desk. Stanley printed out the message in block letters:
IF YOU DON'T DROP THE CHARGES, I'LL KILL
YOUR BABY AND YOUR WIFE AND THEN YOU.
The printed message looked sinister all right, but it also looked unreal. Stanley then printed ROBERT SMITH under the message and sealed it in one of Maya's pastel pink envelopes, along with the clipping. Then he printed Collins's address on the envelope. There was only one Henry Collins listed in the West Palm Beach section of the phone book.
Even if the message didn't help Troy, it couldn't hurt him any. If Mr. Collins brought it in to the police station, Troy could deny that he sent it. How could he? He was in jail. Stanley put the sealed envelope into his hip pocket, collected his checkbook, certificates of deposit, and passbook, but he paused at the door. It was eight A.M., and the sun was blazing. He put on his billed cap and his sunglasses, and got his walking stick from the umbrella stand beside the door, but still he hesitated. Mrs. Agnew was out in her yard, watering the oleanders that grew close to her house. She would turn her back on him the moment he stepped outside. He could count on that. But all the other neighbors on the two-block walk to the bus stop would peer through their windows and point him out as the dirty old man who had molested little Pammi Sneider. Except by sight, Stanley didn't know his neighbors very well. But Maya knew them all because they often met at each other's houses in the morning when the bakery truck stopped on their street. The housewives would come out in their wrappers and buy sweet rolls and doughnuts and take turns meeting in each other's houses for coffee. Maya had picked up gossip this way about the various neighbors, and had often tried to tell him about how Mrs. Meeghan's dyslexic son was failing in school, or about Mr. Featherstone's alcoholism (he was a house painter), but Stanley had always cut her off. He didn't care anything about these people, didn't know them, didn't want to know them, and didn't want to know anything about them. If they had been men he worked with, or something like that, he might have been interested in their private doings, but he wasn't interested in these housewives or their husbands or their noisy children.
But he realized now that these women would be gossiping about him and about Maya's leaving him, because that's what they did best--pry into other people's lives. Stanley steeled himself and walked to the bus stop, without looking either to the right or the left.
Stanley got off at the Sunshine Plaza Shopping Center when the bus stopped in front of the Publix. The bank wasn't open yet, so he drank a cup of coffee in Hardee's and slipped a dozen packets of Sweet 'n Low into his pants pocket. When the bank opened (it was really a Savings & Loan Association, but it also operated as a bank), Stanley had no trouble cashing in his CDs and collected a cashier's check for the money in his savings and checking accounts. He had expected an argument. But why would they argue? They made a handsome profit off him when he cashed in his three one-year CDs early. As he left the bank officer's desk, Mr. Wheeler said:
"We're sorry to lose you as a client, Mr. Sinkiewicz, but I suppose you need your money for bail--"
"Bail? What're you talking about?"
"It was on the radio this morning--your, ah, trouble, and all, you know. So I assumed you required funds for a lawyer, and to post bond."
"No." Stanley shook his head. "That matter was all a mistake. It's all cleared up now."
"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Sinkiewicz," Mr. Wheeler said, smiling. "It was a pleasure to serve you."
Stanley walked over to U.S. 1 and waited for the bus to West Palm Beach. He realized now that all the time he had been talking to Mr. Wheeler, the banker had been staring at the bandage on his lip. He had probably wanted to ask about it, but didn't have the nerve. And all the time, Wheeler figured he was
IF YOU DON'T DROP THE CHARGES, I'LL KILL
YOUR BABY AND YOUR WIFE AND THEN YOU.
The printed message looked sinister all right, but it also looked unreal. Stanley then printed ROBERT SMITH under the message and sealed it in one of Maya's pastel pink envelopes, along with the clipping. Then he printed Collins's address on the envelope. There was only one Henry Collins listed in the West Palm Beach section of the phone book.
Even if the message didn't help Troy, it couldn't hurt him any. If Mr. Collins brought it in to the police station, Troy could deny that he sent it. How could he? He was in jail. Stanley put the sealed envelope into his hip pocket, collected his checkbook, certificates of deposit, and passbook, but he paused at the door. It was eight A.M., and the sun was blazing. He put on his billed cap and his sunglasses, and got his walking stick from the umbrella stand beside the door, but still he hesitated. Mrs. Agnew was out in her yard, watering the oleanders that grew close to her house. She would turn her back on him the moment he stepped outside. He could count on that. But all the other neighbors on the two-block walk to the bus stop would peer through their windows and point him out as the dirty old man who had molested little Pammi Sneider. Except by sight, Stanley didn't know his neighbors very well. But Maya knew them all because they often met at each other's houses in the morning when the bakery truck stopped on their street. The housewives would come out in their wrappers and buy sweet rolls and doughnuts and take turns meeting in each other's houses for coffee. Maya had picked up gossip this way about the various neighbors, and had often tried to tell him about how Mrs. Meeghan's dyslexic son was failing in school, or about Mr. Featherstone's alcoholism (he was a house painter), but Stanley had always cut her off. He didn't care anything about these people, didn't know them, didn't want to know them, and didn't want to know anything about them. If they had been men he worked with, or something like that, he might have been interested in their private doings, but he wasn't interested in these housewives or their husbands or their noisy children.
But he realized now that these women would be gossiping about him and about Maya's leaving him, because that's what they did best--pry into other people's lives. Stanley steeled himself and walked to the bus stop, without looking either to the right or the left.
Stanley got off at the Sunshine Plaza Shopping Center when the bus stopped in front of the Publix. The bank wasn't open yet, so he drank a cup of coffee in Hardee's and slipped a dozen packets of Sweet 'n Low into his pants pocket. When the bank opened (it was really a Savings & Loan Association, but it also operated as a bank), Stanley had no trouble cashing in his CDs and collected a cashier's check for the money in his savings and checking accounts. He had expected an argument. But why would they argue? They made a handsome profit off him when he cashed in his three one-year CDs early. As he left the bank officer's desk, Mr. Wheeler said:
"We're sorry to lose you as a client, Mr. Sinkiewicz, but I suppose you need your money for bail--"
"Bail? What're you talking about?"
"It was on the radio this morning--your, ah, trouble, and all, you know. So I assumed you required funds for a lawyer, and to post bond."
"No." Stanley shook his head. "That matter was all a mistake. It's all cleared up now."
"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Sinkiewicz," Mr. Wheeler said, smiling. "It was a pleasure to serve you."
Stanley walked over to U.S. 1 and waited for the bus to West Palm Beach. He realized now that all the time he had been talking to Mr. Wheeler, the banker had been staring at the bandage on his lip. He had probably wanted to ask about it, but didn't have the nerve. And all the time, Wheeler figured he was
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