Somebody Owes Me Money

I must admit it was exhilarating out there for a second or two. In midair, sailing along high above the world, the cold wind whistling around my orange-capped head, a very Jules Verne feeling to it. And then the feeling became more physical as my feet touched the snowy slope and I discovered I was running at thirty miles an hour.

I can’t run at thirty miles an hour, nobody can. I did the only thing I could do instead, I fell over on my face, did several loop-the-loops, and rolled madly down the hill, bringing up against somebody’s trash barrel at the bottom. Brrooommm, it went, and I raised myself up a little, and Abbie crashed into me. And I crashed into the barrel again.

“Oh, come on, honey,” I said. “Watch where you’re careening.”

“Growf,” he said, and wrapped his hand around my neck.

It wasn’t Abbie.

34

His hand was on my throat. My hand was on what I took to be his throat. My other hand was on what I took to be the wrist of his other hand, the hand in which he would be holding his gun if he was holding a gun. My head was usually buried under his chest somewhere, being ground into the ground. My feet thrashed around. We rolled and rolled, this way and that, gasping and panting, trying with only partial success to cut off each other’s breathing, and from time to time we would bong one or another part of our bodies into that stinking rotten trash barrel. It got so I hated the trash barrel more than the guy trying to kill me. It got so what I really wanted to throttle was that trash barrel.

In the meantime, who was really getting throttled was me. We seemed to have stabilized at last, no more rolling, and unfortunately we’d stabilized with him on top. With his hand squeezing my jugular and my face mashed into his armpit, it looked as though I wasn’t going to be getting much air from now on. About all I could do was kick my heels into the ground, which I did a lot of. I also tried squirming, but with very little success.

My strength was failing. I was passing out, and I knew it. I kicked my heels into the ground as hard as I could, but he just wouldn’t let go. My head was filling with a rushing sound, like a waterfall. A black waterfall, roaring down over me, carrying me away, washing me away into oblivion and forgetfulness, dragging me down into the whirlpool, the black whirlpool.

He sagged.

His grip eased on my throat.

His weight doubled on my head.

Now what? I squirmed experimentally and he rolled off me, and suddenly I could breathe again, I could move again, I could see again, and what I saw was Abbie standing there with a shovel in her hands.

“Don’t bury me,” I said. “I’m still alive.”

“I hit him with it,” she said. “Is he all right?”

“I hope not.” I sat up, feeling dizzy, my throat hurting, and looked at my assailant. He was lying on his back, spread-eagled, sleeping peacefully. He was breathing. More important, so was I.

His legs were still on mine. “He’s okay,” I said, and pushed his legs off, and tottered to my feet. “Where’s the other one?”

“Still on the train, I guess,” she said. “I thought we were supposed to be getting away from both of them by coming over to this side.”

“They must have figured that,” I said, “and one of them climbed over. So they could watch both sides.”

“So I didn’t have to do all that climbing around.”

“Did I know that? Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Aren’t you going to thank me for saving your life?”

“What?” I looked at the shovel, at the sleeper, and back at the shovel. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” she said.

“Throw away the shovel and I’ll thank you,” I said.

She grinned and threw it away. I took a step closer and put my arms out and she came into them and we swapped breaths. Hers was very warm and sweet, and even through all our clothing she felt very soft and slender and delicious.

She broke first, and smiled at me. “That’s nice,” she said.

“Come back,” I said. “I’m not done thanking you.”

She came back.

I thanked her for quite a while, until she finally said, “Chet, this is lovely, but the truth is I’m cold. I’m freezing. And I think my ankle’s swollen. And I’m exhausted.”

I said, “When do you have to go back to Las Vegas?”

“Whenever I want.”

“Do you think you could maybe never want?”

“You mean stay here?”

“In the vicinity.”

“What about you in Vegas?” she said. “Nice and warm all the time, and you can gamble all you want.”

“Not me,” I said. “Look how much trouble I get in where I can only gamble a little. I’d better stay in a state where it has to be a sideline. Besides, Belmont opens in May.”

“We’ll have to talk about it,” she said.

“Later on, right?”

She nodded. “Right.”

“For now, we get you someplace warm where you can sit down, right?”

“Oh, please, sir.”

“Lean on me.”

She did, maybe a little too much, and we staggered around the liquor store we’d landed behind and out to the street. And about a block away, on the other side of the street, was a big red neon sign that said bar.

“Look, Moses,” Abbie said, “it’s the Promised Land.”