Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“What’s the deal?” He stood against her. He wanted to be in debt.

Her face looked like an angelic child’s all set for the Christmas tree.

“There’s a watch at Solly Klein’s. In the window. I want you to get it for me.”

He smiled. “All I need is a brick. And a dark night.”

She smiled back at him. “I don’t want it that way. I want you to go in, and take me with you. I want you to pull a gun on him and take it from him. While I watch.”

His smile faded. “But I ain’t got a rod.”

Her expression changed to scorn. “Welcher,” she said. “You said anything.” She turned to walk away.

“Wait,” he caught her arm. “I’ll get one. When? When, do you want to do it?”

Her face was soft, happy. “Tomorrow night. I’ve watched. He’s all alone at ten, just before he closes. The cop is way down at the end of his beat. That’s when we’ll do it.”

He nodded, slowly, then with vigor. “And after—” he said. His hands wanted her again. She pulled away.

“After,” she said. “After I have the watch.”

They waited in the shadows. He kept feeling the shape of the gun in the pocket of his dungarees. He felt just the same way he did before a rumble, like ants climbed up and down his back, in his stomach. She was calm, quiet, there beside him.

At five minutes of ten they moved across the street, arm in arm. Solly Klein sat behind his cage like an oily Buddha. A little bell tinkled from atop the door when they opened it. Solly Klein looked up.

He wore steel-framed glasses. Their thick lenses made his eyes look like grey-blue marbles down a well. He stood up and came around the cage, behind the counter. He put fat stubby hands with dirty nails on the counter top, leaned his weight on them.

“Yes,” he said. He had a little lisp. “What can I do for you?”

Sylvia spoke. “I’d like to see the watch in the window.” She had a blue ribbon around her hair. She looked very young.

Solly moved forward on flat feet. He wore leather slippers with hard heels that slapped when he walked. He took the jewelled watch from the window, brought it to them. His face wore a smile, like a pumpkin.

“Very nice,” he said. “The lady has good taste.”

Sylvia took the watch from its case, slipped it on her arm. The lights from the ceiling twinkled in the stones. It winked and blinked up at her. It snuggled on her wrist.

She looked up at Patsy. “Now,” she said and moved back.

The gun came out of his pocket, pointed its snub nose at Solly Klein.

Perspiration suddenly broke out on Solly Klein’s forehead.

“Thanks,” said Patsy and started to turn, still with the gun on its target.

Solly Klein’s fat hands trembled, began to move.

“Patsy!” screamed Sylvia. “Shoot! He’s got a gun.”

Patsy’s gun spoke and a thin trail of smoke came from its muzzle.

Solly Klein’s eyes, magnified in their wonder, grew larger, then slipped away. The round body quivered, swayed slightly from side to side. The knees bent, the arms fell and the body of Solly Klein slid, not without grace, to the dusty floor. He made a little sound as he landed, as though he’d been socked in the stomach, had the air knocked out. Then there was no sound.

It was Patsy who moved first. He felt his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “He — he reached for a gun.” His voice sounded high. Not like his voice.

Sylvia’s eyes were still on the body. “He reached for his handkerchief. It’s there — in his hand.” She might have been making conversation on a street corner.

“You’re nuts,” cried Patsy. “You told me he had a gun. And I thought he did, so I shot him. He reached for a gun!”

She tore her glance from the still form, looked up at him with clear eyes.

“I got the watch,” she said, held it up for him to see. She looked down again. “Look, he’s bleeding.”

Patsy stared at the watch. “It looks like a phony. Dime store stuff. Come on, we got to get out of here.”

She moved slowly, her eyes still on the dead Solly Klein.

“What does it matter,” she said and he thought her eyes were shining. “The stones are pretty. Red like blood.”

Patsy turned and bolted from the pawn shop. She followed — slowly. There was no one in the street, but he grabbed her hand, and ran.

She stopped him after a little way. They leaned against a wall, breathing hard. Then she stepped close to him, fitted herself to his long body, and put her face on his chest.

“Thank you, Patsy,” her voice was sweet. “You paid in full.”

She raised her face, put a wet, hot mouth to his. She wiggled against him, moved his hands to her breasts. “Now,” she said, “another installment.”

Patsy raised his head, moved it from side to side in disbelief. “I killed him,” he muttered. “I never croaked a guy before.”

“You will again,” she said and kissed him.

His mouth was slack against hers. He pulled away, violently. “No! No!” he cried. “It isn’t worth it.” He turned then and ran, and his running footsteps faded away in the night.

She walked home slowly, and as she walked she felt the sharp coldness of the jewels set around the watch.