Somebody Owes Me Money

2

I was on the phone in the kitchen, trying to call the cops, when Tommy’s wife came in with a grocery bag in her arms. She’s a short and skinny woman with a sharp nose and a general look of disapproval.

She came to the kitchen doorway, saw me, and said, “What’s up?”

“There’s been an accident,” I said. I knew it wasn’t an accident, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And at just that minute the police answered, so I said into the phone, “I want to report a — Wait a second, will you?”

The cop said, “You want to report what?”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece and said to Tommy’s wife, “Don’t go into the living room.”

She looked toward the living room, frowning, then came in and put the bag down on the counter. “Why not?”

The cop was saying, “Hello? Hello?”

“Just a second,” I told him, and said to Tommy’s wife, “Because Tommy’s in there, and he doesn’t look good.”

She took a quick step back toward the hall. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Don’t go there,” I said. “Please.”

“What’s the matter, Chester?” she said. “For God’s sake, will you tell me?”

The cop was still yammering in my ear. I said to Tommy’s wife, “He’s dead,” and then to the cop I said, “I want to report a murder.”

She was gone, running for the living room. The cop was asking me my name and the address. I said, “Listen, I don’t have much time. The address is 417 West 46th Street, apartment 4-C.”

“And your name?”

Tommy’s wife began to scream.

“I’ve got a hysterical lady here,” I said.

“Sir,” said the cop, as though it was a word in a foreign language, “I need your name.”

Tommy’s wife screamed again.

“Do you hear that?” I said. I held the phone toward the kitchen doorway, then pulled it back and said, “Did you hear it?”

“I hear it, sir,” he said. “Just give me your name, please. I will have officers dispatched to the scene.”

“That’s good,” I said, and Tommy’s wife came running into the kitchen, wild-eyed. Her hands were red. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “What happened?”

“My name is Chester Conway,” I said.

The cop said, “What was that?”

Tommy’s wife grabbed me by the front of my jacket. It’s a zip-up jacket, dark blue, two pockets, it’s comfortable for driving the cab all day in the winter. “What did you do?” she screamed.

I said to the cop, “Wait a second,” and put the phone down. Tommy’s wife was leaning forward to glare in my face, her hands on my chest, pushing me backward. I gave a step, saying, “Get hold of yourself. Please. I got to report this.”

All at once she let go of me, picked up the phone, and shouted into it, “Get off the line! I want to call the police!”

“That is the police,” I said.

She started clicking the phone at him. “Hang up!” she shouted. “Hang up, this is an emergency!”

“I’m supposed to slap you now,” I said. I tugged at her arm, trying to get her attention. “Hello? Listen, I’m supposed to slap you across the face now, because you’re hysterical. But I don’t want to do that, I don’t want to have to do that.”

She began violently to shake the phone, holding it out at arm’s length as though strangling it. “Will — you — get — off — the — line?”

I kept tugging her other arm. “That’s the police,” I said. “That’s the police.”

She flung the phone away all at once, so that it bounced off the wall. She yanked her arm away from me and went running out of the kitchen and out of the apartment. “Help!” I heard her in the hall. “Help! Police!”

I picked up the phone. “That was his wife,” I said. “She’s hysterical. I wish you’d hurry up and dispatch some officers.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “You were giving your name.”

“I guess I was,” I said. “It’s Chester Conway.” I spelled it.

He said, “Thank you, sir.” He read back my name and the address and I said he had them right and he said the officers would be dispatched to the scene at once. I hung up and noticed the phone was smeared with red from where Tommy’s wife had held it, so now my hand was smeared, too. Red and sticky. I went automatically to wipe my hand on my jacket, and discovered the front of my jacket was also red and sticky.

A heavyset man in an undershirt, with hair on his shoulders and a hammer in his hand, came into the kitchen, looking furious and determined and terrified, and said, “What’s going on here?”

“Somebody was killed,” I said. I felt he was blaming me, and I was afraid of his hammer. I gestured at the phone and said, “I just called the police. They’re on their way.”

He looked around on the floor. “Who was killed?”

“The man who lives here,” I said. “Tommy McKay. He’s in the living room.”

He took a step backward, as though to go to the living room and see, then suddenly got a crafty expression on his face and said, “You ain’t going anywhere.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m going to wait here for the police.”

“You’re damn right,” he said. He glanced at the kitchen clock, then back at me. “We’ll give them five minutes,” he said.

“I really did call,” I said.

A very fat woman in a flowered dress appeared behind him, putting her hands on his hairy shoulders, peeking past him at me. “What is it, Harry?” she said. “Who is he?”

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “Everything’s under control.”

“What’s that stuff on his jacket, Harry?” she asked.

“It’s blood,” I said.

The silence was suddenly full of echoes, like after hitting a gong. In it, I could plainly hear Harry swallow. Gulp. His eyes got brighter, and he took a tighter grip on the hammer.

We all stood there.