Write me a Letter

our favorite nightmare pops up again, this time in the U.S. You’re going to have a hell of a time extraditing him from here after all this time and you probably don’t want to go through another one of those show trials that break everyone’s heart, no, no, what you need is some stumble-bum to do the job for you, some gun-toting hick who’s as dispensable as a used throwaway diaper. So Lew puts you on to me, the perfect goat. Thanks again, Lew.”
    ”To be fair,” she said, ”he said you were not only quick on the uptake, but perfectly able to take care of yourself if you had to.”
    ”Lucky for me,” I said bitterly. ”You make it all mysterious enough and potentially dangerous enough with your hints and lies and following people around to ensure I do pack a gun. Cookie sees Theo. Cookie comes looking for Theo. Brilliantly, I’ve even suggested Theo and I change rooms. If I hadn’t suggested it, I’ll bet he would have. Bang bang —me and Cookie in a shootout. Hopefully, I nail Cookie—if he nails me too, ah well, c’est la guerre. And there’s Solomon, armed to the teeth, prowling around to make sure at least Cookie’s had it, if not, ideally, the stooge too. God knows what Uncle Theo was packing, just in case. I never thought to look. He went through the airport detector with no trouble, so it was probably some new-fangled allplastic capsule-shooting gizmo you’ve come up with.”
    ”What an imagination,” Miss Ruth Humbug Braukis murmured. ”And by the way, the handgun to which you refer is called a Glock. And it is not all plastic, either, although it is partly made of polymer two. Or so I’ve read.”
    ”Oh really? And what would you have done if I hadn’t sneaked a gun up there?”
    ”Provided you with one. Believe me, no one wanted to see you killed, Mr. Daniel.”
    ”I’d love to believe you,” I said. ”Sure would make a change. How did you know I already had my own weapon, anyway?”
    ”Theo searched your room. Twice.”
    ”I might have guessed. Luckily I guessed right about most of the rest of it.”
    ”I’ll tell you something else you were lucky about,” she said, crossing her legs in a vain attempt to distract me. ”Or rather your friend was. That Cookie, as you call him, had to use a gun with a silencer.”
    ”What’s so lucky about that? You mean he could have used a bazooka?”
    ”Silencers only work efficiently on small-caliber handguns, about up to a twenty-two,” she said. ”I hate to think what might have happened if your friend had been shot with anything larger at so close a range.”
    ”You seem remarkably well informed,” I said. ”Have we been reading the gossip columns again? Or were we lurking in the underbrush waiting to drive the getaway vehicle? That Uncle Theo. He even remembered to collect his teeth. And as for all that stuff about silencers, these days you can silence weapons of any caliber up to and including thirty-aught-six rifles. Or so I’ve read.”
    A movement outside my reinforced picture window caught my eye. It was just what I needed right then—the twerp herself, snub nose pressed against the glass. ”Pardon me the nonce,” I said, rising. I went to the door, opened it an inch, hissed, ”Beat it!” closed the door again, locked it, then regained my seat.
    ”The Burbank society matron?” suggested Miss Ruth Braukis, who of course had turned to watch.
    ”Hardly,” I said, giving her a withering glance. In return she gave me a slow, sweet smile that, if I wasn’t imagining things, had a touch of sadness at one corner. She looked down at the elegant timepiece circling her tanned, slim wrist. ”Going somewhere?”
    She nodded.
    ”Somewhere nice?”
    ”Home.” She arose. So did I.
    ”Give my love to the grapefruits,” I said. She came around to my side of the desk,
    ”Bend over,” she said. I bent over. Naturally, the twerp was watching all. She pressed her cool lips to my hot cheek. ”Leshana habaa beyerushalayim,” she whispered.
    ”Thank you,” I whispered back. ”That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”
    The most beautiful woman in the world swayed to the door. Just as she opened it, I asked her, ”What does it mean?”
    ”Next year in Jerusalem ,” she said.
    ”Wasps gather,” I said, but by then she had gone.
    A moment passed.
    Then, enter the twerp, eyes goggling.
    ”Holy shit!” she said. ”Who was that?”
    ”An ex-client,” I said. ”Her name is Ruth. Or perhaps