Somebody Owes Me Money

31

“Now wait a minute!”

“Abbie, think about it. What did we tell the guys at that game? That you were Tommy’s sister, and you came to New York because he was dead, and because you didn’t have any faith in the police to find your brother’s murderer you were going to look for him yourself. You, not me. All I ever said I was after was my nine hundred dollars.”

She was shaking her head. “I wasn’t the one who was shot, Chet, you were.”

“Because your goddamn gun shoots crooked.”

“We aren’t even sure it was my gun.”

“I am,” I said. “I’ll tell you what I’m sure of. I’m sure I was shot with your gun. I’m sure the bullet was meant for you instead of me. And I’m one hundred percent positive that Tommy’s murderer is one of the guys at that poker game.”

“Hm,” she said. She sat down on the bar stool beside me and swirled the remains of her sidecar in its glass. “I think you’re right,” she said at last.

“You don’t know what a relief it is,” I said, “to know it isn’t me that guy is after.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “It’s a relief to know he’s after me instead, is that it?”

“I know how that sounded—”

“Well, what I’ve got after me,” she said, “is one poorly armed amateur, but what you’ve got after you, buddy, is two armies.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said. “We’ve been forgetting. One of those armies is coming here.”

“Oh!” She finished her sidecar, and the two of us left the bar.

“Quietly,” I whispered.

“I know, I know.”

We tiptoed up the stairs. Detective Golderman’s wife might not be in on her husband’s nefariousness, but she wouldn’t have to be in on it to take umbrage at two strangers knocking him out and tying him up and leaving him on the floor behind the bar in his downstairs playroom. So we moved slowly and silently up the stairs, and at the top I cracked the door open just a hair and peeked through the slit.

I saw nothing but a hunting print, but I did hear Mrs. Golder-man humming to herself in the kitchen. I nodded back at Abbie, pushed the door open farther, and crept out.

She was humming one of those tuneless things, Mrs. Golder-man, one of those things you hum when you’re absorbed in a simple physical task that will take several hours, like stuffing a turkey or building a birdhouse. I don’t say Mrs. Golderman was stuffing a turkey or building a birdhouse, but from the sound of her she was doing something that was going to keep her occupied for a while.

The two of us sidled up to the hall, inched the door shut behind us, and crept away through the dining room and the living room to the front door. I was about to reach for the knob when Abbie tugged my arm. I looked at her, and she pointed at the door of the hall closet.

Was she confused? I shook my head, and pointed at the front door.

She shook her head, and pointed emphatically at the hall closet.

I shook my head harder, and pointed very emphatically at the front door.

She shook her head hard enough to make hair fly, and pointed very very emphatically at the hall closet.

Oh, the hell with it. Nothing would do but I had to prove she was wrong. Then she’d come along quietly. So I went over and opened the hall-closet door and gave her a sarcastic smile and gestured to point out to her it wasn’t the way out, it was a closet full of overcoats.

She nodded, and gave me a sarcastic smile and gestured to point out to me it was a closet full of overcoats.

Full of overcoats.

I blinked at the closet. “Oh,” I said, out loud.

“Sst!”

I nodded, clamping my mouth shut, and we both listened for a minute. We could barely hear the humming at this end of the house, but it was continuing unabated.

Abbie poked through the closet and came out with a black-and-red-check wool mackinaw for me. I looked at it, looked at her, looked at it. She leaned close and whispered, “It’s warmest. An overcoat won’t do you any good, you don’t have a jacket.”

I nodded without pleasure and shrugged into the mackinaw while Abbie went through the closet some more, like one of those style-conscious women rejecting every dress in Lord & Taylor. Zip, zip, zip, pushing the hangers along one after the other.

Finally she settled, and I could see it was with vast reluctance, on a black cloth coat with a black fur collar. It had a tapered waist and silver buttons, and when she got it on, it looked pretty good on her. With the black boots it made her look vaguely Russian. More like the Cossack than his girlfriend, but that wasn’t so bad at that, and when she found a black fur hat on the shelf and put that on I felt like leaping at once into one of those Russian dances where you end every line by throwing one arm up in the air and shouting, “Hey!”

I also felt like shouting hey and throwing one arm up in the air when she came out with a hat for me, though not exactly in the same way. It was orange, it had a little peak and earflaps, and it tied under the chin. Apparently Detective Golderman spent his time in the woods hunting animals when not in the city hunting people.

I whispered, “I won’t put that on!”

She whispered, “Then you’ll freeze your ears off!” I think she said ears.

I whispered, “I’ll carry it, and if it’s really cold I’ll put it on!”

She shook her head, probably thinking about the vanity of the male and other examples of the pot calling the kettle black, and I stuffed the offending cap into my mackinaw pocket.

From the same shelf that had produced the hats Abbie now brought out gloves. Hers were sleek and black and went halfway up her forearm. Mine were brown leather, a thousand years old, with the first finger of the right hand poking through. They were also a little too small.

Abbie whispered, “Ready?”

I thought of a sardonic answer, but I nodded instead. Then I opened the door, silently opened the outer door, and we went outside, and my ears fell off.

“Brrrr,” I commented, and closed the door quietly behind me, and said, “Wait.” I then took the cute orange hat out and put it on. I even tied it under my chin.

“That’s darling,” Abbie said.

“One word,” I threatened. “Just one word.”

“I promise,” she said. “Come on.”

We set off down the walk toward the cab and were about halfway there when the two cars squealed to a stop in the middle of the street and all the guys came boiling out of them.