Gina, he thought, almost randomly. Where is she? 'Don't hurt her' - that's what I told Ginelli. But I think if I could lay my hands on her, I'd hurt her myself ... hurt her plenty, for what she did to Richard. Her hand? I'd leave that old man her head ... I'd stuff her mouth full of ball bearings and leave him the head. And that's why it's a good thing I don't know where to lay my hands on her, because no one knows exactly how things like this get started; they argue about that and they finally lose the truth altogether if it's inconvenient, but everybody knows how they keep on keeping on: they take one, we take one, then they take two, and we take three ... they shoot up an airport so we blow a school ... and blood runs in the gutters. Because that's what it's really all about, isn't it? Blood in the gutters. Blood ...
Billy slept without knowing he slept; his thoughts simply merged into a series of ghastly, twisted dreams. In some of these he killed and in some he was killed, but in all of them something breathed and pulsed, and he could never see that something because it was inside himself.
Chapter Twenty-six
MYSTERY DEATH MAY HAVE BEEN GANGLAND SLAYING
A man found shot to death last evening in the cellar of a Union Street apartment building has been identified as a New York City gangland figure. Richard Ginelli, known as 'Richie the Hammer' in underworld circles, has been indicted three times - for extortion, trafficking and sale of illegal drugs, and murder - by New York State and federal authorities. A combined state and federal investigation into Ginelli's affairs was dropped in 1981 following the violent deaths of several prosecution witnesses.
A source close to the Maine state attorney general's office said last night that the idea of a so-called 'gangland hit' had come up even before the victim's identity was learned, because of the peculiar circumstances of the murder. According to the source, one of Ginelli's hands had been removed and the word 'pig' had been written on his forehead in blood.
Ginelli was apparently shot with a large-caliber weapon, but state-police ballistics officials have so far declined to release their findings, which one state-police official termed 'also a bit unusual.'
This story was on the front page of the Bangor Daily News Billy Halleck had bought that morning. He now scanned through it one final time, looked at the photograph of the apartment building where his friend had been found, then rolled the paper up and pushed it into a trashbin with the state seal of Connecticut on the side and PUT LITTER IN ITS PLACE written on the swinging metal door.
'That is what it's all about,' he said.
'What, mister?' It was a little girl of about six with ribbons in her hair and a smear of dried chocolate on her chin. She was walking her dog.
'Nothing,' Billy said, and smiled at her.
'Marcy!' the little girl's mother called anxiously. 'Come over here!'
'Well, 'bye,' Marcy said.
'Bye, hon.' Billy watched her cross back to her mother. the small white poodle dog strutting ahead of her on its leash, toenails clicking. The girl had no more than reached her mother when the scolding began - Billy was sorry for the girl, who had reminded him of Linda when Lin was six or so, but he was also encouraged. It was one thing to have the scales tell him he had put back on eleven pounds; it was another - and better - thing to have someone treat him as a normal person again, even if the someone happened to be a six-year-old girl walking the family dog in a turnpike rest area ... a little girl who probably thought there were lots of people in the world who looked like walking gantry towers.
He had spent yesterday in Northeast Harbor, not so much resting as trying to recover a sense of sanity. He would feel it coming ... and then he would look at the pie sitting atop the TV in its cheap aluminum plate and it would slip.
Near dusk he had put it in the trunk of his car, and that made it a little better.
After dark, when that sense of sanity and his own deep loneliness both seemed strongest, he had found his old battered address book and had called Rhoda Simonson in Westchester County. A moment or two later he had been talking to Linda, who was deliriously glad to hear from him. She had indeed found out about the res gestae. The chain of events leading to the discovery, as well as Billy could (or wanted to) follow it was as sordid as it was predictable. Mike Houston had told his wife. His wife had told their oldest daughter, probably while drunk. Linda and the Houston girl had had some sort of kids' falling-out the previous winter, and Samantha Houston had just about broken both legs getting to Linda to tell her that her dear old mom was trying to get her dear old dad committed to a basket-weaving factory.
'What did you say to her?' Billy asked.
'I told her to stick an umbrella up her ass,' Linda said, and Billy laughed until tears squirted out of his eyes ... but part of him felt sad, too. He had been gone not quite three weeks, and his daughter sounded as if she had aged three years.
Linda had then gone directly home to ask Heidi if what Samantha Houston had said was true.
'What happened?' Billy asked.
'We had a really bad fight and then afterward I said I wanted to go back to Aunt Rhoda's and she said well, maybe that wasn't such a bad idea.'
Billy paused for a moment, and then said, 'I don't know if you need me to tell you this or not, Lin, but I'm not crazy.'
'Oh, Daddy, I know that,' she said, almost scoldingly.
'And I'm getting better. Putting on weight.'
She squealed so loudly he had to pull the telephone away from his ear. 'Are you? Are you really?'
'I am, really.'
'Oh, Daddy, that's great! That's ... Are you telling the truth? Are you really?'
'Scout's honor,' he said, grinning.