After his wife had left, Ray Fleck paced the flat in rage and despair.
With rage, at first, predominating. Damn her, damn her, he thought.
What kind of wife would flatly refuse to help her husband when he
was in a jam, a real jam? The bitch, she could give him the money so
easily, and never feel it. All she had to do was cash in that accursed
insurance policy. What did she need it for? A policy on _herself_. And
it had a cash surrender value of over three thousand dollars--maybe
almost four thousand by now; several payments had been made since
they'd last argued about it.
Or she could at least borrow against it, and all he needed was five
hundred bucks. Four hundred and eighty, to be exact, but he'd made it
a round figure. But no, that damned policy of hers was sacrosanct; she
wouldn't even borrow against it. Sacrosanct for what, for God's sake?
Sure it was her savings, her stake, and she'd taken it out herself,
had started saving that way, before they were married. But now that
she _was_ married and had a husband to support her, why should she
feel she needed a stake? Unless she was planning to leave him, or
thinking that she might decide to do so--that was possible. They had
had some pretty bitter quarrels, the past two years out of the three
they'd been married. But she'd fought to keep that policy even during
the first year, and they'd been pretty happy at first. He'd been in a
lucky streak, riding high, and they'd both been in love. Women love you
when you're in the chips. When it comes to money, women are a one-way
street. You can spend it on them, but try to get some of it back. Just
try.
Besides, some of the money in that policy was his, rightfully his.
Hadn't he, for most of that first year, given her money to pay the
premiums on it? Under protest, of course; he'd tried to talk her out of
wanting to keep on carrying it. "Honey," he'd said, "what do we want
a policy on _you_ for? I don't want you to die, and if you should die
I don't want ten grand out of it." But she'd had an answer for that.
Women always have an answer.
"Ray, darling," she'd said, "I'd agree with you if this were just an
insurance policy--but it isn't. It's a ten-year endowment policy, and
that's a way of saving. A good way. I've carried it for over four years
now and in less than another six years we'll have ten thousand dollars
in cash. Won't that be nice?"
"Yeah, but it's a long time away--and those are damn high premiums. Why
short ourselves now to have money when we're old? What good will ten
thousand do us then?"
She laughed. "We won't exactly be old in six years. I'll be twenty-nine
and you'll be thirty-five. As to what we can use it for--a house, if
we haven't already bought one by then. It doesn't have to be big or
expensive, but I want us to have a home of our own someday; I don't
want to live in furnished flats the rest of my life. Or if we already
have our own home by then, maybe it would be enough to let you start
in business for yourself; you've said you would like to, if you had
capital."
That had made sense to him. Not the part about "a home of our own";
he was a city dweller and wouldn't live in a house in the suburbs if
somebody gave him one, but he could talk her out of that idea when the
time came.
But with ten thousand capital, all at once, he _could_ do himself a
lot of good. He was a liquor salesman and seldom made less than a
hundred a week in commissions: he averaged considerably higher than
that. He worked for J. & B. Liquor Distributors, and he had a good
following among taverns and liquor stores all over the city. And he had
at least some contacts with salesmen for wholesalers and distillers;
they knew he was a good salesman. If he could set himself up as an
independent distributor, make a profit on what he sold instead of just
a commission, he'd be on his way toward making big money instead of
peanuts. But it would be a long, slow pull. He'd need capital, all
right.
He'd made only one more effort. "But wouldn't it be better to put that
much money in the bank instead? Then if there was an emergency, we
could get at it easier."
But Ruth had shaken her head firmly. "We _could_ put money in the bank,
but you know you wouldn't, most weeks. Having regular premiums to meet
will _make_ us save. And if an emergency comes up we can borrow against
the policy--and get the money the same day, since the company has an
office here. But, Ray, I'd do it only for a real emergency--an accident
or serious illness, an operation, something like that. Not to let you
bet heavily on a horse race because you've got a hot tip, or to let you
pay off a gambling debt if you run in the hole." Well, she'd warned him.
But he'd given in, and had given her money to keep up the premiums for
a while, ten or eleven monthly premiums. Then he'd run into a streak
of bad luck instead of good and had told her he couldn't give her the
money; he just didn't have it.
She'd taken it calmly. "All right, Ray. But I'm _not_ going to cash in
that policy. I'll take a job, part time anyway, and make enough to pay
the premiums myself. More than that, I hope."
And she had taken a job, and had worked ever since. He hadn't objected.
Why should he? If the damn policy meant that much to her, why shouldn't
she earn the money to keep it up? And, for that matter, to kick in on
household expenses or at least to buy her own clothes? Why should he
have to earn everything for both of them and let her do nothing?
She'd held several jobs. Checker at a supermarket, ticket seller at
a movie. Currently, and for the past eight or nine months, she was
working an evening shift as a waitress in a Greek restaurant. Thirty
hours a week, from five-thirty to eleven-thirty five nights a week.
Usually when he was home at this time he drove her to work--and
sometimes when he was doing nothing important around eleven-thirty,
picked her up after her work. But this afternoon he'd had to leave his
car at a garage to have some work done on it (that would be another
damn bill on top of everything else) so the question hadn't arisen.
Just as well, since they'd quarreled so bitterly. They'd probably have
kept on quarreling in the car, and it would have done him no good. He
recognized by now that he'd lost the argument; she was adamant and
she'd stay that way. She hadn't believed him when he'd told her he was
in physical danger.
Well, he didn't really believe that himself. Joe Amico was tough but he
wasn't a gangster, and he wasn't going to risk having anybody killed
for four hundred and eighty bucks.
True, he might go to the length of having someone beat up a little
if he thought the guy was welshing on him, didn't even _intend_ to
pay off. But Joe knew him better than that. He'd owed Joe before and
had always paid off--although never anything like almost five hundred
bucks; _how_ had it ever run that high? Joe knew he had a good job and
was good for the money eventually.
All he needed was a lucky streak, and he was due for one. Overdue
for one. At poker, maybe, if the horses kept running badly for him.
Sometimes when the horses ran badly the cards ran well for him. And
vice versa.
There was a poker game tonight that might do the trick, if he had or
could raise enough of a stake to sit in on it. Yes, this was Thursday
night, and Harry Brambaugh always had a Thursday night poker game at
his place. From eleven o'clock on, sometimes well into the next day.
But--
Although he knew approximately how much money he had, he took out his
wallet and counted it. Twenty-eight bucks, twenty-eight lousy bucks.
Not enough to sit in on a game at Harry's. He ought to have a hundred
to start with to buck that game, not a stake that could go in the first
pot he got into beyond the ante. But if he could raise a hundred--well,
a lucky streak could easily run it to enough to let him pay off Joe
Amico and maybe some left over.
Raising a hundred didn't sound nearly as impossible as raising four
hundred and eighty. Even if he had to borrow ten bucks apiece from ten
guys. With all evening to do it in.