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Authors: Richard Matheson
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primers and including all the current sheet music. He had a new tile floor put in with a motif of bass and treble clefs and notes in the design. He enlarged his line of instruments and made an exchange agreement with the Denis School and others.
All this put him considerably into debt. He was unable, in the beginning, to afford help. He and Helen ran the store until Connie’s growth made working too difficult for Helen. Then Chris managed on his own. It was exhausting but joyous work. The weariness he felt at night was a wholesome one.
Little by little, his venture paid off. People from the area began patronizing his store to the exclusion of others. It was a pleasant place and Chris was a pleasant host. His reputation as a man who understood children no less than music broadened. He was asked, by the Chamber of Commerce, to take over the operation of the Junior Orchestra; invited to join the Chamber.
As business increased, so did the scope of his work. He began to arrange neighborhood square dances, organizing the local mothers into an entertainment committee. Gradually, he helped convert the Junior Orchestra into a polished group which gave well-received concerts all over the Los Angeles area. He sponsored and coached the Santa Monica Wildcats who played baseball in spring and summer, football in fall and winter. Life became more and more rewarding. The store did more business and he did more for the community. His idea for the creative workshop had come only a few weeks before and it was, already, halfway to fruition. All this, ended by a phone call in the night.
Jimmy looked up from behind the counter as Chris entered. “Hi Mr. Martin,” he said.
“Hello, Jimmy,” Chris smiled at him. “How’s it going?”
“Up to the B’s,” said Jimmy, grinning. “I just put Brahms in his place.” Then he added, concerned, “Gee, Mr. Martin, you okay?”
“Sure.” Chris stopped by the counter and hesitated a moment before speaking. “Oh, uh, my wife has the car this morning, Jimmy. Going to her mother’s.”
Jimmy nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“I’ll be needing a car for a while though,” Chris said.
“And you wanna borrow mine?” said Jimmy. “Sure thing, Mr. Martin. Any time.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said Chris.
“Any time at all,” said Jimmy. “Well, I’ll get back to Britten and Bruckner now.”
Chris managed another smile. “Has Mrs. Anthony called?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I gave her the message.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Chris shut the door of his office and drew off his top coat. As he dropped it on a chair, he noticed the smudges on it. He must have gotten them when Steve knocked him down. He checked his trousers and found dirt streaks on the knees, a small rip. If he’d gone home, Helen would have seen them. He’d have had to tell her what happened.
He wondered what she’d say when she found out about the money. They’d been saving for a bigger house; this would reduce their account to almost nothing. Well, there was no help for it. It had to be done. After all these years, three thousand was a cheap enough price for continued freedom.
Suddenly, it occurred to Chris that after bringing the money he would no longer be of any value to Adam and Steve. He heard repeated in his mind what Adam had said:
You’re lucky we don’t leave you in a ditch somewhere
.
Chris sank down heavily before his desk. Dear God, what was he to do? If he gave Adam and Steve the money, he’d always be subject to their blackmail. If he went to the police, he’d be put in prison—and he had no romantic illusions about “getting a fresh start” after that. If he were twenty, perhaps. Not now.
It was in that moment that the idea came with a flash of hideous logic. An idea that had to do with Cliff’s loaded gun and Chris’s two enemies waiting in Latigo Canyon, with the hills around and the unlikelihood of anyone hearing a shot.
His fingers jerked suddenly into blood-drained fists. No! He was not that
All this put him considerably into debt. He was unable, in the beginning, to afford help. He and Helen ran the store until Connie’s growth made working too difficult for Helen. Then Chris managed on his own. It was exhausting but joyous work. The weariness he felt at night was a wholesome one.
Little by little, his venture paid off. People from the area began patronizing his store to the exclusion of others. It was a pleasant place and Chris was a pleasant host. His reputation as a man who understood children no less than music broadened. He was asked, by the Chamber of Commerce, to take over the operation of the Junior Orchestra; invited to join the Chamber.
As business increased, so did the scope of his work. He began to arrange neighborhood square dances, organizing the local mothers into an entertainment committee. Gradually, he helped convert the Junior Orchestra into a polished group which gave well-received concerts all over the Los Angeles area. He sponsored and coached the Santa Monica Wildcats who played baseball in spring and summer, football in fall and winter. Life became more and more rewarding. The store did more business and he did more for the community. His idea for the creative workshop had come only a few weeks before and it was, already, halfway to fruition. All this, ended by a phone call in the night.
Jimmy looked up from behind the counter as Chris entered. “Hi Mr. Martin,” he said.
“Hello, Jimmy,” Chris smiled at him. “How’s it going?”
“Up to the B’s,” said Jimmy, grinning. “I just put Brahms in his place.” Then he added, concerned, “Gee, Mr. Martin, you okay?”
“Sure.” Chris stopped by the counter and hesitated a moment before speaking. “Oh, uh, my wife has the car this morning, Jimmy. Going to her mother’s.”
Jimmy nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“I’ll be needing a car for a while though,” Chris said.
“And you wanna borrow mine?” said Jimmy. “Sure thing, Mr. Martin. Any time.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said Chris.
“Any time at all,” said Jimmy. “Well, I’ll get back to Britten and Bruckner now.”
Chris managed another smile. “Has Mrs. Anthony called?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I gave her the message.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Chris shut the door of his office and drew off his top coat. As he dropped it on a chair, he noticed the smudges on it. He must have gotten them when Steve knocked him down. He checked his trousers and found dirt streaks on the knees, a small rip. If he’d gone home, Helen would have seen them. He’d have had to tell her what happened.
He wondered what she’d say when she found out about the money. They’d been saving for a bigger house; this would reduce their account to almost nothing. Well, there was no help for it. It had to be done. After all these years, three thousand was a cheap enough price for continued freedom.
Suddenly, it occurred to Chris that after bringing the money he would no longer be of any value to Adam and Steve. He heard repeated in his mind what Adam had said:
You’re lucky we don’t leave you in a ditch somewhere
.
Chris sank down heavily before his desk. Dear God, what was he to do? If he gave Adam and Steve the money, he’d always be subject to their blackmail. If he went to the police, he’d be put in prison—and he had no romantic illusions about “getting a fresh start” after that. If he were twenty, perhaps. Not now.
It was in that moment that the idea came with a flash of hideous logic. An idea that had to do with Cliff’s loaded gun and Chris’s two enemies waiting in Latigo Canyon, with the hills around and the unlikelihood of anyone hearing a shot.
His fingers jerked suddenly into blood-drained fists. No! He was not that
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