Free So Nude, So Dead by Ed McBain Page B

and then…
    No. No, that was just it. The shot. No, it was better this way. Forget Jeannie. Forget her.
    He kept walking, a strange excitement pulsing through his body. Part of it, he knew, was anticipation. He always felt this way when a shot was coming. But another part was something else, something that had been stirred by his thoughts of Jeannie. It burned in the pit of his stomach, and he began to couple it with the shot, began thinking of it in terms of the shot, and how he’d feel after the shot. He wanted Jeannie. Christ, he wanted her. He’d always want her. Well, pal, you can’t have her, his mind reminded him, so just forget it.
    Quite automatically, his thoughts flew to Babs. If not Jeannie, why not Babs? Not the same, but why not? He looked for a clock somewhere. What the hell time was it anyway?
    He was surprised to discover that it was only seven-forty-five. God, forty-five minutes to go. But after that… He smiled. He’d call Babs, tell her he’d see her later tonight. Later, after he’d been fixed. I’m taking you up on that raincheck, he would say. I’ll be over a little later.
    He started looking for a drugstore, pleased that he had pushed Jeannie out of his mind, yet still feeling a little guilty about the ease with which he’d accomplished it. Well, what the hell, he told himself, she’s not right for me. But she was right for him, that was the trouble. She was the only right thing for him, the only thing that…
    Oh stop it, Stone, he commanded himself. You’re turning my stomach.
    He dialed Babs’s apartment, waiting, rehearsing what he’d say as the phone rang persistently. He let it ring a while, then gave up, feeling disappointed but a little relieved, too. He hadn’t really let Jeannie down, after all. Perhaps it was all for the best. Besides, why the hell would he need a woman once he’d had a shot? What time was it?
    He stepped out of the booth, looked at the big clock over the drug counter. Seven-fifty. God, but time could creep when you were waiting for something!
    Well, what now? Where to now? Forty minutes to kill. How to kill them?
    He thought of the dead Eileen with alarming suddenness. He hadn’t forgotten her, surely? Hadn’t forgotten the police? Hadn’t forgotten that he’d been tagged? Forty minutes to a shot. Could he see someone in forty minutes, perhaps get a little more information?
    Who? The second guy Babs had mentioned. Tony Sanders. Sure, why not? A few quick questions, then back to Charlie Massine and the waiting needle.
    The telephone directory said Sanders had an apartment in a brownstone house on East 69th Street, opposite Hunter College. Ray tapped gently on the door and waited. He was ready to leave when it opened suddenly.
    “Yes?” The voice was cultured, and Ray remembered that this was the Tony Sanders who’d been born with the silver spoon in his mouth. Except that it had been platinum in Sanders’s case. This was the Sanders whose picture was plastered all over the newspapers every three months or so, leaving in his plane, or leaving on the Queen Mary , or taking his yacht south.
    Ray decided to play it straight. “I’m a friend of Eileen Chalmers. I’d like to ask a few questions.”
    Sanders lifted a black eyebrow, eyed Ray critically. He was tall, exceptionally good-looking, with penetrating gray eyes fringed with black lashes. His mouth was narrow above a cleft chin, set with a slight sneer that came from years of being spoiled. He had an Indian’s cheekbones, high and pronounced, and it was apparent from the smell of lotion that he’d just finished shaving. His shirt hung out of his trousers, and Ray noticed that only the top three buttons were fastened, the cuffs hanging loose too.
    “You caught me dressing, friend,” Sanders said. His voice didn’t sound annoyed, only disinterested. “You can come in if you don’t mind following me around the apartment.”
    “I don’t mind.”
    Sanders stepped back into the room, leaving Ray