6:15 P.M.
He wasn't hungry, but Ray Fleck decided that he'd better eat. He'd slept late and had only coffee for breakfast, and only a light lunch. And this evening he'd had two drinks already in his quest for money to get him into the poker game; like as not he'd have to take at least a dozen more in the course of the evening, and if he wanted to be able to play good poker he'd damn well better lay a foundation of food under that dozen drinks.
The bad thing about the two drinks he'd already had was that he'd taken them in vain. Worse than in vain because instead of helping him raise money they'd cost him the ten bucks he'd borrowed from Benny and had put his slender capital back where it had been before. He'd seen through the window of the Palace Bar that Dick Johnson was there; Dick was usually a soft touch and he went inside and bellied up the bar beside Dick. He tried to buy him a drink, but Dick beat him to it by signaling the bartender with two upraised fingers, so Ray waited until he'd had a chance to buy back before he put on the bite, for twenty. And, because he'd genuinely forgotten, he was startled when Dick reminded him that he already owed him ten dollars from three weeks before. "My God," Ray said, "I clean forgot. Why the hell didn't you remind me sooner?" And then, because it was the only way out, he laughed and made a joke of it, pulled a ten out of his wallet and handed it to Dick. "Now we're all even; let's start over. Can you lend me twenty, just till Saturday?" He'd still come out ten ahead, he thought. But Dick Johnson had shaken his head. "Sorry, Ray-boy, I'm short this week myself. Need all I've got, and this ten comes in handy too." And there went the ten he'd just got from Benny.
He stopped at the corner of Fourth and Main, the middle of downtown, to make up his mind where to eat. Feratti's seemed like a good bet; they put out good dinners for two-fifty—unless you ordered steak or lobster or something fancy—and he wouldn't be tempted, as he might be in some of the other good restaurants, to waste some of his drinking capacity on a cocktail or two before dining; Feratti's didn't have a liquor license. He turned on Fourth and headed for Feratti's.
And, as he walked, found himself thinking about Benny again. He never should have laughed like that at Benny. Especially now that he'd learned Benny was good for a sawbuck in an emergency once in a while. Of course maybe he was worrying about nothing; maybe Benny's feelings hadn't been hurt at all. But if he passed Benny's stand again this evening he ought to stop, buy a paper as an excuse, and see how Benny acted. If Benny was mad or had been hurt, he'd know easily and now, the same evening, would be the time to square things. And he wasn't a salesman for nothing; he could convince Benny that he hadn't been laughing at him but at a joke he'd just thought of, and tell Benny a joke. Some simple joke that even a moron couldn't help getting.
And then, if he could figure out a way to do it, try to talk Benny out of going to the cops to give himself up as the psychopathic killer. Not that the cops would really believe Benny, but they might keep him out of circulation for a while and maybe work him over a bit for details, until they were sure.
Because the cops couldn't eliminate Benny as readily and surely as he, Ray Fleck, could. The cops didn't know what the psycho looked like, and he did. At least enough to be positive that he didn't look even remotely like Benny.
It had been about two months ago, the night of the second murder—although he hadn't known that until the next day. It had been somewhere around ten o'clock in the evening. And it had happened in the nineteen hundred block on Eastgate. Howie Borden lived at 1912 Eastgate and Ray had agreed to pick him up around ten that evening; Howie was going to take him to a stag party at Howie's lodge, and Ray was to provide the transportation since Howie had a badly sprained right wrist and couldn't drive.
He'd got there just about ten and had parked in front of Howie's house and beeped the horn. Howie had raised a window and called out, "Be about five minutes yet. Come on in." But he'd called back that he'd wait in the car. He didn't want to go in because Howie's wife might be around, and she always made him feel uncomfortable.
Since he knew that five minutes might easily mean fifteen or twenty, he turned out his car lights for the wait. He was sitting there staring at nothing through the windshield a few minutes later when he saw the man.
The man came through the gate in the fence in front of a house on the other side of the street and three or four houses away. Ray noticed the man at all for only two reasons. One was the fact that in an otherwise completely static vista the eye is drawn to the only moving object. The other was the fact that as the man stood there just outside the gate he looked both ways and while he did so his hands at his sides were flexing and unflexing, as though they were cramped from gripping something very tightly and for quite a while. The gesture an oarsman might make when he unclamps his hand from the oars after rowing a mile or so, or a lumberjack when he lets go his ax to rest his hands after a bout of chopping. Or that a strangler might make—But Ray Fleck didn't think of that at the time. The man went the other way and was out of sight and out of mind by the time Howie came out and got in the car.
It wasn't until late the following afternoon, when he read the mid-afternoon edition of the evening paper, that he knew he had seen the murderer leaving the scene of his second crime. The address was 1917 Eastgate, on the opposite side of the street from Howie Borden's, and about three houses away in the direction in which Fleck's car had been facing. If the address had left any doubt in his mind that the house was the one he'd seen the man leaving, the doubt was dispelled by a picture of the house's exterior that was published with the story. It showed a three-foot iron fence in front; the house the man had left had been the only house on that side of the short block that had been fenced in. And that flexing and unflexing of the hands....
Give him credit. He considered going to the police to tell them what he had seen, considered it seriously. He was home and alone at the time, as Ruth had just left for work, so he had all the time to think that he wanted. He paced the apartment for all of twenty minutes before coming to a decision. The decision was negative on three counts.
First, he couldn't give them a description that would really mean anything and he couldn't—or he was fairly sure he couldn't—identify the man if he ever saw him again. He'd seen him at a distance of about a hundred feet and in pretty dim light; the nearest street light had been behind Fleck's car, farther from the man than Fleck had been. His impression had been of a man of average height and average build—or maybe a little heavier than that. It could have been his own description, except—Except what? Thinking back, he decided that, although their weight was probably about the same, the man had been a bit narrower in the waist, a bit broader in the shoulders. But he could have been wrong even about that, the nearest to a positive point he could think of; after all he was trying to describe a vague and illusive memory, something he'd hardly noticed at the time. He thought the man had worn a dark suit and a dark hat, but he wasn't sure of those things either. The face had been a white blur in the instant it was turned toward him, before the man had turned and walked the other way.
What good could a description like that do the cops? It could fit a hundred thousand guys. It could eliminate a few, sure—teenage kids, skinny guys or fat ones, runts or six-footers. Yes, it would eliminate a few who might otherwise be suspects. Benny, for instance; Benny was well over six feet, well over two hundred pounds.
But would the cops believe that his impression, his memory, was as vague as all that? He doubted it. Having nothing to lose, they'd operate on the theory that he might have got a better look than he remembered, that if he saw the man again his memory might come back and let him make a positive identification.
And he knew what that meant—line-ups. They'd expect him to attend the line-up every morning for God knows how long. Could they force him to? Maybe not, but they could be damned unpleasant about it, maybe make trouble for him, if he tried to refuse. Maybe they could even hold him, for a while anyway until a lawyer could get him out of it, as a material witness.
But even that wasn't the worst thing against taking his story, such as it was, to the police. Even if the police tried to keep it under wraps there was always a chance some damn reporter would get hold of the story and print it. Complete with his name and address. And how'd you like to have a crazy killer know who you were and think, however wrongly, that you knew him by sight and could put the finger on him the first time you saw him?
The cops would try to protect him, sure. But what if the killer was smarter than the cops? He had been, so far. And how long would the cops be able to keep up a twenty-four-hour guard duty on him, and wouldn't it mess his personal and private life to hell and back while they did?
So Ray Fleck had sensibly kept his mouth shut about what he'd seen that night. He'd even almost forgotten about it himself; he was thinking about it this evening only because of that ridiculous would-be confession of Benny's. Crazy Benny might be, but the sex killer, no.
At Feratti's he took his favorite table. It was a small one against one side of the room but a light fixture in the wall right above it made it the best lighted table, and he needed good light to read the fine print and hieroglyphics of a Racing Form. He took his out of his pocket and unfolded it, turning first to the Aqueduct results for yesterday. He swore under his breath when he saw that Black Fox had won in the fifth and had paid ten to one for a win ticket. Black Fox was a horse he'd been following and had figured was due to win. If he'd had twenty-five bucks on the nag it would have made him more than half what he owed Amico and would have taken the pressure off. Damn Joe for having cut off his credit; otherwise he'd probably have made that bet, phoned it in. He glanced over results of the other races but with less interest; none of them were races he'd have bet anyway. He'd handicapped some of them but he'd have had to play the favorite in each if he played at all, and he almost never played favorites. You didn't win enough money to matter if they came in and they could always fool you and run out of the money. Really long shots weren't good either. The way to cash in on handicapping is to find a horse that pays better than the real odds against it, say a horse quoted at five or six to one but with one chance out of three or four of coming in. Then was the time to get the bank roll down, when the odds were in your favor.
He heard the deferential clearing of a throat and looked up; Sam, the waiter who always served this table, was standing there with a menu in his hand. "'Scuse me, Mist' Fleck. You wanna order now? Or shall I come back when you've had more time to figger them ponies?"
"I'll order now, Sam. Won't need a menu. Bring me the Special Sirloin."
"Yes, suh, Mist' Fleck. Medjum rare, like allus. An' Ah'll tell th' chef to pick out a nice big one."
Ray Fleck frowned as the waiter ambled off. He hadn't really intended to order a steak. But it didn't matter much. He'd be able to eat it; he was always able to eat. And it was probably better at that to get a good meal under his belt while he was at it.
He killed time with his Racing Form—not that he was going to do any betting tonight and probably not tomorrow, but a horse player has to stay in touch whether he's betting or not—until Sam brought his dinner. Then he gladly put the Form back in his pocket and dived in. Just ordering a steak and waiting for it had made him hungry, and he ate heartily. And rapidly, wolfing the steak as fast as he could cut it into bites. Ruth always kidded him about how fast he ate, but he could never see any use in dawdling over food.
And then, replete, he took a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped and lighted it. He sighed with a satisfaction as he inhaled the rich smoke.
The evening stretched ahead of him, a pleasant evening now, an exciting evening. True, he had to see Joe Amico, and that would be unpleasant, and a bit embarrassing. But he could handle Joe all right, no sweat at all.
And, true, he had to spend part of the evening raising money for a poker stake, but that ought to be easy; he knew hundreds of people; he'd run into dozens of them during the course of the evening. And once he had a stake, he was going to be lucky in the game. He had more than a hunch. He felt sure of it.
He caught Sam's eye and lifted a finger, a signal for Sam to bring over the check. Sam brought it over and put it face down in front of him. But he didn't have to turn it over; he knew a sirloin steak was four bucks and this one had been well worth it. He counted out four singles from his wallet and then, the fifth one in his hand, hesitated. Sam liked to gamble. "Double or nothing on the tip, Sam?"
Sam's teeth flashed, white in black. "Sho', Mist' Fleck. How? You want flip a coin and me call it?"
Suddenly Ray Fleck had a better idea. He didn't mind Sam winning, but if he did win it would be two bucks cash tonight. And cash tonight was more important than something he could pay off the next time he ate in Feratti's. He said, "Got a better idea, Sam. I'll give you two tips. One of 'em's on a beetle named Birthday Boy in the fourth at Aqueduct tomorrow. Oughta pay about six to one, but I dope it he's got a better chance than that of winning. Want me to make book on him for you for a buck?"
Sam laughed. "Birthday Boy! Man, that's a real hunch bet, fo' me. Tomorra's my birthday, Mist' Fleck. Sho. An' I'm goin' to try to put some more dough down on him aftah wuk tonight. You said fourth race, Aqueduct?"
"That's it. Say, I'm seeing my bookie tonight. Want me to put down your bet for you? Might as well save you the trouble."
"That'd be fine, suh. Ah might miss the man Ah mostly bet with." Sam pulled wadded bills out of his pocket. Straightened out they proved to be a five and a half dozen ones. He handed the five to Ray Fleck. "Sho 'preciate yo puttin' this down fo' me, Mist' Fleck. Thanks muchly."
"Don't mention it, Sam. Glad to." And of course he was glad, because it put him five bucks ahead. Unless, of course, Birthday Boy won, but that was something he wouldn't have to worry about until tomorrow. Not even tomorrow, come to think of it; if the nag did come in he'd owe Sam about thirty bucks but he wouldn't have to drop into Feratti's right away to pay off. He could wait till next week, after his next pay check. Sam wouldn't come looking for him.
After Sam had left he put the money in his wallet and, while he had it open, counted what was there. He was a little surprised to find out it was exactly what he'd left home with no more and no less, twenty-eight bucks.
Then he figured, and that was right. He'd got ten from Benny but had had to give the same amount to Dick Johnson. The five he'd just got from Sam covered his taxi fare and his dinner. He'd bought the Racing Form and had paid for a couple of drinks, but he must have had enough change to cover those things.
Well, he was still even. But damn it, he'd have to keep his mind on raising more, and damn fast. By rights he should have at least a hundred to sit in on that poker game. Fifty was rock bottom; he could hardly go around with less than that. Even with fifty, he'd have to count on winning some early pots or he'd go broke before he hit his stride and got really started.
Good God, wasn't there someone who could and would lend him a sizable chunk of cash, say a hundred, in one chunk without his having to try to chisel it out five or ten bucks at a time?
There had to be. With all the friends he had....
Ruth now. She was not only being selfish as hell, but she was being penny wise and pound foolish. If she'd only cash in that ridiculous, horribly expensive endowment policy and turn over the money to him so he'd be on his feet again, she wouldn't have to work. He could and would support her. If she'd only borrow five hundred against it, she'd take him off the spot. And damn it, wasn't anything she had half his anyway? Sure it was. This was a community property state.
Damn her, if he divorced her everything they owned would be split down the line and he'd get half of it. But he didn't have any grounds for divorce. He sometimes suspected that damned Greek she worked for of being soft on her—but he doubted that Ruth had ever encouraged him or had anything to do with him. And even if she had, how could he prove it? He couldn't afford to put private detectives on her, not now. Someday maybe. And even if he tried now and succeeded, a divorce took time. And cost money; it might even cost more than he'd get out of any property settlement.
Damn the stubborn bitch, he thought; when she gets an idea in her head....
But there must be someone besides Ruth who could help him. And who would.
Suddenly he remembered a short story he'd read once, a long time ago. He wasn't much of a reader, outside of newspapers and the Racing Form, but once—before he had met Ruth—a girl he'd been going with had given him as a present a book called Great Short Stories of the World. And not long after that he'd been home sick for a week with a case of bronchitis and had read most of the stories in the book and had even enjoyed some of them. One of them—he couldn't remember the title—had been by a Frenchman, Maupassant or somebody. It had been about a man who'd been in a bad financial jam. He'd needed money in a hurry and had gone to his wife, in whose name he'd put a lot of his property, and had asked her for money; she'd turned him down flat. In despair he'd gone to his mistress for help—and she'd given him back all the jewelry he'd given her, and he'd been saved.
Why not? Dolly wasn't exactly his mistress but she was the next thing to one. And while he hadn't given her any jewelry to speak of, except a wrist watch once, he'd given her, times when he'd been flush, plenty of other valuable presents. Hundreds of dollars' worth over the year and a half he'd known her. Of course she didn't love him; he knew that. But she liked him a lot and she was understanding. Wouldn't she lend him a hundred bucks if he asked her? Suddenly he felt sure that she would. Especially if he gave her a profit motive by telling her that if she lent him a hundred now he'd give her back a hundred and twenty-five in a week or two. And a hundred bucks tonight would sure be worth more than that some other time, when he was solvent again.
Sure, Dolly would do it. If not because of Cupid, then out of cupidity. Ray Fleck grinned to himself. Maybe there was something to reading great literature after all. If he hadn't read that story he might never have thought of Dolly Mason as a source of money. If only she was home, and alone, so he could see her this evening....
Well, he could find that out right away. He got up and got his hat first so he could leave right after the call, and then went to the phone booth. He dialed Eastgate 6-6606, Dolly's number—and a very easy one to remember. When the phone rang a dozen times or so he frowned, realizing that it wasn't going to be answered.
Then he thought to look at his wrist watch and realized why. Dolly was out somewhere eating dinner at this time. Her apartment had a kitchen but she never kept food in it; she always ate out. Alone, if there wasn't anyone to take her out. She never cooked, either for herself or for company.
He hung up and got his dime back, then left the booth. On his way out he passed Sam turning in some money at the cashier's desk and said, "Happy birthday, Sam. Hope your hunch hits."
Sam said, "Thanks muchly, Mist' Fleck. Ah hopes we both hits."