If Tomorrow Comes - Страница 5

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“You want a thirty-two, a forty-five, a —”

Tracy had never even held a gun. “A — a thirty-two will do.”

“I have a nice thirty-two caliber Smith and Wesson here for two hundred twenty-nine dollars, or a Charter Arms thirty-two for a hundred fifty-nine…”

She had not brought much cash with her. “Have you got something cheaper?”

He shrugged. “Cheaper is a slingshot, lady. Tell you what. I'll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred fifty, and I'll throw in a box of bullets.”

“All right.” Tracy watched as he moved over to an arsenal on a table behind him and selected a revolver. He brought it to the counter. “You know how to use it?”

“You — you pull the trigger.”

He grunted. “Do you want me to show you how to load it?”

She started to say no, that she was not going to use it, that she just wanted to frighten someone, but she realized how foolish that would sound. “Yes, please.”

Tracy watched as he inserted the bullets into the chamber. “Thank you.” She reached in tier purse and counted out the money.

“I'll need your name and address for the police records.”

That had not occurred to Tracy. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he's the criminal, not I.

The green eyeshade made the man's eyes a pale yellow as he watched her. “Name?”

“Smith. Joan Smith.”

He made a note on a card. “Address?”

“Dowman Road. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road.”

Without looking up he said, “There is no Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river. We'll make it Fifty-twenty.” He pushed the receipt in front of her.

She signed JOAN SMITH. “Is that it?”

“That's it.” He carefully pushed the revolver through the cage. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her purse, turned and hurried out of the shop.

“Hey, lady,” he yelled after her. “Don't forget that gun is loaded!”

Jackson Square is in the heart of the French Quarter, with the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees. Joe Romano lived in one of those houses.

Tracy waited until dark before she set out. The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier.

She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her purse. The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother's name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession. She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother's name would be protected. She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it. She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged. A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted.

She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He's probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras. But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway. His appearance was a surprise to Tracy. She had envisioned a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor. His voice was low and friendly. “Hello. May I help you?”

“Are you Joseph Romano?” Her voice was shaky.

“Yes. What can I do for you?” He had an easy, engaging manner. No wonder my mother was taken in by this man, Tracy thought.

“I — I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Romano.”

He studied her figure for a moment. “Certainly. Please come in.”

Tracy walked into a living room filled with beautiful, burnished antique furniture. Joseph Romano lived well. On my mother's money, Tracy thought bitterly.

“I was just about to mix myself a drink. What would you like?”

“Nothing.”

He looked at her curiously.. “What was it you wanted to see me about, Miss —?”

“Tracy Whitney. I'm Doris Whitney's daughter.”

He stared at her blankly for an instant, and then a look of recognition flashed across his face. “Oh, yes. I heard about your mother. Too bad.”

Too bad! He had caused the death of her mother, and his only comment was: “Too bad.”

“Mr. Romano, the district attorney believes that my mother was guilty of fraud. You know that's not true. I want you to help me clear her name.”

He shrugged. “I never talk business during Mardi Gras. It's against my religion.” Romano walked over to the bar and began mixing two drinks. “I think you'll feel better after you've had a drink.”

He was leaving her no choice. Tracy opened her purse and pulled out the revolver. She pointed it at him. “I'll tell you what will make me feel better, Mr. Romano. Having you confess to exactly what you did to my mother.”

Joseph Romano turned and saw the gun. “You'd better put that away, Miss Whitney. It could go off.”

“It's going to go off if you don't do exactly what I tell you to. You're going to write down how you stripped the company, put it into bankruptcy, and drove my mother to suicide.”

He was watching her carefully now, his dark eyes wary. “I see. What if I refuse?”

“Then I'm going to kill you.” She could feel the gun shaking in her hand.

“You don't took like a killer, Miss Whitney.” He was moving toward her now, a drink in his hand. His voice was soft and sincere. “I had nothing to do with your mother's death, and believe me, I —” He threw the drink in her face.

Tracy felt the sharp sting of the alcohol in her eyes, and an instant later the gun was knocked from her hand.

“Your old lady held out on me,” Joe Romano said. “She didn't tell me she had a horny-looking daughter.”

He was holding her, pinning her arms, and Tracy was blinded and terrified. She tried to move away from him, but he backed her into a wall, pressing against her.

“You have guts, baby. I like that. It turns me on.” His voice was hoarse. Tracy could feel his body hard against hers, and she tried to twist away, but she was helpless in his grip.

“You came here for a little excitement, huh? Well, Joe's going to give it to you.”

She tried to scream, but her voice came out in a gasp. “Let me go!”

He ripped her blouse away. “Hey! Look at those tits,” he whispered. He began pinching her nipples. “Fight me, baby,” he whispered. “I love it!”

“Let go of me!”

He was squeezing harder, hurting her. She felt herself being forced down to the floor.

“I'll bet you've never been fucked by a real man,” he said. He was astride her now, his body heavy on hers, his hands moving up her thighs. Tracy pushed out blindly, and her fingers touched the gun. She grabbed for it, and there was a sudden, loud explosion.

“Oh, Jesus!” Romano cried. His grip suddenly relaxed. Through a red mist, Tracy watched in horror as he fell off her and slumped to the floor, clutching his side. “You shot me… you bitch. You shot me….”

Tracy was transfixed, unable to move. She felt she was going to be sick, and her eyes were blinded by stabbing pain. She pulled herself to her feet, turned, and stumbled to a door at the far end of the room. She pushed it open. It was a bathroom. She staggered over to the sink, filled the basin with cold water, and bathed her eyes until the pain began to subside and her vision cleared. She looked into the cabinet mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. My God, I've just killed a man. She ran back into the living room.

Joe Romano lay on the floor, his blood seeping onto the white rug. Tracy stood over him, white-faced. “I'm sorry,” she said inanely. “I didn't mean to —”

“Ambulance…” His breathing was ragged.

Tracy hurried to the telephone on the desk and dialed the operator. When she tried to speak, her voice was choked. “Operator, send an ambulance right away. The address is Four-twenty-one Jackson Square. A man has been shot.”

She replaced the receiver and looked down at Joe Romano. Oh, God, she prayed, please don't let him die. You know I didn't meal: to kill him. She knelt beside the body on the floor to see if he was still alive. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. “An ambulance is on its way,” Tracy promised.

She fled.

She tried not to run, afraid of attracting attention. She pulled her jacket close around her to conceal her ripped blouse. Four blocks from the house Tracy tried to hail a taxi. Half a dozen sped past her, filled with happy, laughing passengers. In the distance Tracy heard the sound of an approaching siren, and seconds later an ambulance raced past her, headed in the direction of Joe Romano's house. I've got to get away from here, Tracy thought. Ahead of her, a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passengers. Tracy ran toward it, afraid of losing it. “Are you free?”

“That depends. Where you goin'?”

“The airport.” She held her breath.