Barely Legal

75

Donnie was drinking the good stuff. He could afford it now. He’d never had so much money. And Yvette was dead, so he didn’t have to split it. Not that he’d wanted her dead, but he couldn’t deny the material benefits. He sat in the bar on Sixth Avenue drinking Johnnie Walker Black. He’d already had three, so the quality of the scotch didn’t matter to him. He could have been drinking standard rotgut and it would have tasted the same. But why should he? It was worth it just for the kick he got out of telling the bartender, “Johnnie Walker Black.”

Five thousand in cash. Too bad it was all in hundreds. He’d have to break a bill here, break a bill there. Never enough to raise suspicion, to call attention to himself.

The television over the bar was showing the news. Donnie couldn’t care less about the news. He was waiting for the sports. He finally had enough money to place a few bets, and not the rinky-dink, ten-bucks-to-win, dollar-box bets he usually put on the ponies. He could play a ten-dollar box, put a hundred bucks on the nose. He could throw in a few basketball games to boot. Donnie could imagine that bookie’s eyes bugging out of his head.

That sexy anchor Donnie liked was back with a news story. He wondered whose girlfriend she was to get that cushy job. Nice-looking, but not a great speaking voice. She clearly had other talents.

“The police have a new suspect in the murder of a Park Avenue socialite. What was originally thought to be a lovers’ quarrel is now being deemed a robbery/murder, and a manhunt is on for the suspect.”

A close-up of Donnie’s mug shot filled the screen.

“The fugitive, Donald Dressler, is suspected of killing the decedent, Yvette Walker, when she surprised him in the act of robbing the apartment in which she resided with her fiancé, Herb Fisher, a prominent attorney with Woodman & Weld. According to the police, Mr. Dressler escaped with some priceless jewelry and approximately five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. The police are warning viewers to be on the lookout for a young man of his description attempting to pass hundred-dollar bills.”

Donnie snatched the hundred-dollar bill he’d been planning to use for his drinks off the counter and replaced it with three twenties. He chugged his scotch, keeping his head down, and walked unobtrusively out of the bar.

On the sidewalk his heart was thumping. How had they gotten on to him so fast?

He had to get out of there, and fast. If it were winter, he could pull a ski cap down over his forehead, but it was summer, and he didn’t even have a baseball cap. A beard would be nice, but it would take a while to grow. He needed sunglasses. There was a Ray-Ban store up the street. He could buy a pair there, but he’d have to pay with a hundred-dollar bill.

He had to get out of town. That was just a local news report. No one outside New York City would have seen it. Anywhere else he’d be safe. He couldn’t fly, they’d ask him for ID, but he could buy a train ticket with cash.

Donnie cut over to Seventh Avenue and headed for Penn Station.