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"Brent, you mindless fool," she growled. "I don't give a damn about your foolish brother. You know I've detested him since that night that he spilt that frothy drink down the back of my $6000 Valentino. Let him get himself out of his own mess." As she spoke the words through gritted teeth she tightened her grip on the gun, its pearly handle smooth in her grasp.

Sam Rico strained to hear more as pressed the yielding tips of his stethoscope
into his downy ears and positioned the metal disc onto the wall, tuning
the faded wallpaper like a crystal radio set, pulling in the sound of the
conversation in the next room.

"Listen, old sport," Brent's voice was getting louder as it dawned on him
that Cathryn was mistaking him for Elvis Walloon, the slick sheik at the
Kozy Kitty Klub who had dumped a drink down Cathryn's Valentino
during the Charleston competition that ended tragically in Selma losing
all her hair.
"You can help me out or go to...."

In a paroxysm of fury, Cathryn's hand jerked, sending the hammer home.

With a vicious report, the Colt fired a shot behind her, puncturing
the thin wallboard and travelling most of the way through Sam's skull.

Was this the end of the great Rico?

Cathryn stood with her finger still on the trigger of the gun. The smell of the gunblast filled the room as she realized what she had nearly done in her anger. Instead of the fear that should have filled her, however, she felt a crowning sense of triumph as she saw the shock on Brent's face.

"Did you think I wouldn't do it, Brent?" she hissed, as she turned to look behind her at the hole the small bullet had left in the wall. "What if I had been pointing the other direction?" At this, with a look of fear mixed with respect, Brent turned and hurried from the room.

Cathryn turned and walked back to the desk, allowing her hand to drop to the reciever of the sleek black phone. She picked it up and dialed unhurriedly. When the voice on the other end finally came through, she quietly said, "Come get me."