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“But you’re all right? I mean, there was no permanent damage?”
“All the important parts are working just fine,” Peter said. He moved his midsection six inches closer to Louise to demonstrate. “See?”
“Why, you dirty old man, you!” Louise said, and turned and went into the shower.
When she came out of the shower, she could smell both frying bacon and coffee, and smiled.
Peter Wohl, she thought, the compleat lover, as skilled in the kitchen as the bedroom.
Then she went into her bedroom, and saw that he had left his uniform tunic, and his uniform cap, and his gun, on the bed.
She walked to the bed and picked up the hat first and looked at it, and the insignia on it, and then laid it down again. Then she leaned on the bed and examined the badge pinned to the uniform tunic. And finally, she looked at the gun.
It was in a shoulder holster, of leather and stretch elastic that showed signs of much use. The elastic was wrinkled, and the leather sweat-stained and creased. She tugged the pistol loose and held it up to the level of her face by holding the grip between her thumb and index finger.
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p; It was not a new pistol. The finish had been worn through to the white metal beneath at the muzzle and at the front of the cylinder. The little diamonds of the checkering on the grips were worn smooth. She sniffed it, and smelled the oil.
It’s a tool, she thought, like a carpenter’s hammer, or a mechanic’s wrench. It’s the tool he carries to work. The difference is that the function of his tool is to shoot people, not drive nails or fix engines.
She put the pistol back into the holster, and then wiped her hands on the sheet.
Then she got dressed.
He had made bacon and eggs. He was mopping the remaining yolk from his plate with an English muffin; her eggs and bacon were waiting for her.
“Your eggs are probably cold,” Peter said.
“I had to take a shower,” she said, a shade snappishly.
“Not for me you didn’t,” he said. “You smelled great to me.”
“Don’t be silly,” she snapped, and this time the snappishness registered.
“Coffee?” he asked, a little coldly.
“Please,” she said.
He went to the stove and returned with a pot.
“Did you ever kill anyone, Peter?”
His eyebrows went up.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Lovely subject for breakfast conversation.”
“Why?”
“Because I think otherwise he would have shot me,” Peter said. “Lovely weather we’ve been having, isn’t it?”
“An interesting scenario popped into my mind in the bedroom,” Louise said.
“That happens to me all the time,” he said. “You really thought of something we haven’t done?”
He smiled, and she knew he was pleased that he thought she had changed the subject, but she knew she couldn’t stop now.
