Deadfall (Nameless Detective) by Bill Pronzini Page A

column of her throat, and closed her eyes and said, “Oh Lord, what am I going to do?”
    “What are we going to do, you mean.”
    “All right, we.”
    “He showed up on my doorstep this morning, remember?”
    “I said all right.”
    “And getting looped isn’t going to help, you know.”
    She opened one eye. “I’m not looped.”
    “Close to it.”
    “Nonsense. You’re not going to start in on me, are you?”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “I only had four glasses of wine,” she said.
    “Only four glasses? That’s a lot of wine.”
    “No, it isn’t. I’m a big girl; I go potty by myself and everything. Besides, I needed it. I had a rotten day. And Jim Carpenter was nice enough to invite me out to MacArthur Park for drinks.”
    “Him, huh?” I said. “Good old Jim.”
    She had both eyes open now and she rolled them in one of those martyred expressions women put on now and then. “We’re not going to start that again, too?”
    “What again?”
    “You being jealous of Jim Carpenter.”
    “Why the hell should I be jealous of him?”
    “That’s a good question. You sure act like you are.”
    “Well I’m not.”
    “I can’t even go out for a couple of glasses of wine—”
    “Four glasses of wine.”
    “—without you getting jealous, for God’s sake.”
    “I told you, I’m not jealous. Screw Jim Carpenter.”
    “Isn’t that what you’re afraid I’m doing? Or will do?”
    “Goddamn it,” I said, and then I couldn’t think of anything else to say. So I sat there with my mouth shut, feeling impotent.
    She was silent, too, for a time. Then she made a face and sniffed the air like a poodle and said, “What’s burning?”
    “Nothing’s burning. That’s the chicken for dinner.”
    “Smells like it’s burning.”
    Kerry got up and went into the kitchen. I followed her. She opened the oven, looked inside, made a face, and shut the thing off. “Charcoal,” she said.
    I took a look for myself. It wasn’t that bad—some of the pieces showed a little black around the edges, that was all. I said as much to her. She said, “Then you eat it,” and closed the oven door and went to the refrigerator.
    “What are you looking for in there?”
    “Some wine,” she said. “Isn’t there any damn wine here?”
    “No. You drank it all up two nights ago.”
    “Well, why didn’t you buy some more?”
    “Why didn’t you? I don’t drink that stuff.”
    “Stuff? You make it sound like poison.”
    “It is if you guzzle enough of it.”
    “Here we go again. Guzzle. Hoo boy.”
    “You can’t deny you’ve been drinking a lot lately.”
    “I’ve had a lot of problems lately.”
    “Sure, I know. Pressures at work.”
    “That’s right.”
    “And now there’s your Looney Tunes ex.”
    “That’s right. And then there’s you . ”
    “Me?”
    “You. I hate it when you moralize at me.”
    “I don’t moralize—”
    “Yes you do. You act like a prig sometimes.”
    “. . . Did you say prick?”
    “I said prig . But the other applies just as well.”
    “Now listen, Kerry—”
    “Oh shut up. God, you can be stuffy sometimes.”
    “If it’s too stuffy for you here why don’t you go home?”
    “That’s a good idea. At least I can have a glass of wine at home without a male Carrie Nation looking over my shoulder.”
    “Male Carrie Nation. That’s very funny.”
    “Pretty soon you’ll start quoting the Bible at me. You’re about one long step from joining the Moral Crusade yourself, you know that?”
    “Quit shouting, will you?”
    “I’m not shouting!”
    “You’re being hysterical—”
    “And you’re being an asshole!”
    She stormed out of the kitchen, hurling the swing door after her with such force that it came back through the frame and almost whacked me in the face. I clawed at it, cussing, and went on through into the living room. She had her coat and her purse and was heading for the door.
    “Where the hell are you going?”
    “Home. You told me to go