And then recognized the voice that said "Hi, Ray," and wished he'd let
the phone ring. It was Joe Amico.
He said, "Listen, Joe, I haven't been able to do anything yet--but I'm
working on it. I'll raise it somehow, pretty soon. I'm sorry, but you
know I'm good for it."
"I know you're good for it. You'd better be. But I want you to drop in
and see me this evening."
"Sure, Joe, if you want me to. I'm coming downtown anyway. But it won't
do any good. I'm flat."
"Flat or not, you come in. I'll be here till ten. Any time between now
and then. Got me?"
"Okay, Joe. I'll see you."
He sighed as he put down the phone. Well, he was going downtown anyway;
that had been the truth. And probably Joe was going to give him an
ultimatum, a time limit. And it would be an unpleasant interview but
at least he'd know the worst. He'd know how long he had to raise the
money. Or whether Joe would take it in weekly payments if he simply
couldn't raise it any other way. He'd hate that; he'd hate it like
hell. Because, for a hell of a long time, it would leave him no surplus
to do any betting with. And his luck was due to change; it _had_ to
change.
He strolled to the front window and stood looking down at the street,
wondering whether he should go downtown now and eat whenever he got
hungry, or save himself money by rustling something to eat here before
he left. Since Ruth had to leave for work at five he had to fend for
himself or eat out the five evenings she worked, but he didn't mind
that; sometimes he even enjoyed cooking simple things for himself, and
of course she did the cleaning up and dishwashing the next morning.
Aside from that he was glad she worked an evening shift; in fact, he'd
talked her into doing it. He was out almost every evening himself;
he'd explained to her that it was his best time for selling. And that
was partly true. Some of his bar owner customers delegated the duller
daytime hours to a bartender who wasn't authorized to do any buying and
themselves took over the bar, with or without the help of a bartender
or two, during the evening hours. Even tonight he should probably make
a business call or two, although he didn't feel in the mood to do it.
Just downtown bars, of course, since he wouldn't have his car till
tomorrow. Yes, he could see Harry Webber and Chuck Connolly; they were
both due to be called on.
Brakes squealed in the street below and his eyes swiveled toward the
source of the sound, the nearby corner. It was a near accident. A
kid, a boy about ten, had run across the street right in front of an
oncoming car and the driver had slammed on his brakes and skidded, had
managed to stop with only inches to spare. A close thing, a very close
thing. But the kid ran on and the driver must have been the more shaken
up of the two; he sat there almost a minute before starting up the car
again.
Accidents can happen, even though this one didn't. And unbidden a
thought rose in Ray Fleck's mind. What if an accident should happen to
Ruth, on her way to work right now or on her way home tonight? Not that
she'd run in front of a car like that crazy kid had, but pedestrians
can be hit even when they're not at fault. By a drunken driver or a
driver who loses control of his car. Sometimes cars even ran up onto a
sidewalk and--
Oh, the chances of anything like that happening, of Ruth being killed,
were a million to one against. Pretty poor odds--but good God, wouldn't
it be a perfect answer to his problem, to all his problems, if it
_should_ happen? As beneficiary of her policy he'd have ten thousand
dollars, ten whole grand, all at once. What he owed Amico would be
peanuts; he'd still have nine and a half grand. It would be enough; he
could make the break right away. He'd no longer be Ray Fleck, liquor
salesman, but Ray Fleck, Distributor. And on the way to a real income.
Funny he'd never thought seriously about the possibility of his ever
collecting that ten grand as a beneficiary. Maybe because Ruth was such
a healthy girl; she hadn't been sick a day in the three years of their
marriage. But even a healthy person can have an accident.
Or--He pushed that thought aside. He was no angel and he'd done a lot
of dishonest things in his life, but he wasn't a murderer. Even if he
was he'd never get away with it. If a woman is killed her husband is
always the prime suspect, even if he hasn't any insurance on her.
Forget it, he told himself, and forgot it. Abruptly he made up his mind
not to stick around the flat until he got hungry enough to eat here, to
save a buck. What was a buck in the jam he was in? And the sooner he
got downtown the more chances he'd have to raise a stake to get in that
poker game with, at eleven. The game that was the only chance he knew
of to win any real money tonight. The game he _had_ to get into.
He left the flat, walked down the two flights of stairs and out to the
street. He was lucky; a taxi was going by and he flagged it and got in.
Downtown was only a short cab ride, half a buck plus tip, and he hated
waiting for buses. "Main and Willis," he told the driver. "Drop me off
at the northwest corner."
That was the corner where Benny had his newsstand and his first stop
would be to pick up a Racing Form. Not that he'd be placing any bets
tonight--or tomorrow unless he won really big at poker, but he always
liked to study the Form anyway and do his handicapping. Besides Benny
always--when he remembered; Benny's memory wasn't too good--held out
a Form for him and if Benny had, he didn't want to leave him stuck
with it. Poor Benny. Crazy Benny, some people called him; but Ray
didn't think he was really crazy, just a little lacking upstairs, prone
to forgetting things. And sometimes (Ray had heard, although he'd
never run into this himself) to remembering things that hadn't really
happened. But he ran the newsstand all right and never made a mistake
in making change.
He paid off the taxi and strolled to the wooden enclosure from which
Benny sold his papers. "Hi, Benny," he said. "Remember to hold a Form
for me?"
"Sure, Mr. Fleck. I _always_ remember to." And this time Benny really
had remembered. He reached behind him and took a copy of the Racing
Form down from a shelf at the back of the stand. Ray put down the coins
to pay for it and picked it up, started to fold it as he turned, then
had a sudden thought and turned back. Since he was going to have to
raise his poker stake by borrowing a little each from as many friends
as he could put the bite on, why not start here and now by seeing if
Benny was good for a sawbuck? He'd never borrowed anything from Benny
before, but what was to lose trying.
"Benny," he said. "I'm a little short on dough, wonder if you could
lend me ten bucks. Just till Saturday, day after tomorrow, when I get
my commission check."
Benny's big moon face didn't show any surprise. He said, "Why--why,
I guess I can, Mr. Fleck." He took from under the counter the cigar
box in which he kept bills--coins he kept in a change dispenser on
his belt--and opened it. There were quite a few bills in it and for
a second Ray considered whether he should ask if Benny could make it
twenty instead; then he saw that all of the bills he could see were
singles and maybe all of them were. In fact apparently all of them
were because Benny didn't fish through them to look for a ten or two
fives; he started counting out ten singles, one at a time, with the
slow carefulness with which he always counted money or made change.
He handed the ten bills over and Ray stuffed them into his wallet.
"Thanks, Benny."
"Mr. Fleck. I just thought uh somethin'. You'll have to mail that money
to me. I won't be here Saturday."
"Sure. Taking a vacation, huh? You better give me an address."
"You wont need no address, Mr. Fleck. I mean, you'll know from the
papers. I been thinkin' it over all day and made up my mind. I'm goin'
to give myself up to the p'lice, before I do anything more. Soon as I
close up the stand tonight."
"What are you talking about, Benny? Before you do any more what?"
"You been readin' in the papers about this sex psycho--" He pronounced
the _ch_ as in checkers. "Psycho--whatever it is?"
"Psychopath. What about him?"
"I'm him, Mr. Fleck. I killed them two women."
Ray Fleck put his head back and laughed heartily. "Benny, you're cr--I
mean, get that idea out of your head. You didn't kill those women. _I
know._ You wouldn't hurt a rabbit, Benny."
He started chuckling as he turned and walked away.
Feeling a little ashamed of himself, too, for having laughed in Benny's
face. But he hadn't really been laughing _at_ Benny at all, although
he'd never be able to explain that to poor Benny. He'd been laughing
at the crazy fact, the ridiculous fact, that Benny had chosen to make
his confession to the one and only person in the entire city--outside
of the psychopathic killer himself--who could know and did know,
immediately and certainly, that Benny, no matter how crazy he might be,
was _not_ the killer.