The Cat's Pajamas by Ray Bradbury

money on the side and spoil the good name of the force. It’s a fact. You can’t get away from it. People are human. So am I. If I can’t clean the clog in the pipe one way, I’ll clean it another. This novel of mine, needless to say, will be what will do it.”
    â€œYou might go down the drain with it, Rob. Do you really think your novel will shame the narcotics boys into acting?”
    â€œThat’s the idea.”
    â€œWon’t you be sued?”
    â€œI’ve taken care of that. I’m signing a paper with my publishers absolving them of any blame, saying that all characters in this novel are fictitious. Thus, if I’ve lied to the publishers they are blameless. If I’m sued, the royalties from the novel will be used in my defense. And I’ve got plenty of evidence. Incidentally, it’s a corking good novel.”
    â€œSeriously, Rob. Did someone send you a razor in a box?”
    â€œYes, and there lies my greatest danger. Rather thrilling. They wouldn’t dare kill me outright. But if I died of my own natural carelessness and my inherited blood makeup, who would blame them? They wouldn’t slit my throat. That’d be somewhat obvious. But a razor, or a nail, or the edge of the steering wheel of my car fixed and set with knife blades... it’s all very melodramatic. How goes it with your novel, Jerry?”
    â€œSlow. How’s about lunch today?”
    â€œFair enough. The Brown Derby?”
    â€œYou sure ask for trouble. You know damn well Anne eats there every day with Mike!”
    â€œStimulates my appetite, Gerald, old man. See you.”
    You hang up. Your hand is okay now. You whistle as you bandage it in the bathroom. Then you give the little razor contraption a going-over. A primitive thing. The chance were hardly fifty-fifty it would even work.
    You sit down and write three thousand more words, stimulated by the early morning events.
    The handle of the door to your car has been filed, sharpened to a razor edge during the night. Dripping blood, you return to the house for more bandages. You gulp pills. The bleeding stops.
    After you deposit the two new chapters of the book in your safety-deposit box at the bank, you drive and meet Jerry Walters at the Brown Derby. He looks as electric and small as ever, dark-jowled, his eyes popping behind his thick-lensed glasses.
    â€œAnne’s inside.” He grins at you. “And Mike’s with her. Why do we wanna eat here? I ask.” His grin dries and he stares at you, at your hand. “You need a drink! Right this way. There’s Anne at that table over there. Nod to her.”
    â€œI’m nodding.”
    You watch Anne, at a corner table, in a monk’s cloth sport dress, interwoven with gold and silver thread, a link of Aztec jewelry in bronze units around her tan neck. Her hair is the same bronze color. Beside her, behind a cigar and a haze of smoke, is the rather tall, spare figure of Michael Horn, who looks just like what he is, gambler, narcotics specialist, sensualist par excellence, lover of women, ruler of men, wearer of diamonds and silk undershorts. You would not want to shake hands with him. That manicure looks too sharp.
    You sit down to a salad. You are eating it when Anne and Mike come by the table, after their cocktail. “Hello, sharpster,” you say to Mike Horn, with a little emphasis on the latter word.
    Behind Horn is his bodyguard, a young twenty-two-year-old kid from Chicago named Berntz, with a carnation in his black coat lapel and his black hair greased, and his eyes sewed down by little muscles at the corners, so he looks sad.
    â€œHello, Rob, darling,” says Anne. “How’s the book?”
    â€œFine, fine. I’ve got a swell new chapter on you, Anne.”
    â€œThank you, darling.”
    â€œWhen you going to leave this big heel-headed leprechaun?” you ask her, not looking at Mike.
    â€œAfter I kill him,” says