Somebody Owes Me Money

34

His hand was on my throat. My hand was on what I took to be his throat. My other hand was on what I took to be the wrist of his other hand, the hand in which he would be holding his gun if he was holding a gun. My head was usually buried under his chest somewhere, being ground into the ground. My feet thrashed around. We rolled and rolled, this way and that, gasping and panting, trying with only partial success to cut off each other’s breathing, and from time to time we would bong one or another part of our bodies into that stinking rotten trash barrel. It got so I hated the trash barrel more than the guy trying to kill me. It got so what I really wanted to throttle was that trash barrel.

In the meantime, who was really getting throttled was me. We seemed to have stabilized at last, no more rolling, and unfortunately we’d stabilized with him on top. With his hand squeezing my jugular and my face mashed into his armpit, it looked as though I wasn’t going to be getting much air from now on. About all I could do was kick my heels into the ground, which I did a lot of. I also tried squirming, but with very little success.

My strength was failing. I was passing out, and I knew it. I kicked my heels into the ground as hard as I could, but he just wouldn’t let go. My head was filling with a rushing sound, like a waterfall. A black waterfall, roaring down over me, carrying me away, washing me away into oblivion and forgetfulness, dragging me down into the whirlpool, the black whirlpool.

He sagged.

His grip eased on my throat.

His weight doubled on my head.

Now what? I squirmed experimentally and he rolled off me, and suddenly I could breathe again, I could move again, I could see again, and what I saw was Abbie standing there with a shovel in her hands.

“Don’t bury me,” I said. “I’m still alive.”

“I hit him with it,” she said. “Is he all right?”

“I hope not.” I sat up, feeling dizzy, my throat hurting, and looked at my assailant. He was lying on his back, spread-eagled, sleeping peacefully. He was breathing. More important, so was I.

His legs were still on mine. “He’s okay,” I said, and pushed his legs off, and tottered to my feet. “Where’s the other one?”

“Still on the train, I guess,” she said. “I thought we were supposed to be getting away from both of them by coming over to this side.”

“They must have figured that,” I said, “and one of them climbed over. So they could watch both sides.”

“So I didn’t have to do all that climbing around.”

“Did I know that? Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Aren’t you going to thank me for saving your life?”

“What?” I looked at the shovel, at the sleeper, and back at the shovel. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” she said.

“Throw away the shovel and I’ll thank you,” I said.

She grinned and threw it away. I took a step closer and put my arms out and she came into them and we swapped breaths. Hers was very warm and sweet, and even through all our clothing she felt very soft and slender and delicious.

She broke first, and smiled at me. “That’s nice,” she said.

“Come back,” I said. “I’m not done thanking you.”

She came back.

I thanked her for quite a while, until she finally said, “Chet, this is lovely, but the truth is I’m cold. I’m freezing. And I think my ankle’s swollen. And I’m exhausted.”

I said, “When do you have to go back to Las Vegas?”

“Whenever I want.”

“Do you think you could maybe never want?”

“You mean stay here?”

“In the vicinity.”

“What about you in Vegas?” she said. “Nice and warm all the time, and you can gamble all you want.”

“Not me,” I said. “Look how much trouble I get in where I can only gamble a little. I’d better stay in a state where it has to be a sideline. Besides, Belmont opens in May.”

“We’ll have to talk about it,” she said.

“Later on, right?”

She nodded. “Right.”

“For now, we get you someplace warm where you can sit down, right?”

“Oh, please, sir.”

“Lean on me.”

She did, maybe a little too much, and we staggered around the liquor store we’d landed behind and out to the street. And about a block away, on the other side of the street, was a big red neon sign that said bar.

“Look, Moses,” Abbie said, “it’s the Promised Land.”

I tried hurrying, but Abbie’s ankle just wouldn’t hold her any more, so finally I said, “Okay, let’s do it the easy way,” and I picked her up in my arms.

“Oh, what a grandstander,” she said. “Now that we’re almost there.”

“You want to walk?”

“No!”

“Then be quiet.”

I carried her across the street and into the bar, where the bartender and his three customers sitting at the bar all looked at us in deadpan disbelief. “She’s my sweetie,” I explained, and carried Abbie over to a booth and helped her sit down. Then I asked her, “What do you want to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Scotch and soda.”

“Fine.”

I went over to the bar and ordered two Scotch and sodas. The bartender made them and set them down in front of me and I paid him. I put the glasses on the table while he got my change, and then went back to the bar, and he handed me my change and said, “I love your chapeau.”

I looked at myself in his back-bar mirror, and discovered I was still wearing the orange hat. I’d forgotten all about it. I looked like Buddy Hackett being a Christmas elf. I said, “I won it for conspicuous valor.”

“I figured you probably did,” he said.

I took my change back to the booth, where Abbie was giggling behind her hand, and sat down. “Here’s where you should of ordered a sidecar,” I said.

“You do look kind of odd,” she said.

“It keeps my head warm. Besides, it was a gift from a dear friend.”

She got a tender look on her face and reached out to clasp my hand. “And you’re a dear friend, Chet,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Probably lived a lot quieter a life,” I said. “But let me tell you, if you stick around I can’t promise it’ll all be as thrilling as the last few days.”

“Oh, what a shame,” she said.

I took a slug of Scotch and soda. “And it isn’t over yet,” I said.

“Why? What are we going to do now?”

“As soon as this booze gives me some strength back,” I said, “I’m going over there and ask that very funny man behind the bar to call us a cab to take us back to New York.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a poker game tonight,” I said, “and one of the people sitting around that goddam table killed your brother. Not to mention winging me in the head while aiming to kill you.”

“I don’t think you can be winged in the head,” she said. “I think you have to be winged in the arm.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I was wung in the head.”

“I thought you were,” she said. She’d picked up the style from the bartender.

“And,” I said, refusing to be sidetracked, “we are going to that poker game, you and I, and we are going to figure out which one of those lovelies it is. Just as soon as I have the strength to stand up.”