Somebody Owes Me Money

She shook her head, fluffed her hair, scrubbed her face with her palms. “Whoof!” she said. “Boy, did I sleep!”

“Me, too,” I said.

She smiled at me. “That was kind of nice. Together like that.”

“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” I said. “When I’m stronger.”

Her smile turned a touch lewd. “It might be fun,” she said.

I reached out and touched the bare skin of her side, between panties and bra. “It might be.”

She pushed my hand away and got out of bed. “You shouldn’t excite yourself,” she said. “You’re still sick.”

“I’m not exciting me.”

“I’ll get dressed. You look away or something. How are you this morning, anyway?”

“All cured.”

“Oh foo.” She put on her robe. “Now. How do you feel?”

It was a peculiarly uninteresting robe, a pale blue terrycloth with a pale blue terrycloth sash. I turned my attention inward instead, and said, “I’m starving.”

“That’s a good sign.” She picked up her watch, wound it, put it on, looked at it. “I’ve got to hurry. How do you like your eggs?”

“Over easy. And coffee regular.”

“Tea,” she said.

“For breakfast?”

“Make believe you’re English.” She went over and knocked on the door, and after a minute Ralph let her out. He glanced in at me and decided to leave the door open.

Abbie came back a while later with a tray for me, and dressed while I ate. Surprisingly, I did not stab myself in the cheek with my fork. When she was dressed she took the tray away again and came back in her orange fur coat and said, “I’m off to the funeral. Isn’t this an awful thing to be wearing? But it’s all I have.”

“You look great,” I said.

“Do I? Thank you.” She smiled and frowned at once. “But you’re not supposed to look great at funerals.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “Nobody will complain.”

“You say very nice things,” she said. “See you.”

“See you.”

She left, and Ralph came in to help me to the bathroom. He was morose and bored, and when he had me back in bed he asked me if I played gin rummy, asking in a fatalistic way as though sure I was going to say no. He perked right up when I said yes, went and got a deck of cards and a pencil and a score pad, and we settled down to business.

An hour and a quarter later, at a tenth of a cent a point, I was thirteen dollars to the good and Ralph was looking morose again. Not bored, just morose. Then we heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock, and Ralph was suddenly on his feet and a gun had appeared magically from within his clothing and leaped into his hand.

I said, “That’s Ab—”

He waved the gun urgently at me to shut up, and whispered, “I told her to ring so’s I’d know it was her.”

Oh, good. Fine.

We heard the door open. Ralph pointed at the closet, at himself. He put his finger to his lips. I nodded. He drifted away into the closet, pulling the door not quite shut behind him.

The cards were laid out for a gin hand. I heard the hall door close. I grabbed the cards up and held them in my left hand as I stared at the doorway, holding the cards like the hero holding a crucifix in a vampire movie.

Someone was walking. The bandage around my head began to itch.

Detective Golderman appeared in the doorway, looking toward the living room. He glanced in at me, as though at an empty room, and did a double-take. He took his hands out of his pockets, stepped to the doorway, pushed his hat back from his forehead, and said, “You.”

“Hello,” I said. I waved the deck of cards in greeting.

19

“You do get around, don’t you?” He came into the room, glanced this way and that. He didn’t pay any special attention to the closet.

“I guess I do,” I said. And I was probably more nervous now than when I thought it might be somebody coming to kill me. At least a murderer wouldn’t be asking me a lot of difficult questions, and I had the feeling that’s exactly what Golderman was going to start doing.

Which he did, right off the bat. He came over to the bed, looked down at it, and said, “Playing solitaire for money?”

I looked down. Crumpled bills, coppered quarters, loose change all on the blanket. “Uh,” I said.

He sat down, in the chair Ralph had just left. He watched me, waiting for an answer.

Ralph. Would he know who this was? He might think it was one of Droble’s men, and come out and shoot him. I said, “Well, Detective Golderman, the fact is, I was playing gin rummy with Abbie before she left.”

“Abbie?”

“Abbie McKay. Tommy’s sister.”

He nodded. “She’s at the funeral?”

“She’ll be back afterwards,” I said. “Is she the one you wanted to see?”

“Just looking around, Chester. What happened to your head?”

I’d been waiting for that question, I’d known it was coming, it had to be coming, and I was fascinated to know what I would say in response to it. So here it was, and what did I say? I said, “My head?” As though I hadn’t realized I had one. And touched the bandage.

“Your head,” he agreed, and nodded at it.

“I fell down,” I said. “I slipped on the ice outside and fell down.”

“That’s too bad. Did you see a doctor?”