Free The Demolishers by Donald Hamilton Page B

around disapproving of people is a fool’s game; and I’d shaken bloodier hands than his. His grip was a little firmer than it needed to be; but at least it wasn’t a macho bone-crusher performance, just a good manly handshake between relatives by marriage.
    “I guess, from what Sis says, I owe you one,” he said. I said, “Let’s not start adding up the score yet. What’s the police situation? Do we need a call from Washington to the local constabulary?”
    He studied me for a ntoment, apparently a little surprised by my cooperative attitude; then he shook his head. “It’s being arranged. The fuzz isn’t going to lose any sleep over a dead terrorist punk who was part of a deadfall that didn’t work; all they’ll regret is that they didn’t get to him before you did.” Varek smiled thinly. “And they’re damn well not going to cry in their beer because I lost a couple of my boys, either. Just so we wipe up the blood and don’t keep the honest taxpayers awake nights with all the gunfire. . . .”
    “Alex, are you not going to introduce this nice tall man to me?”
    It was the stepmother. As Sandra had said, she was closing in on thirty, but fighting every step of the way. Her taut figure was nicely displayed in snug black slacks and a filmy white blouse designed to reveal the pretty, lacy garment underneath—the word that pops into my mind, not necessarily correct, is camisole—and the firm breasts barely concealed thereby. The black hair was drawn smoothly back from the lovely oval face to a comb at the back of the head, Spanish fashion. There was a full red mouth and there were big dark eyes emphasized by a great deal of elaborate makeup; the lashes seemed to be an inch long. Her nails were also very long, and very red; and her shoes had three-inch heels. They brought her up to a convenient height for a man my size. I don’t suppose that was the idea. Guys like Varek just like to own, and display, tall girls who attract attention.
    She reminded me of someone. It took me a moment to track down the memory, then I had it: our cool computer lady, Dana Delgado, another tall and slender brunette, who’d have been deeply insulted if she’d known I was comparing her to this overstated sexpot. The latest Mrs. Varek’s name was Rosalia, but I was given her gracious permission to call her Lia.
    “Did you really save Cassandra’s life?” she murmured. “You must be very brave, Mr. Helm.”
    “Matt, please.”
    “Was it very frightening, Matt?”
    “Getting shot at is never fun, Lia. You learn to run like hell.” I glanced at Sandra. “We both showed pretty good speed over the short course, wouldn’t you say, Sandy?”
    The new wife wasn’t entirely pleased to have me bring the stepdaughter into the conversation in such a friendly manner, indicating that we shared the special relationship of two people who had faced death together. However, she was smart enough to give the girl a look full of sympathy.
    “Oh, my dear, it must have been terrible! And you’ve hurt your poor knees again. Come and let me put something on them.”
    The kid said irritably, “God, I’m all right! It’s just a little scrape. The way some people act, you’d think I was covered with mud and bleeding to death! Leave me alone!”
    I said, “Well, Sandy can suit herself, but personally I’d like to clean up a bit before I have that drink that was mentioned earlier. ...”

Chapter 7
    Later, with night at the windows, I headed towards the gunroom as I’d been instructed. A dinner jacket had been mentioned, but mine was feeding the moths in Washington; I was wearing -my slacks and sports coat with a clean white shirt and dark tie. The gunroom had been pointed out to me when we passed it, by the pretty Hispano maid named Maria who’d shown me to the guestroom on the second floor where my suitcase awaited me; but the house was enormous and, trying to find my way back, I made a wrong turn somewhere and got lost. They might