Right to Die

cross-purposes to each other. “What... what was it you wanted again?” I could have asked him about his daughter’s treatment, about his contacting the Mass General over it. About a lot of things. Instead, I said, “I’m all set, Mr. Doleman. Thanks for your time.”
    He nodded, but more as a good-bye as he retook his seat, flopping the opened book over into his lap and beginning to read. The macaw primped her feathers as I moved backward toward the spacelock.

    The door to Walter Strock’s house bowed open, Kimberly Weymond standing next to it. She was wearing a pink terry-cloth robe with a peekaboo front and a hood that rode down from the weight of her blond hair, recently washed. A floor lamp backlit the hood, making her look like a cobra. If you believed in omens, that is.
    Weymond didn’t have to be reminded of who I was. “Come in, Mr. Cuddy.”
    “Is Strock here?”
    “No, but come in anyway.”
    I moved past her into the living room. A thick hardbound casebook and a nearly as thick paperback vied with peach five-by-eight cards atop a low, square cocktail table. In front of the table was a beautiful marble fireplace, a couple of logs crackling.
    Weymond said, “I’ve always loved a fire after a long, slow bath.”
    I took a chair facing away from the fire and nodded toward the worktable. “I thought everybody used computers now.”
    Weymond glided to the table, nestling behind it Indian-style. “Some things are better the old-fashioned way, don’t you think.”
    Great. “When do you expect Strock back?”
    “Not for a while.”
    “Were you with him yesterday?”
    “No. Walter and I see each other only a few nights a week.” Weymond planted her elbows and made a pedestal of her palms, resting her chin in them and speaking through partially clenched teeth. “Walter’s not exactly an everyday player anymore. He needs pumping up.”
    “You know where I might find his gun collection?”
    “I might. What’s in it for me?”
    “The delight of betraying his confidence?”
    Weymond laughed, the “I’m with it too, buddy” noise you hear in bars.
    She said, “How about a trade, then?”
    “What for what?”
    “The carefully hidden location of Walter’s gun collection in exchange for what you have on him.”
    “What I have on him?”
    “In his office that day, when he asked me to leave. You’ve got something that gives you leverage over him, and I want to know what that something is.”
    I gestured around the room. “This isn’t enough leverage for you?”
    Weymond shook her head hard enough to free a swath of hair. She looked like a bad impersonation of a World War II pinup girl. “There’s no such thing as enough leverage. I get the run of Walter’s house because I pump him up, in a lot of ways.”
    “Isn’t that kind of sexist?”
    “Only if you take it out of context. This place is closer to school than my apartment, and I like nice surroundings. Walter’s ego needs somebody young and attractive on his arm. That’s some leverage. Young, attractive and smart, that’s more leverage. See how it works?”
    “Where’re the guns?”
    “We have a deal?”
    “We have a deal.”
    Weymond bounded to her feet, the breasts jouncing in reaction to the rest of her body. “Come with me to the treasure trove.”
    I followed Kimberly up a flight of steps. She’d nicked herself behind the right knee shaving her legs. Under the circumstances, I wasn’t about to mention it.
    We went into what from dimensions must have been the master bedroom. Mahogany wainscoting applied halfway up the walls on all sides except for another fireplace. Velvet drapes, a dhurrie rug, two easy chairs.
    Weymond jumped into the bed as though it were a pool, an image of the athletic preteen she must have been not so long ago.
    It was a pool, by the way. Sort of.
    On her back, Kimberly laced fingers behind her head in a modified sit-up. “Walter must have read somewhere that water beds were ‘where it’s at.’ ” She gave me a sly smile. “Do I have that right?”
    “What right?”
    “The expression. ‘Where it’s at’?”
    “As I recall. How about the guns?”
    “Let’s play a game.”
    “I don’t like games, Kimberly.”
    “No. It makes sense. You’ll see.”
    “Make it a short game.”
    “Okay. Now, move back toward the door like you’re a burglar or something.”
    I sighed but retraced my steps to the threshold. “All right?”
    Weymond hunched toward the headboard on her elbows.