He got up, shrugged his shoulders, and went out. He was hardly gone before a guy with big feet and a red neck came in with a little portable typewriter, set it on a chair with a couple of books under it, hitched up to it, and looked at her.
“Mr. Katz said you wanted to make a statement?”
He had a little squeaky voice, and a kind of a grin when he talked.
“That’s right. A statement.”
She began to speak jerky, two or three words at a time, and as fast as she said it, he rattled it off on the typewriter. She told it all. She went back to the beginning, and told how she met me, how we first began going together, how we tried to knock off the Greek once, but missed. A couple of times, a cop put his head in at the door, but the guy at the typewriter held up his hand.
“Just a few minutes, sarge.”
“O.K.”
When she got to the end, she said she didn’t know anything about the insurance, we hadn’t done it for that at all, but just to get rid of him.
“That’s all.”
He gathered his sheets together, and she signed them. “Will you just initial these pages?” She initialed them. He got out a notary stamp, and made her hold up her right hand, and put the stamp on, and signed it. Then he put the papers in his pocket, closed his typewriter, and went out.