more about those four phone numbers. The son-of-a-bitch probably knew his own handwriting. He probably remembered tearing up those numbers once already, and he probably knew damn well that he hadn’t written them the second time around. He was probably suspicious, and that was fine. Maybe he’d push the panic button. Maybe he’d call people and let them know something was funny. That was fine, too. It would make everything else seem that more plausible.
Because no matter what happened, he wouldn’t be going back to the office that night. He’d be going home to Mona. And those four little phone numbers would be around the next day.
I had to make sure that he wouldn’t.
8
After dinner I packed my suitcase and checked out of the Collingwood. I found a locker at Grand Central and shoved the suitcase into it. The gun, loaded, stayed in my inside jacket pocket. It bulged ridiculously and jiggled up and down when I walked. In the washroom of the train to Scarsdale I switched it from the jacket pocket to the waistband of my trousers. That felt a hell of a lot more professional, but it worried me. I was afraid the thing would go off spontaneously, in which case I wouldn’t be much good to Mona. I tried to think about other more pleasant things.
By the time we hit Scarsdale I was beginning to shake inside. There was too much time to kill and no convenient way to kill it. I wondered whether I had taken the wrong turn. Maybe it would have been better to stay overnight at the Collingwood, then grab an early train up.
That would have given me a night’s sleep. But it left too much to chance. I had to pick up a car, which meant I had to hit Westchester while it was still dark out. And it was safer if I came in on a crowded train, which ruled out 4 A.M. trains. So I had picked the best way, but I still wasn’t feeling too good about it.
I found a movie house a block from the train station, paid my half a buck and went in to be hypnotized. I took a seat in the back and tried to get used to the feeling of the gun in my pants. The metal wasn’t cold any more. It was body temperature, or close enough, and I’d been wearing it so long it felt as though it was a part of me. I stared at the screen and let time pass.
I saw the complete show at least twice. This was not difficult. My mind couldn’t stick with the picture but rambled all over the place. Even the second time through, the movie’s plot sailed far over my head into the stratosphere. The movie was a thoroughly anonymous and relatively painless time-killer. It was after midnight when the last show let out and I followed the crowd out onto the empty streets of Scarsdale.
It started to get easier. The movie had turned me into the machine I had to be. Gears shifted. Buttons were pushed and switches were thrown. I found a bar—bars stay open later than movies, maybe because eyes are weaker than livers. I took a stool in the back all by myself and nursed beers until closing. Nobody talked to me. I was a loner and they were people who drank every night in the same bar. That might have been dangerous, except that they could not possibly remember me. They never noticed me in the first place.
The bar closed at four, which was fine. I went into an all-night grill for a hamburger and a few cups of coffee. It was four-thirty almost to the minute when I left the grill, and that was just about right.
It was good weather, just beginning to turn from night to day. The air was fresh and clean, a good change from New York, with just enough of a trace of bad smells mixed with the good to keep you from forgetting that you were in the suburbs, not the country. The sky was turning light, anticipating the sun which would rise in an hour or less. There were no clouds. It was going to be one hell of a nice day.
I walked off the main street to a side street, off the side street to another side street. The neighborhood was not bad at all. It wasn’t rich Scarsdale but middle
Because no matter what happened, he wouldn’t be going back to the office that night. He’d be going home to Mona. And those four little phone numbers would be around the next day.
I had to make sure that he wouldn’t.
8
After dinner I packed my suitcase and checked out of the Collingwood. I found a locker at Grand Central and shoved the suitcase into it. The gun, loaded, stayed in my inside jacket pocket. It bulged ridiculously and jiggled up and down when I walked. In the washroom of the train to Scarsdale I switched it from the jacket pocket to the waistband of my trousers. That felt a hell of a lot more professional, but it worried me. I was afraid the thing would go off spontaneously, in which case I wouldn’t be much good to Mona. I tried to think about other more pleasant things.
By the time we hit Scarsdale I was beginning to shake inside. There was too much time to kill and no convenient way to kill it. I wondered whether I had taken the wrong turn. Maybe it would have been better to stay overnight at the Collingwood, then grab an early train up.
That would have given me a night’s sleep. But it left too much to chance. I had to pick up a car, which meant I had to hit Westchester while it was still dark out. And it was safer if I came in on a crowded train, which ruled out 4 A.M. trains. So I had picked the best way, but I still wasn’t feeling too good about it.
I found a movie house a block from the train station, paid my half a buck and went in to be hypnotized. I took a seat in the back and tried to get used to the feeling of the gun in my pants. The metal wasn’t cold any more. It was body temperature, or close enough, and I’d been wearing it so long it felt as though it was a part of me. I stared at the screen and let time pass.
I saw the complete show at least twice. This was not difficult. My mind couldn’t stick with the picture but rambled all over the place. Even the second time through, the movie’s plot sailed far over my head into the stratosphere. The movie was a thoroughly anonymous and relatively painless time-killer. It was after midnight when the last show let out and I followed the crowd out onto the empty streets of Scarsdale.
It started to get easier. The movie had turned me into the machine I had to be. Gears shifted. Buttons were pushed and switches were thrown. I found a bar—bars stay open later than movies, maybe because eyes are weaker than livers. I took a stool in the back all by myself and nursed beers until closing. Nobody talked to me. I was a loner and they were people who drank every night in the same bar. That might have been dangerous, except that they could not possibly remember me. They never noticed me in the first place.
The bar closed at four, which was fine. I went into an all-night grill for a hamburger and a few cups of coffee. It was four-thirty almost to the minute when I left the grill, and that was just about right.
It was good weather, just beginning to turn from night to day. The air was fresh and clean, a good change from New York, with just enough of a trace of bad smells mixed with the good to keep you from forgetting that you were in the suburbs, not the country. The sky was turning light, anticipating the sun which would rise in an hour or less. There were no clouds. It was going to be one hell of a nice day.
I walked off the main street to a side street, off the side street to another side street. The neighborhood was not bad at all. It wasn’t rich Scarsdale but middle
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