off work and hitting her favorite cocktail lounge to sop up Martinis. She was a wise one, but she could mind her own business, and that’s what counted. It was why she’d been here as long as she had.
All sorts of things came to mind. The big thing was I began to know we should have had some set time, place, or way, to contact each other. It was all right for her. She was there, on the spot. She knew what was going on. I had no idea how things were. It was like hanging by your upper lip to a high diving board over an empty swimming pool.
The later it got, the worse it got.
For all I knew, Miraglia was out there now, closing Victor’s eyes, and nodding sadly. With Shirley pulling the weep act. I wondered if she could weep. I wondered if she would weep.
Maybe she would just rear back and scream with laughter.
I knew I had to stop thinking. I couldn’t. I would get to thinking of Victor gasping for air, and I would breathe deeply. It was as if I couldn’t get enough air myself.
I tried concentrating on the money. What it could do, what it could buy. It just didn’t cut through the mood. It was so much money, I’d never be able to grasp the reality until I could actually grasp the money in my hand.
To top it off, we had a busy day at the store. They poured in and out all day, looking at TV sets, inspecting a couple of tired old short-wave receivers I’d blurbed as perfect for tracking satellites, listening to hi-fi systems, stereo tape recorders, and the like. I talked to them. My mind wandered. I couldn’t get anything straight.
Finally I went off into a corner behind a screen backing a display of phonographs, and sat in a chair, smoking. I kept thinking about Shirley. I kept trying not to wonder how it would turn out. A hopeless way to think, like Tolstoy saying to go in a corner and try not to think about a white bear. Christ. How to flip.
After a while it was time to eat something again, so I walked down to the drugstore and fooled around with a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. It was dark outside. Neons glowed in the streets. Cars hissed up and down on their way to parties, maybe, good times, or just home to the one-eyed monster, and the evening paper.
I started up the street toward the store, still thinking about Shirley. It hit me. Maybe it had been there all the time. I’d been trying to ignore it. Anyway, my mind was like pancake batter. I’d been worrying about Shirley going soft. It was me we had to worry about—because what was really in the back of my mind was the feeling that we had rushed into this too fast. Why force it? We knew how we felt about each other. What we had. We knew it would last. Money would do that.
So why not just let it coast along? Let Victor die the way he would die, in time. We could stand it, couldn’t we?
I had to see her.
If I talked with her, she’d think the same. He could eventually wind up in the hospital, and Shirley and I could see each other all we wanted. It would be on the up and up. He’d croak natural, and everything would be perfect. Except we would have to wait.
Maybe she’d been thinking this way, too. Just scared to say anything, because we’d gone too far. At least, we could talk it over. I could sound her out and see.
It was a kind of relief. So it would take longer. Maybe not. So what? We wouldn’t have worries riding us.
I found myself running up the alley. I slowed to a walk, went over and took one of the trucks, and headed across town. I had no excuse to see her. Suddenly I realized I didn’t need an excuse. It was all aboveboard; a strange feeling.
Nearing her place, I felt better. I began to whistle and sing, driving through the dark streets under streetlights. The tensions vanished.
I sang. Just anything. I let it rip out across the night. It made me feel better than ever.
In front of her house. I parked by the curb. There were no lights that I could see. I started for the porch, then thought maybe she would be in her room. I decided to take the path around back and surprise her.
I started along the stepping stones that led along the side of the house. Bright white light fell in a broad swath out on the yard. It came from Victor’s bedroom window.
I looked in. It was only a quick glance, in passing. I was in a hurry to get out back. I paused by the open window. The way he looked, I knew something was wrong.
Victor was propped up in the bed, on one arm, leaning toward the bedroom doorway, his head cocked, listening. He looked sick, and weak as hell. His skin was an ugly gray color. I heard the way he breathed. It was ghastly.
I stood there a moment. My heart rocked. He dropped back flat on the bed, mouth open, making gasping sounds, and stared up at the TV set. The set was on with the sound off. A musical production was on the screen; dancing girls and prancing boys. Big glass chandeliers flew through the air across an enormous stage set.
Victor Spondell reached to the bed table, and flipped on the intercom unit. He listened. Voices burst loudly through the speaker, carrying to me through the open window.
Shirley and Mayda Lamphier.
“For goodness’ sake, Mayda,” Shirley said. “You must be crazy to think such a thing.”
Mayda Lamphier’s voice was strained. There was a quality of awed and hesitant fright in her tone. “I thought I
She ceased talking. Neither of them spoke. I couldn’t move from where I stood. I wanted to move, but something held me there. I knew what it was. It was doom.
Shirley spoke. Her voice was level now, and deadly.
“How did you ever form such a conclusion?”
“Oh, Shirl!”
“How, Mayda?”
“The telephone,” Mayda Lamphier said. “We’re on a party line, remember?” She paused, then went on. “I shouldn’t have. I’ve been lonely, I guess—that must account for it. I was going to make a call, last night around twelve. I picked up the receiver and you were talking to that Ruxton character. I heard everything you said, Shirl— everything. It was obvious, only I still couldn’t believe it. I watched you through the window—how you spoke to that old man.”
Shirley was cool now. “What are you going to do?”
“I thought you were just maybe on the make for this Ruxton. But, not this—not doing—killing—” Her voice rose. “Murdering that old man! Shirl, I’m trying to help you. That Ruxton’s nothing but a cheap bum. Can’t you see that?” She ceased, then, “I shouldn’t’ve waited....”
There was a pause. Nobody spoke. My heart was like a bass drum, slamming inside my chest. Victor Spondell was half up in bed again, straining. His eyes were wild. If Mayda told Shirley about what we’d done, what then?
They didn’t speak. I knew then. The intercom had quit, just as I’d planned it to quit. Victor reached for it. He struck it with his hand, eyes glaring toward the bedroom door, mouth gaping.
I turned and ran along the walk toward the front of the house.
I ran straight into Grace.
I smashed into her before I could stop. I don’t know. I was pretty close to insanity at that moment. Maybe it was like being shot in the heart. I couldn’t even speak. She had on a white dress and I smelled the gin. I thrust her away, and there was a kind of screaming inside me.
“I followed you, Jack.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I followed you. You don’t think I’d really leave town, the way you’ve been treating me? You don’t really think that, do you? I knew you had another woman, Jack—seeing her. I knew that’s what it was. I wasn’t good enough, was I? So I’ve been following you. She lives right here, doesn’t she? She married? She sneaking out to meet you? Don’t try to kid me, Jack. I know.”
I didn’t know what to do with her. I had to get rid of her. Everything was wild and off-kilter. Time counted. She was just drunk enough to be belligerent. Grace could be belligerent. I turned her around on the walk.
“You find your car,” I said, “and get out of here. Fast. You’re not fouling me up.”
“Fouling you up?” She gave a short bitter laugh. “You’ve got a woman here. You think I don’t know?”
I kept my voice down. “You’re wrong, Grace. I had a service call at the shop. I left the store ten minutes ago.
