“You’re on, kid. And the sooner the better.”
“I’ll be back.”
He went out for a little while, and when he came back he gave me a wink. And pretty soon, sure enough, there came a knock on the door, and in came Katz. He was a little guy, about forty years old, with a leathery face and a black moustache, and the first thing he did when he came in was take out a bag of Bull Durham smoking tobacco and a pack of brown papers and roll himself a cigarette. When he lit it, it burned halfway up one side, and that was the last he did about it. It just hung there, out the side of his mouth, and if it was lit or out, or whether he was asleep or awake, I never found out. He just sat there, with his eyes half shut and one leg hung over the arm of the chair, and his hat on the back of his head, and that was all. You might think that was a poor sight to see, for a guy in my spot, but it wasn’t. He might be asleep, but even asleep he looked like he knew more than most guys awake, and a kind of a lump came up in my throat. It was like the sweet chariot had swung low and was going to pick me up.
The cop watched him roll the cigarette like it was Cadona doing the triple somersault, and he hated to go, but he had to. After he was out, Katz motioned to me to get going. I told him about how we had an accident, and how Sackett was trying to say we murdered the Greek for the insurance, and how he made me sign that complaint paper that said she had tried to murder me too. He listened, and after I had run down he sat there a while without saying anything. Then he got up.
“He’s got you in a spot all right.”
“I ought not to signed it. I don’t believe she did any such a goddam thing. But he had me going. And now I don’t know where the hell I’m at.”
“Well, anyhow, you ought not to have signed it.”
“Mr Katz, will you do one thing for me? Will you see her, and tell her—”
“I’ll see her. And I’ll tell her what’s good for her to know. For the rest of it, I’m handling this, and that means I’m handling it. You got that?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve got it.”