Somebody Owes Me Money

14

I sat up, and the room was full of a man with a gun. He was standing one pace in from the doorway. The light was off now, but gray daylight ebbed in the airshaft window, and unfortunately I could see him. He was wearing a hat and an overcoat and a gun, and the gun was pointed at me, and his eyes were looking at me, and his eyes appeared to be made of slate.

Abbie screamed again, and something crashed. She was in some other room in the apartment, and she was in trouble, but I was convinced I was as good as dead, so I didn’t move.

In that other room something else crashed, and a male voice roared in what sounded like a triplicate combination of anger and surprise and pain. The man with the gun glanced back at the doorway in irritation, then glared at me again and waggled the gun. “Don’t move,” he said, in a voice that was forty percent gravel and sixty percent inert materials.

Move? Wasn’t he going to shoot me anyway? Wasn’t he the one who shot me last night? If not, what was he doing here? What was his gun doing here? What was his friend doing to Abbie?

Crash. The male voice roared again.

What was Abbie doing to his friend?

The man with the gun wanted to know that, too. He backed up a step, looking very irritated, and was about to bend backward and stick his head through the doorway when a table lamp sailed by from the direction of the living room. We both heard it crash, and then we both heard something else crash in or near the living room, and Abbie and the male voice hollered at once, and the man with the gun growled at me, “You don’t go nowhere, see? Not if you don’t want nothing to happen to you.”

“I don’t want nothing to happen to me,” I said, hoping his double negative had been bad grammar.

“Then just stay where you are,” he told me. “Don’t move outa that bed.”

“You can count on it,” I assured him, but I don’t think he heard me. He had already backed up through the doorway and was standing in the hall. With one last glare and gun-waggle at me, he took off toward the living room.

Nothing changed for a minute, the ruckus continued unabated, and then all of a sudden it went absolutely insane. The crashing doubled, it tripled, it sounded like St. Patrick’s Day on Third Avenue.

And then, abruptly, silence.

I squinted, as though to hear better. Silence? Silence.

What had happened? What was happening now? Was Abbie all right?

I should have gone out there, I told myself. Regardless of whether or not I could have gotten out of bed, regardless of the fact that I was naked and weaponless and too weak to move, I should have gone out there and done what I could to help. If anything had happened to Abbie—

Abbie came hurtling into the room, brought up against the dresser, spun around, and shouted at the guy who’d shoved her, “You stink, you bastard!” She was dressed but disheveled, hair awry, makeup smeared, clothing wrinkled and all twisted around. She was the most insanely beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.

My old comrade with the gun came through the doorway, pointed the gun at Abbie as though he was pointing a finger at her, and said, “You ain’t no lady.”

“And you’re a gentleman,” she snapped. She turned away from him and came over to me. “How are you, Chet?” she said. “Did they do anything to you?”

I was lying flat on my back, sheet and blanket tucked up around my neck. I blinked up at her, and I felt like an absolute lummox. “How are you?” I said. “Did they do anything—”

“Them,” she said with total disdain.

The man with the gun said, “Lady, you’re outa your mind. My partner would of been dead within his rights to let you have it. You know that? You know what you done to him, if I’d been in his place I’d of shot you down like some kind of wild beast. I think you’re nuts or something.”

“You force your way in here—” she shouted, blazing at him, all set to start brawling again, and I could see by his face that what she was going to get this time was at the very least a hit on the head from the gun-butt, and I reached out and grabbed her hand and said, “Abbie, cool it.”

She tugged, trying to get her hand free. “These people think they can—”

“They can, Abbie,” I said. “They’ve got guns. Don’t try their patience.”

“That’s right,” the man with the gun said. “You just listen to him, lady, he’s got sense. You been trying our patience, and you shouldn’t ought to do that. You should ought to soak your head in some brains for a while and think about things. Like we don’t want to give you two any more trouble than we have to, so why make us make things tough on you?”

“That’s right,” I said. “That’s exactly right.” I tugged on Abbie’s hand, like pulling a bell rope to get the butler, and said, “Abbie, they don’t want to kill us or they’d have done it already. Sit down, why don’t you, and let’s see what they want.”

“That’s a good thought, pal,” the man with the gun said. “You just sit down on the bed there, lady, and let’s conduct this like civilized people and not like a bunch of crazy nuts.”

Abbie, her attention finally caught by my bell-rope pulling, turned to me and said, “Those two forced their way into this apartment, absolutely forced their way in. Am I going to stand for that?”

“When they have guns in their hands,” I said, “yes. Yes, you are going to stand for it. At least until we know what’s what.”

Movement attracted my attention to the doorway. I blinked.

There was a guy standing there. He was wearing a white shirt, the left sleeve of which was torn off and absolutely gone. Also, several buttons were missing and the pocket was ripped half-off and was dangling there. He was wearing black trousers, and the right leg was ripped from knee down to cuff. He had an angry-looking bruise just above his left eye, and he was holding a wet washcloth to his right cheek. He had long black hair in wild disorder on top of his head, like Stan Laurel, and he overall had the stunned look of somebody who’s just been in a train wreck.

“Good God,” I said.

In a weak and disbelieving voice this apparition said to Abbie, “You chipped my cap.”

“Serves you right,” Abbie said.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. He turned to his partner, the man with the gun, and said, “Ralph, she chipped my cap. Right in the front of my mouth.” He opened his mouth and pointed at one of his teeth with the hand that wasn’t holding the washcloth to his cheek. Trying to talk with his mouth open he said, “Do you know how nuch that cat cost ne? Do you hathe any idea at aw?”

“You forced your way in here,” Abbie told him, “and you deserve whatever you get.”

“Ralth,” the walking wounded said, still holding his mouth open and pointing to the crippled tooth, “I’n gonna kill er. I’n gonna nurder her. I’n gonna dlast!”

“Get hold of yourself, Benny,” Ralph said. “You know what Sol said. He wants to talk to these two.”

I said, “Sol? Solomon Napoli?”

Ralph turned and looked at me. “That’s the one, pal,” he said. He crooked a finger at me. “Time for you to get up outa there,” he said. “Sol’s waiting.”

I let go of Abbie’s hand, preparatory to rising, but she grabbed it again, sat on the bed beside me, put her other arm on the pillow around my head, leaned protectively over me so that I was peeking at everybody over her right breast, and turned to Ralph to say, “He’s not supposed to move. The doctor said he isn’t supposed to move for a week. He was shot last night.”

“We know,” Ralph said. “We saw it happen. That’s one of the things Sol wants to talk to him about.”

I said, “You saw it happen?” But I was drowned out by Abbie, saying, “I don’t care who wants to see Chet, he can’t be moved.”

“Shut up, lady,” Ralph said. “I’ve had all of you I’m going to take.”

“It’s okay, Abbie,” I said, struggling to get out from her protective circle. “I feel pretty good now, I could get up. Just so I don’t have to move fast or anything, I’ll be fine, I know I will.” And I sat up.

Abbie touched my bare shoulder. She looked worried. She said, “Are you sure, Chet? The doctor said—”

“Let him alone, lady,” Ralph said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

She glared at him, but for once she didn’t say anything.

I said, “What about my clothes?”

“They were all bloody,” she said. “I ran out and took them to the cleaner’s this morning.”

Ralph went over to the closet, opened it, and pulled out some clothing. “How about this stuff?” he said, and tossed it beside me on the bed.

“That’s not mine,” I said. “That was Tommy’s.”

“You can wear it,” he said. “Be my guest.”

Did I want to wear a murdered man’s clothing? I didn’t think so. I looked at Ralph, feeling very helpless, and didn’t say anything. In the meantime he was going to the dresser and opening drawers. He tossed me underwear and socks and said, “There. Now get dressed.”

I said, “Tommy was shorter than me.”

“So don’t button all the buttons,” he said.

I looked at the clothing, at Ralph, at the clothing, at Abbie, at the clothing. There didn’t seem to be any choice.

Abbie said, “Chet, are you sure you’re up to this?”

I wasn’t, but I said, “Sure I’m sure. I feel fine.”

“Get up from there, lady,” Ralph said. “Let him up.”

Abbie reluctantly got to her feet. She looked at me worriedly and said, “I’ll turn my back.” She did so, and folded her arms, and said coldly to Ralph, “If anything happens to him because of this, I’ll hold you responsible.”

“Sure, lady,” said Ralph.

I pushed the covers back, surprised at how much they weighed. I put my legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and fell down. I had no balance at all, no equilibrium, no control. I just went on over, like a duck in a shooting gallery.

Abbie, of course, heard me hit the floor. She spun around and yelled my name, but what I heard more than that was Benny’s exasperated “He’s faking, Ralph. Let’s just bump him now.”

“I’m all right,” I said. “I can do it.” I pushed with my hands, my head and torso came up, and then my arms failed and I flopped onto my nose like a fish.

“God damn it,” said Ralph.

“He can’t help it!” Abbie cried. “He’s wounded, can’t you see that? Do you like seeing him fall on the floor?”

“I do,” Benny said. “I’d like to see him fall out a window.”

Ralph said, “Shut up, Benny. Okay, lady, we’ll leave him here. He can talk, can’t he?”

“I can talk,” I told the floor.

“That’s good. Come on, Benny.”

Hands gripped me. I was lifted, the floor receding, and dumped on the bed like a bag of laundry. I bounced, and just lay there. It must have been Abbie who covered me up.

Ralph said, “Watch them, Benny, but don’t do nothing.”

Benny growled.

I was rolling over, a slow and painful process. I got over in time to see Ralph leaving and Benny glowering at me.

Abbie said, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am very hungry.”

“I’ll get you something,” she said, and got up from the bed and started for the door.

Benny blocked the way, saying, “Where do you think you’re goin?”

“To the kitchen,” she said coldly.

I said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

He glared at me. “You better not,” he said. Then, to Abbie, he said, “And I got my eye on you.”

She disdained to answer. She left the room, and Benny went after her.

I sat there alone a minute, thinking my gloomy thoughts, and then I noticed a telephone on the bedside table.

Call the police? I remembered what Abbie had said about the cops, the chance of getting a crook on the same payroll as Tommy, but thinking about it I decided the chance of a crooked cop was still better than the certainty of a couple of crooks, which was what I had now.

I reached out and picked up the phone.

I heard, “—could tell us — Hold on a second, boss.”

“Right.”

I heard the small thud of a receiver being put down on a table. Very gently I put my own receiver back in its cradle. I lay down in bed, covered myself to the chin, folded my arms over my chest, looked at the ceiling, and tried to look absolutely innocent.

Ralph walked in. He looked disgusted. Without glancing at me at all he walked around the bed, reached down to the baseboard beside the bedside table, and yanked the phone wire out of the box. He then straightened, gave me a look, and said, “You got no brains at all.”

I looked sheepish.

He shook his head, turned away, and left the room.

Nothing happened for about five minutes, and then Abbie came, carrying a tray and followed by Benny. Benny took the chair in the far corner and Abbie put the tray down on the foot of the bed. She helped me sit up, adjusted the pillows behind me, and put the tray on my lap, its little feet straddling my legs.

Clear chicken broth. Buttered toast, two slices. Tea with lemon. A dish of vanilla ice cream.

I ate everything in sight, while Abbie sat on the edge of the bed and watched me in approval.

At one point, taking a break from eating, I said, “How long was I out? This is Thursday, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You practically slept the day away. I was afraid you were dying there for a while, you just lay in one place and didn’t move at all.”

“My father must be worried,” I said. “I always call him when—”

“I called him,” she said. “I told him you were all right. I couldn’t tell him where you were, in case somebody put pressure on him, so I sort of let him get the idea you were shacked up with me. So he wouldn’t be worried.”

Benny didn’t seem to be listening to our conversation. I looked at her and said, “Shacked up, huh?”

She slapped my blanketed knee. “You’re too weak to be thinking about things like that,” she said, and smiled at me.

“I’ll get well soon,” I said, and Ralph came in.

Abbie turned to him. “What now?”

“We wait,” he said.

“For what?”

“For Sol,” he said.

I said, “He’s coming here? Solomon Napoli?”

“Yeah,” said Ralph. “He wants to talk to you.”