Free Warshawski 01 - Indemnity Only by Sara Paretsky Page B

more probing, but she took that happily enough, asking if I would be taking photographs. I realized she assumed that I must be a free-lance writer. I was afraid if I told her the truth, she would tell everyone at UWU and make it impossible for me to find any answers about Anita. Yet I didn’t want to tell glaring lies, because if the truth did come out, theseyoung radical women would be even more hostile. So I said “no photographs” and asked her if she did any photography herself. She was still chattering cheerfully when we pulled up in front of her apartment.
    “I’m Gail Sugarman,” she announced as she struggled clumsily out of the car.
    “How do you do, Gail,” I replied politely. “I’m V.I. Warshawski.”
    “Veeyai!” she exclaimed. “What an unusual name. Is it African?”
    “No,” I answered gravely, “it’s Italian.” Driving off, I could see her in the rearview mirror, scrambling up the front steps of her apartment. She made me feel incredibly old. Even at twenty I had never possessed that naive, bouncing friendliness; and now it made me feel cynical and remote. In fact, I felt a bit ashamed of deceiving her.

5

Gold Coast Blues
    Lake Shore Drive, long one, large pothole, was being dug up and repaired. Only two northbound lanes were open and the traffic was backed up for miles. I decided to cut off onto the Stevenson Expressway going west, and then back north on the Kennedy, which went up the industrial North Side toward the airport. The rush-hour traffic was exacerbated by the load of people trying to get out of town on a stifling Friday night. It took me over an hour to fight my way to the Belmont exit, and then fifteen blocks east to my apartment. By the time I got there, all I could think of was a tall, cool drink and a long, soothing shower.
    I hadn’t noticed anyone coming up the stairs behind me, and was turning my key in the lock when I felt an arm on my shoulder. I’d been mugged once before in this hallway. Whirling reflexively, I snapped my knee and kicked in one motion, delivering directly onto my assailant’s exposed shinbone. He grunted and backed off but came back with a solid punchaimed at my face. I ducked and took it on the left shoulder. A lot of the zip was gone, but it shook me a little and I drew away.
    He was a short, stocky man, wearing an ill-fitting plaid jacket. He was panting a little, which pleased me: it meant he was out of shape, and a woman has better odds against an out-of-shape man. I waited for him to move or run away. Instead he drew a gun. I stood still.
    “If this is a holdup, I only have thirteen dollars in my purse. Not worth killing for.”
    “I’m not interested in your money. I want you to come with me.”
    “Come with you where?” I asked.
    “you’ll find out when we get there.” He waved the gun at me and pointed down the stairs with his other arm.
    “Beats me why well-paid hoods always dress so sloppily,” I commented. “Your jacket doesn’t fit, your shirt’s untucked—you look like a mess. Now if you were a policeman, I could understand it; they—”
    He cut me off with an enraged bellow. “I don’t need a goddamn broad to tell me how to dress!” He seized my arm with unnecessary force and started to hustle me down the stairs. He was holding me too close, though. I was able to turn slightly and bring my hand up with a short, strong chop under his gun wrist. He let go of me but didn’t drop the gun. I followed through with a half-turn that brought my right elbow under his armpit and made a wedge of my right fistand forearm. I drove it into his ribs with my left hand, palm open, and heard a satisfying
pop
that told me I’d hit home between the fifth and sixth ribs and separated them. He yelled in pain and dropped the gun. I reached for it, but he had enough sense to step on my hand. I butted him in the stomach with my head and he let go, but I was off balance and sat down hard. Someone was clattering up the stairs behind me and