Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

“But if that’s Henderson in that shack, you’ll get a bag full of dirty shirts and some monogrammed shorts. If he caught you with his bag, he could get you pinched for larceny. And the place would be tagged a clip joint and closed. You’re so smart, Unk!”

“But, listen, kid. I don’t think...”

“That’s right!” she screamed. “You don’t think! And if that guy is Klegman, and by some million to one shot you get your hands on his bag and turn him in... she was breathing hard now with the bigness of the idea... don’t you think the cops can’t break you down and get the truth out of you? And the money too? Use your head! Nothing’s new. Everything’s been tried before!”

Sure, she was right. And I wanted to smack her for being right. But the front door opened just then and Mickey, the paper boy, goofed in, his red hair all spikes. He mumbled something about a busted tire on his bike, but I wasn’t listening. I grabbed the paper and slammed it down on the counter, reading frantically. The kid looked at me as if I was losing my marbles and slammed out.

The story was on the front page in big headlines. And there at the bottom spreading over two columns was a picture of the killer with a prison serial number across his chest. Mary Ellen and I hunched over the picture, studying it. The face was pudgy and boyish and smirked into the camera with a go-to-hell expression. “That’s not the man!” We both said it together. The twelve G’s started taking off like an astrojet. Disappointment hit me like heartburn. Mary Ellen stood there, happiness bouncing on her face like a sunbeam, all hope and happiness again.

“Now, wait a minute. That’s a pretty old picture. You can tell that.” I scanned the news photo again hunting for anything that would tie to the guy in the cabin. I think I prayed. And my prayer was answered in the pale eyes you could hardly see and the Oriental almond shape of them. My heart started skipping like a dollar watch, but I didn’t say anything, just “Maybe you’re right, Mary Ellen. That moon-face isn’t the one.” She smiled at me and tightened the belt of her uniform and I knew that Henderson and stardom were playing leapfrog with her imagination.

Tires rasped on the sparse gravel outside, and we both walked in back of the counter. In a minute, Stan Clark bulled into the room wearing his best smile and his Sunday blue serge. The smile drooped when he saw Mary Ellen behind the counter. “Aw, heck,” he hecked, “you’re not even ready yet.”

“Ready?” she said casually, showing more interest in the sandwich board than in Stan, “Ready for what, Mr. Greyhound?”

“Well, for crying out loud! Don’t tell me you forgot about our date!” He did look like a stunned ox, at that!

“What date do you mean, Stan?”

“You mean you forgot about the conference championship down at Toledo U.?” Stan was holding his temper in his mouth like a hot potato, and I was so embarrassed for the guy that I pretended to be busy at the sink. “The basketball game!” he groaned. “The biggest game of the season!”

“Gee, Stanny. I forgot all about it. I’m sorry.”

He looked like a funeral director at that. “Gee. I bought two tickets and everything. And they were tough to get, too!”

The big fellow was so miserable standing there holding those tiny stubs in his meaty hands that I knew she would pity him and go. Even if he was a dumb square. “Let me change, then...” She looked at me uncertainly, hoping I’d say something, but I didn’t, then she went in the back room to change her dress. Stan looked like a convict with a pardon, grinning as he tucked the tickets back into his wallet. It was hard to believe I was like that once... me, Sam MacCrae, twenty years ago, before the girl switched her valentines and married that insurance man from Cincinnati. That smashed me up a little bit. Then I put my faith in something more reliable than romance. Dollar signs. And the trolley lunch cart. But the old flame did better than I, I guess. She had four kids. And I got a busted grill and a rusty sink. Nuts.

I drew a cup of joe for Stan and folded up the paper. I didn’t want him to talk about the gunman. But the paper reminded him of the headline, I suppose, and he said, “Did you hear about the reward, Sam?” I said no. “That market chain is offering five thousand dollars for any information at all that’ll lead to an arrest. Not bad, eh?”

The fire in my head leaped up again. “Five thousand, eh?”

“That’s right. It’s right there in the Times. Page three.”

I unfolded the paper and found the story along with a picture of the man who got shot. “LARGE REWARD FOR KILLER POSTED,” it said.

Mary Ellen called me just then and I went out back. She was standing near the utility closet we stash almost everything into. The bare electric light bulb threw a sick glare on her face and yellowed the edges of her new coat and her white fuzzy beret.

“Why didn’t you say something?” she whispered. “You know I don’t want to go out with him. I don’t want to go out with anybody tonight. Not tonight!”