There could be no doubt. This scene was as sterile as a surgeon’s knife, clean and pure and useless as a flat-chested nun who has to ask the class what the passed-note means when she reads aloud “blow job.” I wasn’t getting anything from this one.

I walked around the bed, to the window, and cranked on the AC. Muggy tonight. Despite the scent of lemon-fresh solvents and the clean white sheets, the heinous deed played out here only two moons ago still hung in the air and clung to my sweat. I itched my pits and flapped the postcard in my hands against the window sill.

Lots of unanswered questions. Lots of crap. They said they found the bullet on the nightstand, propped up right under the light.

No fingerprints.

Was it a calling card? Was this the first in a series of grizzly Bullet Killer exploits? Did I have the pleasure of riding a goofball train to nowhere, get my name in the paper once or twice and then get told to fuck off?

Nah, probably not.

Then what? Was someone supposed to use this?

The bellhop knocked at the door and I let him in.

“You have a secret admirer.”

“What?”

“You’re name’s on the ticket. Get on the goofball train.”

“I don’t understand…”

He was a greasy little olive shit, maybe five feet tall, a baby face but already shiny on top. They say premature balding happens when you got too much testosterone. Yeah, right; I could lay this one out flat. He could pass for 20 or 40, but I’m guessing he’s just a 0.

Still, there’s this.

I show him.

“You get a lot of fan mail here?”

He looks at the postcard, maybe for the first time. “Uh, no.”

“Don’t mess with me kid, its got your name all over it.” In perfect curly-cue script, in his face.

“Look, if this is about that thing, the lady, then you got to talk to my lawyer.”

Deep breaths. Then, “I’m only going to ask you once, kid.”

He stares at me, half there.

“Do you want me to put you through that window?”

“Huh?”

“Answer the question!”

“Uh, no.”

“Then answer the question!”

“I said no.”

“The other one!”

“I said no to that one too,” he fidgets the “I’m guilty” fidget.

“I don’t think so.”

“No…”

“No?”

“No, I don’t want you to throw me through the window.”

“Doesn’t seem like that from here.”

“What do you want?”

“Answers.”

He looks like he wants to leave. I walk forward and put my hand on the door, keeping it shut. Then from my coat I pull out my nine and push it into his suddenly shaking nose. “Who is Steve Wagner?”

“I don’t know!” he starts crying.

“Like hell you don’t; what’s your name doing on this postcard? Why did she come to see you here?”

“What?”

I push the postcard in his face so close I’m sure he can’t read it. “You’re gunna give me the juice,” I pull the hammer back and let the click settle into his cranium, “one way or the other.”

His crying is too blubbery to make any sense out of, except I guess he’s still trying to say he doesn’t know anything.

I don’t buy it. I crank off a round into the air conditioner, thunder slapping our ears for a second, and sparks spewing out of it as it shudders to a halt. The gun goes back to his temple. “Tell me, Toby, why she sent you this?”

“Toby?”

“Answer!”

“My name’s not Toby…”

I look at his name tag. His name’s Miguel. I put my gun back in my coat and step away. “I asked for Toby.”

“He was busy,” sniveling.

I sit down on the bed and shake my head. “Well fuck, I can wait. Send him up.”

“Ok.”

He leaves in a hurry. I light my pipe, take a draw, and wish I didn’t just shoot the AC. It’s muggy as hell in here.

Toby never comes up. Must have been real busy. I leave.