Somebody Owes Me Money

20

I was napping over an insoluble hand of solitaire when the doorbell rang. I roused sufficiently to wiggle my knees and knock half the deck off onto the floor, which woke me the rest of the way. My first thought was that my mouth tasted like the inside of a metal garbage can behind a Chinese restaurant, and my second thought was that somebody had rung the bell.

Well, I wasn’t going to do anything about it. If it was Abbie, giving the departed Ralph the signal he’d wanted, she’d let herself in eventually. If it wasn’t Abbie, I didn’t want to have anything to do with them. So I sat there, moving my tongue unhappily over the fur on my teeth, thinking about the fact that my back ached and my head felt fuzzy, and when I heard the hall door open I was surprised to discover that I was scared. I lay there and watched the door.

Abbie. She came in all red-faced and sparkly from the cold air, the orange fur coat making her look like a sexy gift-wrapped present from Olympus, sent me to make up for all the bad stuff that had been happening, and she said, “Hi. You look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You look great.”

“Thank you. Where’s Smilin Jack?”

“He got his phone call and left,” I said. “Napoli found me innocent.”

“Good. Are you hungry?” She shrugged out of the coat, tossed it on a chair.

“Not till I brush my teeth. Then I’m famished.” I threw the covers back. “Was Louise at the funeral?”

“Of course not. Just me, a couple of Tommy’s old customers, a business associate or two, and a couple of anonymous old ladies. Not even any detectives around to take notes. Do you need help walking?”

“All I need is a robe,” I said.

“Coming up.” She went to the closet, got an old brown robe of Tommy’s, and carried it over to the bed. “Heavy,” she said, frowning, and held the robe up to pat its pockets, from one of which she drew a tough-looking gun. “For Pete’s sake,” she said. “Is this Tommy’s? What a place to keep it.”

I laughed, saying, “No, it’s Ralph’s. He must have forgotten it. I forgot all about it myself.”

“Ralph? Ralph was wearing this robe?”

“Let me brush my teeth first,” I said. “Then I’ll tell you the story.”

“I can hardly wait,” she said.

With her help I got out of bed and into the robe, and found myself only a little weaker and dizzier than usual. I was somewhat short of breath, and my legs were a trifle unsteady when I tried to walk, but compared to yesterday I was now a giant among men, a force to be reckoned with.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom I felt even better. I went down the hall to the kitchen and found Abbie sitting at the table there, making liverwurst sandwiches. I sat across from her and said, “A policeman came to call. A detective named Golderman. So Ralph hid in the closet. Is it all right for me to have coffee, or am I still limited to tea?”

She looked at me. “A detective?”

“Named Golderman. May I have coffee?”

“How do you feel?”

“Strong like an ox.”

She grinned. “Okay. Coffee. But tell me about Ralph and the detective.”

So I did, and in the course of the telling she made a pot of coffee. She found certain parts of my story funny, and so did I now that it was all over. Much funnier in the telling than in the living. When I was done, she said, “I think I’d like to meet this Detective Golderman. He sounds interesting.”

“A dull man,” I said. “With warts. Besides, I think he’s married.”

She looked askance. “You’re jealous and I’ve never even met the man.”

“No, but you want to.”

“I think you’re getting healthy too fast,” she said.

“Growf,” I told her.