and everything it read off to me was very bad. I took it all like a punch-drunk fighter, not even bothering to rock with the blows.
I had to talk with Shirley, and I couldn’t possibly call her on the phone. There was no way of my going out there now. Only I had to see her.
What a crazy thing to do—saying I hadn’t seen the paper. A tiny flaw. Like a mountain.
Nerves? Brass? Miraglia had the stuff. A real honest to God corker. He didn’t give a damn about anything. The way he’d turned and gone after that newspaper had been something to see. How many people would do that? And, if they did, why would they? The average guy would let it go. Even if he suspected the paper might be today’s paper, he would let it go. Unless he was suspicious.
Why was Miraglia suspicious?
I knew I had to see Shirley.
I came out of the chair and started pacing the floor.
The money. A year. We couldn’t wait a year. I couldn’t wait a year. I wouldn’t.
Wouldn’t I? What could I do?
I went into the bedroom, and looked at myself in the minor over the bureau. My face was plenty grim. I was dressed except for my jacket. I grabbed one off a hook in the closet, and got out of there.
I drove to Tampa and got a gun.
Even doing it, I didn’t know why I was doing it. I just wanted a gun. Maybe it was just a way to be doing something. A reason to get out of town for a while, and just let the thoughts drift through my head.
I drove around Tampa, looking. I didn’t want to try the hockshops, because I knew you’d have to sign a purchase slip. After a while, I spotted a run-down antique store, and went in. I told the old lady in charge that I was just looking around, and she let me be. Finally, I found what I wanted. It was a beat-up old P-38. The old gal was at her desk, poring over a ledger. I moved on around, looking, then passed the gun again, lying among some Arabian knives with slim, curved blades. I checked the old lady. She was looking at the ledger. I slipped the P-38 into my pocket, and picked up one of the knives. It looked the best of them.
“Guess I’ll take this,” I told her.
I paid for it and got out of there. Three blocks away, I threw the knife down a storm drain.
In the center of town, I stopped at a sporting goods store, and bought a box of 9mm shells. No questions.
I drove home. On the way, I stopped the car on a country road, loaded the P-38, hoping it was a safe job. Some of these automatics would blow apart in your face, because of sabotage in the Nazi factories during the war. But U.S. factory loads were milder than European, and the gun was built for European, so I took the chance.
I fired several rounds out the car window at a bank of dirt. The action was okay.
I drove back to the apartment. I had the gun, but I didn’t know exactly why. I put it in the glove compartment of the car, and somehow felt better. It had been a lot of trouble to go through, just to find an old automatic. On the other hand, if I needed it, I had it.
All this time, the business Miraglia had told me about not being able to get the money rode in the back of my mind, blossoming like cancer.
As I reached the door to the apartment, I realized the telephone was ringing. By the time I made it inside to the phone, it had ceased.
I sat there. I didn’t move from the phone for over an hour. It didn’t ring again. It could have been a lot of people. It might have been Grace. But all I could think was that it had been Shirley, and she’d had to call.
And I hadn’t been here to catch the call.
I got out the telephone directory and checked.
I stared at his name until the letters blurred.
Finally, I just sat there and smoked. I didn’t go near the store all day. I called in once and told Mrs. Noxton I felt ill, and thought I’d hang around the house. There was nothing of importance, she said, so it was okay.
By the time night folded down, I was a caged tiger.
I took the car and drove over to 1414 Emerald Lane, and checked where he lived. It was a twenty-thousand dollar lay-out, small ranch-type. Completely unpretentious. Some lights were lit, and there was a young kid out front, playing with a red wagon under the porch light. A dog cut out of the shadows by the house and chased the car, yapping his head off.
I snarled at him out the window. He snarled back.
He chased me like a maniac for six blocks, yapping every minute of the way, and every yap was like a spike driven into my gut.
I drove home to sit and smoke some more.
It was a little after nine when the phone rang.
“Jack?”
“Shirley—where are you? I’ve been nuts.”
“Yes. It’s all right. I can talk. There’s nobody here.”
“You shouldn’t be talking from the house.”
“It’s all right. How are you?”
“Terrible. What’s with you?”
“Lots.”
“Miragliawas here.”
“I know.”
“How do you know? Did you see him?”
“Yes. He’s been around again.”
“What did he say?”
“I’ll get to it. Have you missed me?”
I started to snap out something. I said, “You know I have.”
“I’ve missed you, awfully. I want to see you so bad, I don’t know what to do. In this house. All alone. Can’t we...?”
“No. Listen, Shirley. He told me something. He said you can’t get the money, that you have to wait a year. I never knew this. It’s the law—the waiting. We can’t touch the money, Shirley.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Doctor Miraglia.”
“He’s wrong,” she said. “He knows that isn’t so. Why, for goodness’ sake, the money’s already in my name. I went to the bank this morning. I wanted to let you know, but there simply was no way. I didn’t dare call before now, so much has happened.”
I couldn’t speak for a minute. Finally I said, “The money’s in your name?”
“Certainly, Jack. Not a bit of trouble. None at all. They expected me in. There was nothing to it. Victor had signed a trust agreement with the bank. I didn’t know that. I thought there was a will, or something.”
“A trust agreement?”
“Yes. All they did was make out another bankbook, in my name.”
I sat there.
“Jack?”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
“Are you there, Jack?”
“Yeah. Shirley, Miraglia told me it was the law—that if...”
“He must have been talking about a simple will. That’s how that works. Then there’s a whole lot of red tape.”
“What did you say before, about Miraglia knowing you wouldn’t have any trouble?”
“He knew. He knew there was a trust agreement. He told me he’d known, when I saw him after I came home from the bank. He was waiting in the house.”
“In the house? When was this?”
“This morning. Maybe ten-thirty. What’s the matter?”
