The Man With No Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

his dislocated finger and making a rasping sound. “Now what?” Horace said. The gun in his hands was shaking violently.
    “Call the cops.”
    “No.” He looked over at Pansy, who had her eyes closed. “Not yet.”
    “You're nuts, Horace.” No reaction. I looked at Eleanor, who refused to meet my gaze. My own knees were beginning to shake. “Okay, it's your house. But let's at least secure these twerps so we can talk. Eleanor, unroll the dining-room rug.”
    As she went to do it, Mrs. Chan registered the state of the apartment. “Aiya,” she said mournfully. Then, a small, round woman in a loose-fitting quilted silk jacket and slacks, she started straightening things.
    “Horace, tell your mother she can clean up as much as she wants, but not to get anywhere near either of these guys. Also, you might want to keep her away from the closet.”
    Horace said something in Cantonese, and Mrs. Chan glared at the two black-clad children and then puttered off to the kitchen. “Sonomagun,” I heard her say.
    “It's unrolled,” Eleanor said from the dining room. She was standing on an Oriental rug, about six by eight. “What's in the closet?”
    “It's a surprise. You, Junior,” I said to Handsome. “Over there. Horace, you make sure that this guy and his ears stay put. If he blinks, shoot him.”
    “Sure,” Horace said. The gun aimed at Dumbo-Ears was steady.
    Eleanor backed away as Handsome reached the rug. “Lie down,” I told him. “Right there, on the edge. Put your hands in your pockets, real deep, as far as they'll go. I want your elbows straight.”
    He lay down on the short edge of the carpet, his head a couple of inches above the corner. His face was a mask of indifference.
    “Roll over once,” I said. He did. “Eleanor, I want you to lift the edge of the rug and put it over him. Stand at his waist. Good. Now tuck the rug under him and roll him forward with both hands. Junior, don't move anything, understand? Don't even nod your head.”
    Eleanor got down on her knees and rolled the boy away from her, then looked up at me. “Keep going,” I said. “I want the whole rug wrapped around him.”
    By the time she was finished, Handsome was encased in a tight cylinder of rug that ended at his nose. He let his expressionless eyes bore into mine.
    “Sit on his chest,” I told Eleanor. “If you feel him moving his arms, get up and tell me and we'll see if this war machine he was toting will go through four or five layers of Persian carpet.”
    “Astrakhan,” Eleanor murmured, sitting on the boy.
    “What about this one?” Horace asked.
    “Well,” I said, “we could wiggle his finger around a little.”
    The kid backed away on his elbows, gabbling at me, until his head hit the wall. Then he grabbed his finger again.
    “Okay,” I said. “He's the baby, even if his ears are all grown up. He's going to get special treatment. Go turn the table over.”
    “The table?” Horace asked.
    “You know, where you eat dinner?”
    Horace nodded. “The table.”
    I trained the gun on Dumbo-Ears while Horace, grunting with effort, put the heavy table upright. “How long is that thing?” I asked.
    “About six feet,” Horace said.
    “Great. Get the baby's rope. Baby, put your hands behind your head and keep them there.”
    Horace fumbled through the coil of rope hanging from the boy's waist and worked it through the belt loop on his jeans. Then he did it again. By the time he had the entire rope free it seemed to have taken hours. He stood up and backed away from the kid, the rope dangling from his hands.
    “Okay, Baby,” I said to Dumbo-Ears, “go over and get on the table. On your back.”
    The boy grumbled, but he did as he was told and lay there, looking up at the ceiling, still clutching his right index finger in the palm of his left.
    “What did you say?” I demanded. Sitting on the rolled-up rug, Eleanor was looking at me as though she'd never seen me before.
    “Baby,” he said