it on the glass top of the dresser. Through the open window floated the sounds on the street below. A car went past, its tires squealing a little as it made the turn at the corner. A horn beeped, and a kid’s voice said, “Hi, beautiful.”
1. That was enough, I thought. I wondered how much I of it I’d got. Rerolling the tape, I switched in on play back and cut the gain way down. Water ran out of the tap and I could even hear my shoes squeaking on the linoleum in the bathroom. I whistled. The telephone knocked against its cradle. It all came through. I let it run out to the end. “Hi, beautiful,” the speaker said softly, just above the level of the tube hiss and background noise. Perfect, I thought. I coiled the power cord and mike cable and put them back in the case and I locked it.
I undressed and turned out the light. It was very hot and the sheet stuck to me with sweat. I got up and I turned on the overhead fan, which helped a little. Fifty thousand. Seventy-five. A hundred thousand. After taxes, I thought, grinning coldly. The gasoline tax, driving up here. But the figures were too big to have any actual meaning. You couldn’t imagine that much. Sure, over a period of five years, or ten, working for it. But not in an afternoon. Not by just walking in and telling her, “I’ll take a hundred grand off the top. Slip it in my I hip pocket, honey.” It was a dream. It was too simple and easy to be real.
The hell it was. She had it, didn’t she? She had it and plenty more, and where was the percentage in being rich in Death Row? She’d be able to see that, without any trouble. There was plenty for both of us. Hell, at a hundred thousand I was the biggest bargain since free lunch and the nickel beer.
* * *
I awoke before six and almost by the time my eyes, were open excitement began to take hold of me. This was the day. I could feel it. I rolled out of bed and stepped to the window. Pulling the blind back a little, I peered out. The square lay peaceful and almost deserted in the growing light. There was no breeze, but the air was faintly cool and there was a fresh early-morning-in-summer look about the scene that reminded me of when I was a boy in other towns like this, of riding my bike out in the dawn to go fishing for crappies and goggle-eyes in some creek in the country where everything would still be wet with the dew. Jesus, you’re a lyrical bastard, I thought. Go ahead and remember the rest of it, like how it was stepping over the old man where he’d passed out in his own vomit in the middle of the bedroom floor. And don’t forget that old sow he used to bring home with him when he was crocked to the eyeballs. There was a dewy sight in the dawn.
On the north side of the square, a few doors this side of the movie house, an all night café was open. The only cars in evidence in the whole square were parked in front of it. While I was watching, two men wearing hard hats and carrying lunch boxes came out, got in one of the cars, and drove off. Pipeline workers, probably: Get in gear, I thought. If I wanted any coffee or breakfast, I’d better get it now. I took a quick shower. While I was rubbing down with the towel, the telephone rang. It was the six-o’clock call, a man’s voice. I dressed and went downstairs. The gray-haired woman and Raymond were gone. The man behind the desk was pleasant looking and middle-aged, with brown eyes and steel-rimmed glasses. I dropped the key on the desk.
“Good morning,” he said. “Are you staying over?”
“I may,” I said. “I’m headed for a fishing trip out at Swanson Lake, but I might wait over and go tomorrow. Don’t feel too well, for some reason. Something I ate last night, I guess.”
“Stomach cramps?” he asked sympathetically.
I shook my head. “Just a little upset. Think I’ll try some coffee and orange juice, and maybe a couple of aspirin, and see what happens.”
I cut across the corner of the square. There were five or six people in
1. That was enough, I thought. I wondered how much I of it I’d got. Rerolling the tape, I switched in on play back and cut the gain way down. Water ran out of the tap and I could even hear my shoes squeaking on the linoleum in the bathroom. I whistled. The telephone knocked against its cradle. It all came through. I let it run out to the end. “Hi, beautiful,” the speaker said softly, just above the level of the tube hiss and background noise. Perfect, I thought. I coiled the power cord and mike cable and put them back in the case and I locked it.
I undressed and turned out the light. It was very hot and the sheet stuck to me with sweat. I got up and I turned on the overhead fan, which helped a little. Fifty thousand. Seventy-five. A hundred thousand. After taxes, I thought, grinning coldly. The gasoline tax, driving up here. But the figures were too big to have any actual meaning. You couldn’t imagine that much. Sure, over a period of five years, or ten, working for it. But not in an afternoon. Not by just walking in and telling her, “I’ll take a hundred grand off the top. Slip it in my I hip pocket, honey.” It was a dream. It was too simple and easy to be real.
The hell it was. She had it, didn’t she? She had it and plenty more, and where was the percentage in being rich in Death Row? She’d be able to see that, without any trouble. There was plenty for both of us. Hell, at a hundred thousand I was the biggest bargain since free lunch and the nickel beer.
* * *
I awoke before six and almost by the time my eyes, were open excitement began to take hold of me. This was the day. I could feel it. I rolled out of bed and stepped to the window. Pulling the blind back a little, I peered out. The square lay peaceful and almost deserted in the growing light. There was no breeze, but the air was faintly cool and there was a fresh early-morning-in-summer look about the scene that reminded me of when I was a boy in other towns like this, of riding my bike out in the dawn to go fishing for crappies and goggle-eyes in some creek in the country where everything would still be wet with the dew. Jesus, you’re a lyrical bastard, I thought. Go ahead and remember the rest of it, like how it was stepping over the old man where he’d passed out in his own vomit in the middle of the bedroom floor. And don’t forget that old sow he used to bring home with him when he was crocked to the eyeballs. There was a dewy sight in the dawn.
On the north side of the square, a few doors this side of the movie house, an all night café was open. The only cars in evidence in the whole square were parked in front of it. While I was watching, two men wearing hard hats and carrying lunch boxes came out, got in one of the cars, and drove off. Pipeline workers, probably: Get in gear, I thought. If I wanted any coffee or breakfast, I’d better get it now. I took a quick shower. While I was rubbing down with the towel, the telephone rang. It was the six-o’clock call, a man’s voice. I dressed and went downstairs. The gray-haired woman and Raymond were gone. The man behind the desk was pleasant looking and middle-aged, with brown eyes and steel-rimmed glasses. I dropped the key on the desk.
“Good morning,” he said. “Are you staying over?”
“I may,” I said. “I’m headed for a fishing trip out at Swanson Lake, but I might wait over and go tomorrow. Don’t feel too well, for some reason. Something I ate last night, I guess.”
“Stomach cramps?” he asked sympathetically.
I shook my head. “Just a little upset. Think I’ll try some coffee and orange juice, and maybe a couple of aspirin, and see what happens.”
I cut across the corner of the square. There were five or six people in
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