He wasn't hungry, but Ray Fleck decided that he'd better eat. He'd
slept late and had only coffee for breakfast, and only a light lunch.
And this evening he'd had two drinks already in his quest for money to
get him into the poker game; like as not he'd have to take at least a
dozen more in the course of the evening, and if he wanted to be able to
play good poker he'd damn well better lay a foundation of food under
that dozen drinks.
The bad thing about the two drinks he'd already had was that he'd
taken them in vain. Worse than in vain because instead of helping him
raise money they'd cost him the ten bucks he'd borrowed from Benny
and had put his slender capital back where it had been before. He'd
seen through the window of the Palace Bar that Dick Johnson was there;
Dick was usually a soft touch and he went inside and bellied up the
bar beside Dick. He tried to buy him a drink, but Dick beat him to it
by signaling the bartender with two upraised fingers, so Ray waited
until he'd had a chance to buy back before he put on the bite, for
twenty. And, because he'd genuinely forgotten, he was startled when
Dick reminded him that he already owed him ten dollars from three
weeks before. "My God," Ray said, "I clean forgot. Why the hell didn't
you remind me sooner?" And then, because it was the only way out, he
laughed and made a joke of it, pulled a ten out of his wallet and
handed it to Dick. "Now we're all even; let's start over. Can you lend
me twenty, just till Saturday?" He'd still come out ten ahead, he
thought. But Dick Johnson had shaken his head. "Sorry, Ray-boy, I'm
short this week myself. Need all I've got, and this ten comes in handy
too." And there went the ten he'd just got from Benny.
He stopped at the corner of Fourth and Main, the middle of downtown, to
make up his mind where to eat. Feratti's seemed like a good bet; they
put out good dinners for two-fifty--unless you ordered steak or lobster
or something fancy--and he wouldn't be tempted, as he might be in some
of the other good restaurants, to waste some of his drinking capacity
on a cocktail or two before dining; Feratti's didn't have a liquor
license. He turned on Fourth and headed for Feratti's.
And, as he walked, found himself thinking about Benny again. He never
should have laughed like that at Benny. Especially now that he'd
learned Benny was good for a sawbuck in an emergency once in a while.
Of course maybe he was worrying about nothing; maybe Benny's feelings
hadn't been hurt at all. But if he passed Benny's stand again this
evening he ought to stop, buy a paper as an excuse, and see how Benny
acted. If Benny was mad or had been hurt, he'd know easily and now,
the same evening, would be the time to square things. And he wasn't
a salesman for nothing; he could convince Benny that he hadn't been
laughing at _him_ but at a joke he'd just thought of, and tell Benny a
joke. Some simple joke that even a moron couldn't help getting.
And then, if he could figure out a way to do it, try to talk Benny out
of going to the cops to give himself up as the psychopathic killer. Not
that the cops would really believe Benny, but they might keep him out
of circulation for a while and maybe work him over a bit for details,
until they were sure.
Because the cops couldn't eliminate Benny as readily and surely as he,
Ray Fleck, could. The cops didn't know what the psycho looked like,
and he did. At least enough to be positive that he didn't look even
remotely like Benny.
It had been about two months ago, the night of the second
murder--although he hadn't known that until the next day. It had been
somewhere around ten o'clock in the evening. And it had happened in the
nineteen hundred block on Eastgate. Howie Borden lived at 1912 Eastgate
and Ray had agreed to pick him up around ten that evening; Howie was
going to take him to a stag party at Howie's lodge, and Ray was to
provide the transportation since Howie had a badly sprained right wrist
and couldn't drive.
He'd got there just about ten and had parked in front of Howie's house
and beeped the horn. Howie had raised a window and called out, "Be
about five minutes yet. Come on in." But he'd called back that he'd
wait in the car. He didn't want to go in because Howie's wife might be
around, and she always made him feel uncomfortable.
Since he knew that five minutes might easily mean fifteen or twenty, he
turned out his car lights for the wait. He was sitting there staring at
nothing through the windshield a few minutes later when he saw the man.
The man came through the gate in the fence in front of a house on the
other side of the street and three or four houses away. Ray noticed the
man at all for only two reasons. One was the fact that in an otherwise
completely static vista the eye is drawn to the only moving object.
The other was the fact that as the man stood there just outside the
gate he looked both ways and while he did so his hands at his sides
were flexing and unflexing, as though they were cramped from gripping
something very tightly and for quite a while. The gesture an oarsman
might make when he unclamps his hand from the oars after rowing a mile
or so, or a lumberjack when he lets go his ax to rest his hands after a
bout of chopping. Or that a strangler might make--But Ray Fleck didn't
think of that at the time. The man went the other way and was out of
sight and out of mind by the time Howie came out and got in the car.
It wasn't until late the following afternoon, when he read the
mid-afternoon edition of the evening paper, that he knew he had seen
the murderer leaving the scene of his second crime. The address was
1917 Eastgate, on the opposite side of the street from Howie Borden's,
and about three houses away in the direction in which Fleck's car had
been facing. If the address had left any doubt in his mind that the
house was the one he'd seen the man leaving, the doubt was dispelled by
a picture of the house's exterior that was published with the story.
It showed a three-foot iron fence in front; the house the man had left
had been the only house on that side of the short block that had been
fenced in. And that flexing and unflexing of the hands....
Give him credit. He considered going to the police to tell them what he
had seen, considered it seriously. He was home and alone at the time,
as Ruth had just left for work, so he had all the time to think that he
wanted. He paced the apartment for all of twenty minutes before coming
to a decision. The decision was negative on three counts.
First, he couldn't give them a description that would really mean
anything and he couldn't--or he was fairly sure he couldn't--identify
the man if he ever saw him again. He'd seen him at a distance of about
a hundred feet and in pretty dim light; the nearest street light had
been behind Fleck's car, farther from the man than Fleck had been.
His impression had been of a man of average height and average
build--or maybe a little heavier than that. It could have been his
own description, except--Except what? Thinking back, he decided that,
although their weight was probably about the same, the man had been
a bit narrower in the waist, a bit broader in the shoulders. But he
could have been wrong even about that, the nearest to a positive point
he could think of; after all he was trying to describe a vague and
illusive memory, something he'd hardly noticed at the time. He thought
the man had worn a dark suit and a dark hat, but he wasn't sure of
those things either. The face had been a white blur in the instant it
was turned toward him, before the man had turned and walked the other
way.
What good could a description like that do the cops? It could fit a
hundred thousand guys. It could eliminate a few, sure--teenage kids,
skinny guys or fat ones, runts or six-footers. Yes, it would eliminate
a few who might otherwise be suspects. Benny, for instance; Benny was
well over six feet, well over two hundred pounds.
But would the cops _believe_ that his impression, his memory, was
as vague as all that? He doubted it. Having nothing to lose, they'd
operate on the theory that he might have got a better look than he
remembered, that if he saw the man again his memory might come back and
let him make a positive identification.
And he knew what that meant--line-ups. They'd expect him to attend the
line-up every morning for God knows how long. Could they force him to?
Maybe not, but they could be damned unpleasant about it, maybe make
trouble for him, if he tried to refuse. Maybe they could even hold
him, for a while anyway until a lawyer could get him out of it, as a
material witness.
But even that wasn't the worst thing against taking his story, such
as it was, to the police. Even if the police tried to keep it under
wraps there was always a chance some damn reporter would get hold of
the story and print it. Complete with his name and address. And how'd
you like to have a crazy killer know who you were and think, however
wrongly, that you knew him by sight and could put the finger on him the
first time you saw him?
The cops would try to protect him, sure. But what if the killer was
smarter than the cops? He had been, so far. And how _long_ would the
cops be able to keep up a twenty-four-hour guard duty on him, and
wouldn't it mess his personal and private life to hell and back while
they did?
So Ray Fleck had sensibly kept his mouth shut about what he'd seen
that night. He'd even almost forgotten about it himself; he was
thinking about it this evening only because of that ridiculous would-be
confession of Benny's. Crazy Benny might be, but the sex killer, no.
At Feratti's he took his favorite table. It was a small one against one
side of the room but a light fixture in the wall right above it made it
the best lighted table, and he needed good light to read the fine print
and hieroglyphics of a Racing Form. He took his out of his pocket and
unfolded it, turning first to the Aqueduct results for yesterday. He
swore under his breath when he saw that Black Fox had won in the fifth
and had paid ten to one for a win ticket. Black Fox was a horse he'd
been following and had figured was due to win. If he'd had twenty-five
bucks on the nag it would have made him more than half what he owed
Amico and would have taken the pressure off. Damn Joe for having cut
off his credit; otherwise he'd probably have made that bet, phoned it
in. He glanced over results of the other races but with less interest;
none of them were races he'd have bet anyway. He'd handicapped some
of them but he'd have had to play the favorite in each if he played at
all, and he almost never played favorites. You didn't win enough money
to matter if they came in and they could always fool you and run out
of the money. Really long shots weren't good either. The way to cash
in on handicapping is to find a horse that pays better than the real
odds against it, say a horse quoted at five or six to one but with one
chance out of three or four of coming in. Then was the time to get the
bank roll down, when the odds were in your favor.
He heard the deferential clearing of a throat and looked up; Sam, the
waiter who always served this table, was standing there with a menu in
his hand. "'Scuse me, Mist' Fleck. You wanna order now? Or shall I come
back when you've had more time to figger them ponies?"
"I'll order now, Sam. Won't need a menu. Bring me the Special Sirloin."
"Yes, suh, Mist' Fleck. Medjum rare, like allus. An' Ah'll tell th'
chef to pick out a nice big one."
Ray Fleck frowned as the waiter ambled off. He hadn't really intended
to order a steak. But it didn't matter much. He'd be able to eat it;
he was always able to eat. And it was probably better at that to get a
good meal under his belt while he was at it.
He killed time with his Racing Form--not that he was going to do any
betting tonight and probably not tomorrow, but a horse player has
to stay in touch whether he's betting or not--until Sam brought his
dinner. Then he gladly put the Form back in his pocket and dived in.
Just ordering a steak and waiting for it had made him hungry, and he
ate heartily. And rapidly, wolfing the steak as fast as he could cut it
into bites. Ruth always kidded him about how fast he ate, but he could
never see any use in dawdling over food.
And then, replete, he took a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped and
lighted it. He sighed with a satisfaction as he inhaled the rich smoke.
The evening stretched ahead of him, a pleasant evening now, an exciting
evening. True, he had to see Joe Amico, and that would be unpleasant,
and a bit embarrassing. But he could handle Joe all right, no sweat at
all.
And, true, he had to spend part of the evening raising money for a
poker stake, but that ought to be easy; he knew hundreds of people;
he'd run into dozens of them during the course of the evening. And once
he had a stake, he was going to be lucky in the game. He had more than
a hunch. He felt sure of it.
He caught Sam's eye and lifted a finger, a signal for Sam to bring over
the check. Sam brought it over and put it face down in front of him.
But he didn't have to turn it over; he knew a sirloin steak was four
bucks and this one had been well worth it. He counted out four singles
from his wallet and then, the fifth one in his hand, hesitated. Sam
liked to gamble. "Double or nothing on the tip, Sam?"
Sam's teeth flashed, white in black. "Sho', Mist' Fleck. How? You want
flip a coin and me call it?"
Suddenly Ray Fleck had a better idea. He didn't mind Sam winning, but
if he did win it would be two bucks cash tonight. And cash tonight was
more important than something he could pay off the next time he ate in
Feratti's. He said, "Got a better idea, Sam. I'll give you _two_ tips.
One of 'em's on a beetle named Birthday Boy in the fourth at Aqueduct
tomorrow. Oughta pay about six to one, but I dope it he's got a better
chance than that of winning. Want me to make book on him for you for a
buck?"
Sam laughed. "Birthday Boy! Man, that's a real hunch bet, fo' me.
Tomorra's my birthday, Mist' Fleck. Sho. An' I'm goin' to try to put
some more dough down on him aftah wuk tonight. You said fourth race,
Aqueduct?"
"That's it. Say, I'm seeing my bookie tonight. Want me to put down your
bet for you? Might as well save you the trouble."
"That'd be fine, suh. Ah might miss the man Ah mostly bet with." Sam
pulled wadded bills out of his pocket. Straightened out they proved to
be a five and a half dozen ones. He handed the five to Ray Fleck. "Sho
'preciate yo puttin' this down fo' me, Mist' Fleck. Thanks muchly."
"Don't mention it, Sam. Glad to." And of course he was glad, because
it put him five bucks ahead. Unless, of course, Birthday Boy won, but
that was something he wouldn't have to worry about until tomorrow. Not
even tomorrow, come to think of it; if the nag did come in he'd owe
Sam about thirty bucks but he wouldn't have to drop into Feratti's
right away to pay off. He could wait till next week, after his next pay
check. Sam wouldn't come looking for him.
After Sam had left he put the money in his wallet and, while he had it
open, counted what was there. He was a little surprised to find out it
was exactly what he'd left home with no more and no less, twenty-eight
bucks.
Then he figured, and that was right. He'd got ten from Benny but had
had to give the same amount to Dick Johnson. The five he'd just got
from Sam covered his taxi fare and his dinner. He'd bought the Racing
Form and had paid for a couple of drinks, but he must have had enough
change to cover those things.
Well, he was still even. But damn it, he'd have to keep his mind on
raising more, and damn fast. By rights he should have at least a
hundred to sit in on that poker game. Fifty was rock bottom; he could
hardly go around with less than that. Even with fifty, he'd have to
count on winning some early pots or he'd go broke before he hit his
stride and got really started.
Good God, wasn't there _someone_ who could and would lend him a sizable
chunk of cash, say a hundred, in one chunk without his having to try to
chisel it out five or ten bucks at a time?
There _had_ to be. With all the friends he had....
Ruth now. She was not only being selfish as hell, but she was being
penny wise and pound foolish. If she'd only cash in that ridiculous,
horribly expensive endowment policy and turn over the money to him so
he'd be on his feet again, she wouldn't have to work. He could and
would support her. If she'd only borrow five hundred against it, she'd
take him off the spot. And damn it, wasn't anything she had half his
anyway? Sure it was. This was a community property state.
Damn her, if he divorced her everything they owned would be split down
the line and he'd get half of it. But he didn't have any grounds for
divorce. He sometimes suspected that damned Greek she worked for of
being soft on her--but he doubted that Ruth had ever encouraged him or
had anything to do with him. And even if she had, how could he prove
it? He couldn't afford to put private detectives on her, not now.
Someday maybe. And even if he tried now and succeeded, a divorce took
time. And cost money; it might even cost more than he'd get out of any
property settlement.
Damn the stubborn bitch, he thought; when she gets an idea in her
head....
But there must be someone besides Ruth who could help him. And who
would.
Suddenly he remembered a short story he'd read once, a long time ago.
He wasn't much of a reader, outside of newspapers and the Racing Form,
but once--before he had met Ruth--a girl he'd been going with had given
him as a present a book called _Great Short Stories of the World_.
And not long after that he'd been home sick for a week with a case of
bronchitis and had read most of the stories in the book and had even
enjoyed some of them. One of them--he couldn't remember the title--had
been by a Frenchman, Maupassant or somebody. It had been about a man
who'd been in a bad financial jam. He'd needed money in a hurry and had
gone to his wife, in whose name he'd put a lot of his property, and had
asked her for money; she'd turned him down flat. In despair he'd gone
to his mistress for help--and she'd given him back all the jewelry he'd
given her, and he'd been saved.
Why not? Dolly wasn't exactly his mistress but she was the next thing
to one. And while he hadn't given her any jewelry to speak of, except a
wrist watch once, he'd given her, times when he'd been flush, plenty of
other valuable presents. Hundreds of dollars' worth over the year and a
half he'd known her. Of course she didn't love him; he knew that. But
she liked him a lot and she was understanding. Wouldn't she lend him a
hundred bucks if he asked her? Suddenly he felt sure that she would.
Especially if he gave her a profit motive by telling her that if she
lent him a hundred now he'd give her back a hundred and twenty-five in
a week or two. And a hundred bucks tonight would sure be worth more
than that some other time, when he was solvent again.
Sure, Dolly would do it. If not because of Cupid, then out of cupidity.
Ray Fleck grinned to himself. Maybe there was something to reading
great literature after all. If he hadn't read that story he might never
have thought of Dolly Mason as a source of money. If only she was home,
and alone, so he could see her this evening....
Well, he could find that out right away. He got up and got his hat
first so he could leave right after the call, and then went to the
phone booth. He dialed Eastgate 6-6606, Dolly's number--and a very easy
one to remember. When the phone rang a dozen times or so he frowned,
realizing that it wasn't going to be answered.
Then he thought to look at his wrist watch and realized why. Dolly was
out somewhere eating dinner at this time. Her apartment had a kitchen
but she never kept food in it; she always ate out. Alone, if there
wasn't anyone to take her out. She never cooked, either for herself or
for company.
He hung up and got his dime back, then left the booth. On his way out
he passed Sam turning in some money at the cashier's desk and said,
"Happy birthday, Sam. Hope your hunch hits."