"Uh, uh," I said. "I'm hungry. I'd mow your lawn on an empty stomach and get maybe fifty cents. That's one hamburger and two cups of coffee. I'd still be hungry."
Instead of answering, he reached one of his blue-veined hands inside his coat and drew out a new looking black leather billfold. I watched him while he pulled out a thick sheaf of currency.
He carefully counted out ten twenty dollar bills, dropping them one by one in a neat pile on the park bench. He stuck the rest back in his billfold and took out a white glossy card, dropping it on the pile of bills.
Then, smirking, he stood up and turned his back on me, slowly walking down the path that wound up onto a bridge over the duck pond, without looking back.
I waited until he was out of sight, then picked up the card and read the name printed on it in raised green lettering: Dr. Leopold Moriss.
I had a hamburger and two cups of coffee in a place where they'd never seen me before. It would have been too hard to explain a twenty dollar bill. Afterward I rented a room and soaked some of the accumulated dirt out of my pores.
Next morning I bought a new suit and the things that go with it. By noon I was wearing a hundred of that two hundred dollars. Most of the rest was in my pocket.
Everything was fine, except that Dr. Leopold Moriss' smirking bloodless lips and dead eyes, framed by his skin-covered jaw kept dancing before me, taunting me, daring me to use that money without eventually showing up to earn it.
I began to dislike him even more intensely. Instead of having lunch I went into a cocktail lounge and had a few Bourbons straight. When their warmth began to soak in Dr. Leopold's smirking face faded.