“Be your age. She’ll go with me—and it’s the hot squat for her.”
I was just wasting time. Somehow I’d got to get his gun and kill him. I was surprised how calmly I was setting about this. Once I had made up my mind that he’d have to go, I felt no more misgivings than if I’d planned to tread on an ant. I’d just got to make the opportunity.
“Well, if it’s like that,” I said, “I’ll have to go ahead. I can’t give you the dough now.”
He said, “Write me a cheque for ten grand. That’ll do to go on with—I’ll be round for the rest of the dough in a month.”
I began to look dejected, but I was acting all the time. I slouched from the window, and headed for the writing-desk. He still sat on the table, watching me. I stopped at the other end of the table and rested my hands on the table-top.
“Listen, Curtis,” I said, “give us a break—won’t you? Take the ten grand an’ call it quits.”
He laughed. Just for a second his eyes were off me and I acted. I grabbed the table and heaved. It was easy. He was sitting on the far end and it flew up with a crash. I flung my weight on the table so that it toppled over on top of him, pinning him flat. His gun shot out of his hand.
Kneeling on the table, and keeping him flat, I said to Mardi, “Get the gun quick.”
She reached forward and picked it up.
“Give it to me.”