Donald Westlake: Somebody Owes Me Money

So if I was to put some money on this Purple Pecunia, and the tip should turn out to be good, it would be a real lifesaver and no fooling. The only question was — how much did I want to risk? Just in case, just in case.

It seemed to me I should leave that up to Tommy. Tommy McKay, my book. I was going to have to do it on credit anyway, so I might just as well go as steep as he’d let me.

I finished the coffee and Danish, paid my check, and went to one of the phone booths in the back. Tommy works out of his apartment, so I called there and got his wife. “Hi, Mrs. McKay,” I said. “Is Tommy there? This is Chet.”

“Who?”

“Chet. Chet Conway.”

“Oh, Chester. Just a minute.”

“Chet,” I said. I hate to be called Chester.

She’d already put the phone down. I waited, thinking things over, having second thoughts, and so on, and then Tommy came on. His voice is almost as high-pitched as his wife’s, but more nasal. I said, “Tommy, how much can I put on the cuff?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “What are you in to me for now?”

“Fifteen.”

He hesitated, and then he said, “I’ll go to fifty with you. I know you’re okay.”

Second thoughts came crowding in again. Another thirty-five bucks in the hole? What if Purple Pecunia didn’t come in?

The hell with it. Get a hunch, bet a bunch. “The whole thirty-five,” I said, “on Purple Pecunia. To win.”

“Purple Petunia?”

“No, Pecunia. With a c. ” I read him the dope from the paper.

There was a little silence, and then he said, “You sure you want to do that?”

“I got a hunch,” I said.

“It’s your dough,” he said. Which was almost true.

After that I was very nervous. I went back to work, and I even began to let the midtown traffic get to me. I never do that, I’m always insulated inside my cab. The way I figure, I’m in no hurry, I’m at work. I’ll go with the flow of the traffic, I’ll take it easy, I’ll live longer. But I was very nervous about that thirty-five bucks on Purple Pecunia, and the nervousness made me edgy with other drivers. I kept hoping for a fare out to one of the airports, but it never happened. Nothing but short hops through the middle of the mess. Eighth Avenue and 53rd Street. Then Park and 30th. Then Madison and 51st. Then Penn Station. On and on like that.

I keep a transistor radio on the dashboard, so in the afternoon I turned it on for the race results, and at ten minutes to four in came the word on Purple Pecunia. She won the race. I had an old lady in the cab at the time. She had a hundred packages from Bonwit Teller’s and she kept looking out the window and saying, “Look at that, just look at that. Look at that black face. It’s a disgrace, right on Fifth Avenue. Look at that one, walking along as nice as you please. They ought to stay down South where they belong. Look at that one, with a tie on if you please!” She was a ten-cent tip if there ever lived one, but I no longer cared.

She got out at a townhouse in the East Sixties. I switched on the Off Duty light and headed for a phone booth. Using her dime I called Tommy, and he said, “I thought I’d hear from you. That was some hunch.”

It sure was. At twenty-two to one, that hunch was going to bring back eight hundred and five dollars.

I said, “What does it pay?”

“Twenty-seven to one,” he said.

“Twenty- seven? ”

“That’s right.”

“How much is that?”

“Nine eighty,” he said. “Less the half yard you owe me, that’s nine thirty.”

Nine hundred and thirty dollars. Almost a thousand dollars! I was rich!

I said, “I’ll be over around six, is that okay?”

“Sure,” he said.

I couldn’t turn the cab in before five, so I headed uptown to try to stay out of the midtown crush, so naturally I got flagged down right away by somebody wanting to go to the PanAm Building. What with one thing and another, it was twenty after five before I clocked out at the garage over on Eleventh Avenue. I immediately became a fare myself, hailing a cab for one of the first times in my life, and headed down to Tommy’s apartment on West 46th Street between Ninth and Tenth. I rang the bell, but there was a woman coming out with a baby carriage, so I didn’t have to wait for the buzz. I held the door for the woman and went on in. There still hadn’t been any buzz when I got into the elevator.

He must have heard the bell, though, because the door was partly open when I got to the fourth floor. I pushed it open the rest of the way and stepped into the hall and said, “Tommy? It’s me, Chet.”

Nothing.

The hall light was on. I left the front door partly open like before and walked down the hall looking into the rooms as I went by. Kitchen, then bathroom, then bedroom, all lit up and all empty. The living room was down at the end of the hall.

I went into the living room and Tommy was lying on his back on the rug, arms spread out. There was blood all over the place. He looked like he’d been shot in the chest with antiaircraft guns.

“Holy Christ,” I said.

I was on the phone in the kitchen, trying to call the cops, when Tommy’s wife came in with a grocery bag in her arms. She’s a short and skinny woman with a sharp nose and a general look of disapproval.

She came to the kitchen doorway, saw me, and said, “What’s up?”

“There’s been an accident,” I said. I knew it wasn’t an accident, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And at just that minute the police answered, so I said into the phone, “I want to report a — Wait a second, will you?”

The cop said, “You want to report what?”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece and said to Tommy’s wife, “Don’t go into the living room.”

She looked toward the living room, frowning, then came in and put the bag down on the counter. “Why not?”

The cop was saying, “Hello? Hello?”

“Just a second, ” I told him, and said to Tommy’s wife, “Because Tommy’s in there, and he doesn’t look good.”

She took a quick step back toward the hall. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Don’t go there,” I said. “Please.”

“What’s the matter, Chester?” she said. “For God’s sake, will you tell me?”

The cop was still yammering in my ear. I said to Tommy’s wife, “He’s dead,” and then to the cop I said, “I want to report a murder.”

She was gone, running for the living room. The cop was asking me my name and the address. I said, “Listen, I don’t have much time. The address is 417 West 46th Street, apartment 4-C.”

“And your name?”

Tommy’s wife began to scream.

“I’ve got a hysterical lady here,” I said.

“Sir,” said the cop, as though it was a word in a foreign language, “I need your name.”

Tommy’s wife screamed again.

“Do you hear that?” I said. I held the phone toward the kitchen doorway, then pulled it back and said, “Did you hear it?”

“I hear it, sir,” he said. “Just give me your name, please. I will have officers dispatched to the scene.”

“That’s good,” I said, and Tommy’s wife came running into the kitchen, wild-eyed. Her hands were red. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “What happened?”

“My name is Chester Conway,” I said.

The cop said, “What was that?”

Tommy’s wife grabbed me by the front of my jacket. It’s a zip-up jacket, dark blue, two pockets, it’s comfortable for driving the cab all day in the winter. “What did you do?” she screamed.

I said to the cop, “Wait a second,” and put the phone down. Tommy’s wife was leaning forward to glare in my face, her hands on my chest, pushing me backward. I gave a step, saying, “Get hold of yourself. Please. I got to report this.”