Well Now My Pretty

She handed it to him, thankful she hadn't put the three big bills in there. He opened it, looked inside, then closed it. He took a fat wallet from his pocket and gave her ten dollars.

"A nice steak. . . the best . . . do you understand?"

She moved past him, opened the front door and walked down the path.

* * *

Tom Whiteside was trying without success, to sell a Buick Sportswagon to an elderly client. They were in the G.M. showroom, surrounded by cars and Tom was saying, "Look, Mr. Waine, you can't beat this model. Look at the size of it. With your family, it's dead right for the job."

Waine had listened to all Tom's sales talk and he was still unconvinced. Now, Tom was beginning to bore him.

"All right, Mr. Whiteside, thanks for your time. I'll think it over." He shook hands. "I'll talk to the wife."

Tom watched him walk out of the showroom and he swore under his breath. This is always happening, he was thinking. I get the jerks right up the dotted line and then they walk out on me.

Miss Slattery, who ran the office, called to him.

"You're wanted on the phone, Tom . . . your wife."

Tom stiffened. Now, what the hell? Was something wrong?

"I'll take it in my office," he said and hurried to his small box of a room and grabbed up the receiver. "Hello? Sheila?"

"Listen and don't talk," Sheila said. She was calling from a booth in a drugstore. Quickly, she told him about Maisky. Tom listened, stiff with alarm.

"You mean . . . he knows we have the money?" he said. "Judas! We'd better call the police!"

"Will you shut up and listen," Sheila said, her voice harsh.

"There's nothing we can do . . . yet. We buried the money, didn't we? That makes us accessories. Tom . . . can you buy a gun?"

"A what?" Tom's voice rose a note.

"He has an acid gun. I don't trust him. We may even have to kill him," Sheila said. "We must have a gun."

"You're mad! Kill him? What are you talking about?"

"Can you buy a gun?"

"No! Of course I can't!"

"Yes, you can. Any pawnshop will sell you a gun. Bring it back with you!"

"But I haven't the money. Besides . . ."

Sheila drew in a long breath of exasperation.

"You cheap, useless fool! Well, come back as soon as you can," and she hung up.

"Sheila!" Tom jiggled the crossbar, then slammed down the receiver. His hands were shaking, his heart hammering. The intercom buzzed. For a moment he hesitated, then pulling himself together he snapped down a switch.

"Oh, Tom, here's Mr. Cain. He's waiting for his Caddy," Miss Slattery told him.

"Coming," Tom said and got to his feet.

What was Sheila talking about? Killing the man? Not quite knowing what he was doing, he walked into the showroom.

* * *

Sheila left the Paradise Self-Service store, carrying one of their blue-and-white plastic bags that contained a steak, a packet of frozen chips, a bag of beef sandwiches and a carton of ice cream. She walked quickly along the sidewalk, turned left down a narrow street and slowed. Ahead of her, she saw the three golden balls hanging outside Herbie Jacobs' pawnshop. She had been there several times when they had been so short of money they had had to pawn Tom's cufflinks and her gold bracelet that Tom had given to her for a wedding present. She opened the shop door and entered.

Jacobs came from an inner room.

"Ah, Mrs. Whiteside, it is indeed a pleasure." The little man was wearing a skull cap. He stroked his greying beard as he beamed at her. What a beauty! he was thinking. What a lucky guy Whiteside was! Imagine going to bed with a beauty like this every night. Nothing to pay! His for the taking!

"I'm going on a trip, Mr. Jacobs," Sheila said, smiling at him. "I wonder if you can help me. Tom thinks I should have a gun. I'm driving . . . alone. Can I buy a gun from you?"

Jacobs stared at her, startled.

"Well . . ."

The pause hung for a long moment, then Sheila, aware of the passing time, said sharply, "Can I or can't I?"

"Yes, but guns aren't cheap, Mrs. Whiteside."

"I didn't think they would be. I want something small and not heavy."

"I have a .25 automatic . . . a beautiful little weapon," Jacobs said. "It costs a hundred and eighty dollars."

"Let me see it."

"If you don't mind coming into the other room . . . you understand? One has to be careful."

She followed him into the dingy inner room.

"Just one moment, please."

He went into another room and she could hear him rummaging about, muttering under his breath. Finally, he returned with a small gun in his hand.

"You understand guns, Mrs. Whiteside?"

"No."

"Of course . . . well, let me explain. Here is the safety catch. You pull it back . . . so. Be very careful: the trigger is light. It is an excellent gun. See . . ." He touched the trigger and she heard a sharp snapping sound. "Two hundred dollars, Mrs. Whiteside, and that includes ten rounds of ammunition . . . you won't need more?"

"No." She took the gun out of his grimy hand, balanced it and then pressed the trigger. Again she heard the snapping sound. Well, it wasn't complicated, she thought. "Will you load it, please?"