G Is for Gumshoe

off and the trigger only takes two pounds of pressure. You might want to move kind of slow."
    Dietz seemed to proceed in slow motion, removing his gun from the middle-of-the-back holster he was wearing under his tweed sport coat. He held the barrel upright and removed the magazine, which he tossed out on the pavement. I could hear the metal clatter on concrete as he kicked it away. He tossed the gun over his shoulder into the dark. He held his hands up, palm out.
    Dietz and I exchanged a look. I could feel Messinger's tension through the bones of my back. I was warmer, laid up against him, and if I didn't move my head, I was hardly aware of the gun barrel. The length of it, with the suppressor attached, prevented him from pointing it, end on, at my head. He was forced to hold it at an angle. I wondered if the sheer weight of it wasn't becoming burdensome.
    Messinger was apparently watching Dietz with care. "Very nice. Now why don't you persuade Rochelle to cooperate. See if you can talk her into it because if not, I'm about to collect on this fifteen-hundred-dollar hit."
    Rochelle said, "Why don't you ask Eric what he wants to do?"
    Messinger's tone was condescending. "Because he's too young to make a decision about his own custody. Jesus Christ, Rochelle. I don't believe some of the shit you come up with. That's just the kind of attitude makes you a terrible parent, you know that? If he stayed with you, you'd turn him into some kind of little fruit. Now let's cut the horseshit and make a little trade here. Just send Eric over and we'll see what we can do."
    Dietz looked at Rochelle. "Do what he says."
    She said nothing. She stared at Messinger and then her gaze shifted over to me. "I don't believe you. You'll kill her anyway."
    "No, I won't," he said, as if falsely accused. "That's why I brought her out here, to trade. I'd never welsh on a deal where my kid is concerned. Are you nuts?"
    Dietz said to her, "You'll have another chance to get Eric back. I promise. We'll help you. Just do this for now."
    Even at that distance, I could see her face crumple. She gave Eric a little push. "Go on…" She was starting to cry, hands shoved down in her coat pockets.
    Eric hesitated, looking from her face to his father's.
    "It's all right, angel," she said. He began to walk toward us rapidly, head down, his face hidden.
    Messinger's grip on me tightened and I could smell the tawny sweat of sex oozing out of his pores. Time seemed to slow as the kid crossed the pavement. All I could hear was the sound of the wind chuffing across the runway.
    Eric reached us. I'd never really seen him up close. His face was like a valentine, all pink cheeks, blue eyes, long lashes. So vulnerable. His ears stuck out slightly and his neck seemed too thin. "Don't hurt her, Daddy."
    "I wouldn't do that," Messinger said. "The car's parked on the far side of the hangar. You can wait for me over there. Here's the keys."
    "Mark?" Rochelle's voice sounded faint against the distant droning of an incoming plane. Tears were streaming down her face. "Can I kiss him good-bye?"
    I heard him mutter. "Christ." He raised his voice. "Come ahead then, but make it quick." To Eric, he said, "You wait here for your mommy and then you go get in the car like I said. You eat any supper?"
    "We stopped at McDonald's and had a Big Mac."
    "I don't believe it. "You remember what I told you about junk food?"
    Eric nodded, his eyes filling with tears. It was hard to know which parent he was supposed to listen to. In the meantime, Rochelle was walking toward us along a straight line, setting her high heels down one in front of the other as if in modeling school. Over her shoulder, Dietz's gaze locked down on mine. I thought he smiled his encouragement. I didn't want to see Dietz die, didn't think I could bear it, didn't want to live myself if it came down to that.
    I looked at Rochelle. She'd stopped a few feet away. Eric walked over and buried his face against her. She leaned forward and laid her cheek against the top of his head. She was weeping openly. "I love you," she whispered. "You be a good boy, okay?"
    He nodded mutely and then pulled away, hurrying toward the Rolls without a backward look. His father called after him.
    "Hey, Eric? There's some tapes in the glove compartment. Play anything you like."
    Rochelle stared at Mark. She pulled the derringer out of her pocket, aimed it straight at his head and pulled the trigger. The blast was remarkably loud for a weapon so