Read Online Somebody Owes Me Money by Donald E. Westlake - Free Book Online
Authors: Donald E. Westlake
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orange-furred elbows, with here and there a glint of blond hair peeking through. I said, “What are you doing?”
She said something, so muffled it took me a few seconds to make it out: “You’re going to kill me.”
“I am not,” I said. I was insulted. I said, “What would I do a thing like that for?”
Arms and legs shifted a little, enough for a blue eye to be seen way down in there. With a sort of brave but hopeless defiance she said, “Because I know too much.”
“Oh, come on,” I said.
Legs lowered, arms shifted some more, and her head emerged like a beautiful turtle. “You can’t fool me,” she said, still with that scared defiance. “You’re an accomplice and I know it. I’d give twelve to one on it.”
“Done,” I said, and without thinking I reached my hand over for a shake, forgetting the gun was in it. Immediately the turtle popped back into her orange shell. I said, “Hey! I’m not going to shoot you. I was just taking the bet.”
She inched out again, mistrustful. “You were?”
I switched the gun to my left hand and held the right out for her to shake. “See? You give me twelve to one odds on a lock, you’ve got yourself a bet. How much? Ten bucks? Make it easy on yourself.”
The legs this time slowly lowered all the way to the floor. She kept looking at me, studying me, very doubtful and mistrustful, as though wondering if somebody had stuck in a ringer. She looked at my hand, but she didn’t touch it. Instead she said, “You are Chester Conway, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. I pointed the gun at my identification on the right side of the dashboard. “There’s my name and picture,” I said. “You’ll have to take my word that’s my picture.”
“And you are the one who found my brother dead.”
“Sure.”
“And you’re the one who’s been having an affair with Louise.”
“Whoa, now,” I said. “Not me, honey. Now you’re thinking about somebody else. I didn’t even know that woman’s first name until yesterday.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” she said, but the scorn was mixed with doubt.
“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I don’t much care. And what I think I ought to do now is turn you over to the cops.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, still with that touch of doubt showing through.
“Why not?” I said. “You’re the one pulled the gun on me.”
“What if I tell them what I know?”
“Go ahead,” I said. “They’re liable to find out if it’s true before they go running up six-dollar meters and sticking guns in my neck.” I waggled the gun at her. “You get in the middle of the seat,” I said, “where I can see you in the rear-view mirror.”
“I don’t—”
“Move,” I said. I’d just heard a click, reminding me that the meter was still running. Another six bucks down the drain.
She licked her lips and began to look worried. “Maybe—” she said.
“Move now,” I said. “I don’t want to listen to any more. I’m supposed to be working now. Go on, move!”
She moved, being somewhat sulky about it, and when she got to the middle of the seat she sat up, folded her arms, gave me a defiant glare, and said, “All right. We’ll see who’s bluffing.”
“Nobody’s bluffing,” I told her. “You just misread your hole card, that’s all.” I turned around, shut off the meter, flicked on the Off Duty sign, made sure the gun was safe on the seat beside me against my hip, made sure I could see her plainly in the mirror, and we took off.
10
“Maybe I was wrong,” she said in a very small voice.
I was just making my left at Flatlands Avenue, the nearest police station I knew of being on Glenwood Road the other side of Rockaway Parkway. Since even after a snowstorm Brooklyn is full of elderly black Buicks being driven slowly but stupidly by short skinny women with their hair in rollers, I finished making the turn before looking in the rear-view mirror, where I saw my passenger looking
She said something, so muffled it took me a few seconds to make it out: “You’re going to kill me.”
“I am not,” I said. I was insulted. I said, “What would I do a thing like that for?”
Arms and legs shifted a little, enough for a blue eye to be seen way down in there. With a sort of brave but hopeless defiance she said, “Because I know too much.”
“Oh, come on,” I said.
Legs lowered, arms shifted some more, and her head emerged like a beautiful turtle. “You can’t fool me,” she said, still with that scared defiance. “You’re an accomplice and I know it. I’d give twelve to one on it.”
“Done,” I said, and without thinking I reached my hand over for a shake, forgetting the gun was in it. Immediately the turtle popped back into her orange shell. I said, “Hey! I’m not going to shoot you. I was just taking the bet.”
She inched out again, mistrustful. “You were?”
I switched the gun to my left hand and held the right out for her to shake. “See? You give me twelve to one odds on a lock, you’ve got yourself a bet. How much? Ten bucks? Make it easy on yourself.”
The legs this time slowly lowered all the way to the floor. She kept looking at me, studying me, very doubtful and mistrustful, as though wondering if somebody had stuck in a ringer. She looked at my hand, but she didn’t touch it. Instead she said, “You are Chester Conway, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. I pointed the gun at my identification on the right side of the dashboard. “There’s my name and picture,” I said. “You’ll have to take my word that’s my picture.”
“And you are the one who found my brother dead.”
“Sure.”
“And you’re the one who’s been having an affair with Louise.”
“Whoa, now,” I said. “Not me, honey. Now you’re thinking about somebody else. I didn’t even know that woman’s first name until yesterday.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” she said, but the scorn was mixed with doubt.
“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I don’t much care. And what I think I ought to do now is turn you over to the cops.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, still with that touch of doubt showing through.
“Why not?” I said. “You’re the one pulled the gun on me.”
“What if I tell them what I know?”
“Go ahead,” I said. “They’re liable to find out if it’s true before they go running up six-dollar meters and sticking guns in my neck.” I waggled the gun at her. “You get in the middle of the seat,” I said, “where I can see you in the rear-view mirror.”
“I don’t—”
“Move,” I said. I’d just heard a click, reminding me that the meter was still running. Another six bucks down the drain.
She licked her lips and began to look worried. “Maybe—” she said.
“Move now,” I said. “I don’t want to listen to any more. I’m supposed to be working now. Go on, move!”
She moved, being somewhat sulky about it, and when she got to the middle of the seat she sat up, folded her arms, gave me a defiant glare, and said, “All right. We’ll see who’s bluffing.”
“Nobody’s bluffing,” I told her. “You just misread your hole card, that’s all.” I turned around, shut off the meter, flicked on the Off Duty sign, made sure the gun was safe on the seat beside me against my hip, made sure I could see her plainly in the mirror, and we took off.
10
“Maybe I was wrong,” she said in a very small voice.
I was just making my left at Flatlands Avenue, the nearest police station I knew of being on Glenwood Road the other side of Rockaway Parkway. Since even after a snowstorm Brooklyn is full of elderly black Buicks being driven slowly but stupidly by short skinny women with their hair in rollers, I finished making the turn before looking in the rear-view mirror, where I saw my passenger looking
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