't sound like a complaint.

“I don't have a gun.”

Mark stopped and turned to look at me. “You said you had one.”

“An anecdotal fact that doesn't change the basic truth that shooting you has a certain appeal. Especially, just now,” I said and looked out the window. In the parking lot, the police officers were raising their weapons. “And I'm not the only one who thinks so.” I took his arm with my hand.

“I want them to shoot me,” he said. “I want to show how bad things happen when people have guns.” He began to back up and pull away. “It'll make the world a better place.”

I tightened my grip but didn't pull. “You want to make the world a better place?”

“I told you that before,” he said and started twisting his arm.

“I know how you can do that,” I said. He stopped jerking his arm and narrowed his eyes. “Your housekeeper, Juanita?”

“Yeah?”

“Set up a college fund for her. The world will be a better place.”

He shrugged. “That's such a small thing. What about guns?”

“It wouldn't be a small thing for Juanita, and it might be a very big thing for her family.” I clapped him on the shoulder with my left hand—the ice pick rewarded me with a hot electric jolt. “Besides, every one of those cops out there is convinced that there's at least one too many guns in this town right now. So am I.”

“It's not supposed to be about one gun,” said Mark.

“You kind of narrowed the discussion down to one gun when you waved it around the bus station and scared the hell out of everybody.”

“The point is—” said Mark.

“An object lesson,” I said. “Maybe there
is
one here. Maybe I'm not sophisticated enough to see it. I just deal with facts. Fact one is that your wife loves you. Fact two is that you haven't killed anyone, yet. Fact number three—it's time to talk to Officer Friendly.”

“What should I say?”

“Tell him to talk to your lawyer.”

“You said
I
had to talk to Officer Friendly. Is the camera still on?”

“Sure,” I said. “Keep it brief. Tell him how bad guns are.” I started him toward the door. He didn't resist. “But don't tell him any secrets.”

“Yeah, some secrets don't need to be revealed,” said Mark. “I've been thinking about that.” He showed me the basset hound face he'd made at Sbarro's before the Shatner shooting. “I can't seem to get the idea off my mind. You were right about that.”

“Except one,” I said. “Just between you and me. And you know I keep secrets.”

“About what?”

“About what the Shatner woman said to you.”

“You were there,” he said.

“Just before she blasted your tape recorder. I didn't quite hear it. Chet won't tell me, and he erased it from the tape before he turned the cassette over to the police.”

Mark reached for the door handle. “Maybe that's best,” he said. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “I can't make it up to her now.”

“Make up what?” I asked and blocked the door with my foot.

“The story I did about her son. The prosecutor said there was too much publicity. He wouldn't make a deal for her son to plead guilty to a lesser charge and stay out of jail.”

“She said all of that?”

“No, I knew that,” said Mark. “Chet knew it too. We all knew. The judge. The insurance investigator. Everybody.”

“What did she say?”

“She said,” Mark wiped his eyes with his hand, “you're next.”