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Timmy planted his hand in the center of Nate’s chest and pushed him backward as he sauntered into the apartment.
12:39 a.m.
In Timmy’s world, reprisal wasn’t merely expected, it was compulsory.
When someone was affronted, whether intentionally or not, the offender had better beware. The concept of forgiveness was unheard of. An insult was never forgotten. Grievances were long-lived and, if a person died before getting satisfaction for one, the grudge was passed down to his successors, heirs of hatred.
After tonight, Timmy bore Goliad just such a grudge.
The greaser hadn’t lifted a hand to stop Mallett from almost unmanning him, and then later had stood silently by while Richard Hunt read him the riot act like he was a nobody. As he was driving Timmy home, Goliad had used a hard-ass, boss tone to tell him that if he wanted to continue working for the Hunts, he had better grow up, lose the chip on his shoulder, and get his shit together.
That was precisely what Timmy had done. Although, when Goliad issued that order, this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.
When Dr. Lambert answered the door and saw Timmy, he looked like he might pee his pajama bottoms. Over the PJs he was wearing a robe made of some slick and shiny material.
Timmy fingered the lapel. “In this movie I saw a coupla years ago, a guy was wearing a robe just like this. Big black dude. Drug kingpin. He blew somebody’s head off with a forty-five, point blank.” He put the tip of his index finger against the bridge of the doctor’s nose, jabbed it, and said, “Pow! He probably had to throw the robe away. Brains are hard to wash out.”
The doctor blinked rapidly and nervously licked his lips. “Where’s Goliad?”
“Last I heard, he was gonna crash on the Hunts’ sofa.” He strolled over to the bar, picked up the twenty-five-year-old special reserve scotch, uncapped it,
sniffed it, then drank directly from the bottle.
“H…how’d you know where I live?”
“Goliad pointed the building out to me. I’m in training, you know. I need to know these things.”
“Did you come alone?”
“Just me.” Timmy spread his arms wide, the movement sloshing whiskey out of the bottle. “Oops.” He looked at the splashes on the floor. “Reminds me. Down in the main lobby? How do they get the floor to glow like that?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, constructed of a translucent material and illuminated from underneath.”
“Illuminated. Huh. Well, it’s cool-looking.”
“I don’t think Goliad would appreciate your using his name to bluff your way into a private residence.”
“No, he probably wouldn’t.” He cocked his head to one side and closed one eye. “I just figured it out.”
“What?”
“What your head reminds me of. I’ve been trying to think of it, and it just now came to me. A suppository.” He chortled. “I guess that’s how you can keep it so far up your own ass.”
Lambert pulled the belt on his robe tighter. “Why didn’t Goliad come with you?”
“Because I didn’t invite him.” Casually and with confidence, he turned his back on the doctor. The douche wasn’t going to do anything, but even if he stupidly attempted it, Timmy could see their reflections in the walls of glass that enwrapped the living room.
“This is some place. On a clear night, you must have a real nice view. Being up this high, I mean.” He leaned forward slightly and looked at the street below. “Long way down. Long, long way.”
“What do you want, Timmy? Has there been an update on Dr. O’Neal’s whereabouts?”
“Not that I’ve heard. She’s got great tits, doesn’t she?”
“I haven’t noticed.”
Timmy barked a laugh at that and turned away from the window. “Why am I not surprised?”
That remark goaded the doctor into taking a G.I. Joe stance, which, with the shiny robe and all, was downright comical. “I’m compelled to report your coming here to the Hunts, by way of Goliad. I understand he’s your supervisor.”
