Free Maps of Hell by Paul Johnston Page B

retreated to a nearby sofa. There was a selection of newspapers and magazines spread across a glass table. He picked up the Star Reporter and read the latest about the murder of the rock singer in D.C. It seemed the Metro Police hadn’t much idea who had done it, though the guy wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen. There were grainy photos of the dead man’s chest and back, taken from some thrash-metal Web site. Even though his own great-grandparents had emigrated from Munich, Richard didn’t have any time for neo-Nazis.
    “He was quite a piece of work, wasn’t he?”
    Richard looked up and took in a small man in a tan leather jacket and an open-necked denim shirt. He’d been expecting an expensive suit and tie.
    “Mr. Lister?”
    “Yeah. You the guy from Iowa?”
    Richard nodded. This time he gave his name. It didn’t seem to be familiar to Lister.
    “All right. How about a drink?”
    Richard shrugged. This was more in line with what he knew about people who worked in the capital: work hard, play hard.
    “If you like,” he said, without much enthusiasm. He wasn’t teetotal like Melissa, but he rarely drank alcohol. It made his head throb.
    Lister was already heading rapidly for the exit. The heels of his cowboy boots clicked on the marble floor. It struck Richard that the guy would pass for a local back home. Weird. He caught up with him outside.
    “There’s a place just around the corner,” Lister said, turning to the right. “So, first trip to Washington?”
    “Yes.”
    “Seen much of the sights?”
    “I just got here.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Lister went down the steps beneath a sign for Amberson’s Cocktail Bar.
    Richard immediately felt out of place in the watering hole’s plush surroundings, even though no one paid him any attention.
    Lister sat on a stool at the bar. “The usual, Tom.” He turned to Richard. “What’s yours?”
    Richard thought it would be better to join in. “I’ll have a beer. A Bud.”
    When the drinks came, Lister picked the olive out of the cocktail glass and popped it in his mouth.
    “The classic Martini,” he said, grinning to show dazzling teeth. “A decent slug of gin and no more than a drop of Martini.”
    Richard had never had anything in a glass that shape. He sipped his beer and managed not to grimace.
    “So, what brings you to me, Iowa?” Lister ran his hand over his thinning fair hair. It was hard to tell how old he was. There were dark rings round his blue eyes, though his face was unlined and almost babyish.
    Richard took a deep breath. He’d thought hard about how to handle this and meeting Lister had only made him more certain. He wasn’t the sort of guy who would react well to being strong-armed.
    “Mr. Lister—”
    “Call me Gordy,” the other man said, signaling to the barman for another. “Your beer okay?”
    Richard nodded. “Gordy,” he said, uncomfortable with the strange name. “Last November, you were involved with a competition in the Star Reporter. ”
    “I oversee competitions for all Woodbridge Holdings publications. Which particular one are you talking about?”
    “One about pop music—twins who had hits. And you had to write a line saying—”
    “Why you love the Star Reporter, ” Lister said. “That’s standard.”
    “Oh, I get you. In this case, the prize was a trip to Washington.”
    “Usually is.” Lister tapped his nose. “I’ve set up a good deal with one of the hotels.”
    Richard was beginning to realize that Gordy Lister was an operator. “Well,” he said, “my kids won and you looked after them when they were here.”
    “Really?” the small man said. “Can’t say I remember. What was your last name again, Richard?”
    “Bonhoff. I think you might recall them, Gordy. They’re twins themselves. Randy and Gwen?”
    Lister looked blank. “Randy and Gwen,” he repeated, peering into his almost-empty glass. Then he raised his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. Real lookers, the both of them. Nice kids, too.”