Somebody Owes Me Money

by Donald E. Westlake

  Abbie, her attention finally caught by my bell-rope pulling, turned to me and said, “Those two forced their way into this apartment, absolutely forced their way in. Am I going to stand for that?”

  “When they have guns in their hands,” I said, “yes. Yes, you are going to stand for it. At least until we know what’s what.”

  Movement attracted my attention to the doorway. I blinked.

  There was a guy standing there. He was wearing a white shirt, the left sleeve of which was torn off and absolutely gone. Also, several buttons were missing and the pocket was ripped half-off and was dangling there. He was wearing black trousers, and the right leg was ripped from knee down to cuff. He had an angry-looking bruise just above his left eye, and he was holding a wet washcloth to his right cheek. He had long black hair in wild disorder on top of his head, like Stan Laurel, and he overall had the stunned look of somebody who’s just been in a train wreck.

  “Good God,” I said.

  In a weak and disbelieving voice this apparition said to Abbie, “You chipped my cap.”

  “Serves you right,” Abbie said.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. He turned to his partner, the man with the gun, and said, “Ralph, she chipped my cap. Right in the front of my mouth.” He opened his mouth and pointed at one of his teeth with the hand that wasn’t holding the washcloth to his cheek. Trying to talk with his mouth open he said, “Do you know how nuch that cat cost ne? Do you hathe any idea at aw?”

  “You forced your way in here,” Abbie told him, “and you deserve whatever you get.”

  “Ralth,” the walking wounded said, still holding his mouth open and pointing to the crippled tooth, “I’n gonna kill er. I’n gonna nurder her. I’n gonna dlast!”

  “Get hold of yourself, Benny,” Ralph said. “You know what Sol said. He wants to talk to these two.”

  I said, “Sol? Solomon Napoli?”

  Ralph turned and looked at me. “That’s the one, pal,” he said. He crooked a finger at me. “Time for you to get up outa there,” he said. “Sol’s waiting.”

  I let go of Abbie’s hand, preparatory to rising, but she grabbed it again, sat on the bed beside me, put her other arm on the pillow around my head, leaned protectively over me so that I was peeking at everybody over her right breast, and turned to Ralph to say, “He’s not supposed to move. The doctor said he isn’t supposed to move for a week. He was shot last night.”

  “We know,” Ralph said. “We saw it happen. That’s one of the things Sol wants to talk to him about.”

  I said, “You saw it happen?” But I was drowned out by Abbie, saying, “I don’t care who wants to see Chet, he can’t be moved.”

  “Shut up, lady,” Ralph said. “I’ve had all of you I’m going to take.”

  “It’s okay, Abbie,” I said, struggling to get out from her protective circle. “I feel pretty good now, I could get up. Just so I don’t have to move fast or anything, I’ll be fine, I know I will.” And I sat up.

  Abbie touched my bare shoulder. She looked worried. She said, “Are you sure, Chet? The doctor said—”

  “Let him alone, lady,” Ralph said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  She glared at him, but for once she didn’t say anything.

  I said, “What about my clothes?”

  “They were all bloody,” she said. “I ran out and took them to the cleaner’s this morning.”

  Ralph went over to the closet, opened it, and pulled out some clothing. “How about this stuff?” he said, and tossed it beside me on the bed.

  “That’s not mine,” I said. “That was Tommy’s.”

  “You can wear it,” he said. “Be my guest.”

  Did I want to wear a murdered man’s clothing? I didn’t think so. I looked at Ralph, feeling very helpless, and didn’t say anything. In the meantime he was going to the dresser and opening drawers. He tossed me underwear and socks and said, “There. Now get dressed.”

  I said, “Tommy was shorter than me.”

  “So don’t button all the buttons,” he said.

  I looked at the clothing, at Ralph, at the clothing, at Abbie, at the clothing. There didn’t seem to be any choice.

  Abbie said, “Chet, are you sure you’re up to this?”

  I wasn’t, but I said, “Sure I’m sure. I feel fine.”

  “Get up from there, lady,” Ralph said. “Let him up.”

  Abbie reluctantly got to her feet. She looked at me worriedly and said, “I’ll turn my back.” She did so, and folded her arms, and said coldly to Ralph, “If anything happens to him because of this, I’ll hold you responsible.”

  “Sure, lady,” said Ralph.

  I pushed the covers back, surprised at how much they weighed. I put my legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and fell down. I had no balance at all, no equilibrium, no control. I just went on over, like a duck in a shooting gallery.

  Abbie, of course, heard me hit the floor. She spun around and yelled my name, but what I heard more than that was Benny’s exasperated “He’s faking, Ralph. Let’s just bump him now.”

  “I’m all right,” I said. “I can do it.” I pushed with my hands, my head and torso came up, and then my arms failed and I flopped onto my nose like a fish.

  “God damn it,” said Ralph.

  “He can’t help it!” Abbie cried. “He’s wounded, can’t you see that? Do you like seeing him fall on the floor?”

  “I do,” Benny said. “I’d like to see him fall out a window.”

  Ralph said, “Shut up, Benny. Okay, lady, we’ll leave him here. He can talk, can’t he?”

  “I can talk,” I told the floor.

  “That’s good. Come on, Benny.”

  Hands gripped me. I was lifted, the floor receding, and dumped on the bed like a bag of laundry. I bounced, and just lay there. It must have been Abbie who covered me up.

  Ralph said, “Watch them, Benny, but don’t do nothing.”

  Benny growled.

  I was rolling over, a slow and painful process. I got over in time to see Ralph leaving and Benny glowering at me.

  Abbie said, “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am very hungry.”

  “I’ll get you something,” she said, and got up from the bed and started for the door.

  Benny blocked the way, saying, “Where do you think you’re goin?”

  “To the kitchen,” she said coldly.

  I said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

  He glared at me. “You better not,” he said. Then, to Abbie, he said, “And I got my eye on you.”

  She disdained to answer. She left the room, and Benny went after her.

  I sat there alone a minute, thinking my gloomy thoughts, and then I noticed a telephone on the bedside table.

  Call the police? I remembered what Abbie had said about the cops, the chance of getting a crook on the same payroll as Tommy, but thinking about it I decided the chance of a crooked cop was still better than the certainty of a couple of crooks, which was what I had now.

  I reached out and picked up the phone.

  I heard, “—could tell us—Hold on a second, boss.”

  “Right.”

  I heard the small thud of a receiver being put down on a table. Very gently I put my own receiver back in its cradle. I lay down in bed, covered myself to the chin, folded my arms over my chest, looked at the ceiling, and tried to look absolutely innocent.

  Ralph walked in. He looked disgusted. Without glancing at me at all he walked around the bed, reached down to the baseboard beside the bedside table, and yanked the phone wire out of the box. He then straightened, gave me a look, and said, “You got no brains at all.”

  I looked sheepish.

  He shook his head, turned away, and left the room.

  Nothing happened for about five minutes, and then Abbie came, carrying a tray and followed by Benny. Benny took the chair in the far corner and Abbie put the tray down on the foot of the bed. She helped me sit up,
adjusted the pillows behind me, and put the tray on my lap, its little feet straddling my legs.

  Clear chicken broth. Buttered toast, two slices. Tea with lemon. A dish of vanilla ice cream.

  I ate everything in sight, while Abbie sat on the edge of the bed and watched me in approval.

  At one point, taking a break from eating, I said, “How long was I out? This is Thursday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. You practically slept the day away. I was afraid you were dying there for a while, you just lay in one place and didn’t move at all.”

  “My father must be worried,” I said. “I always call him when—”

  “I called him,” she said. “I told him you were all right. I couldn’t tell him where you were, in case somebody put pressure on him, so I sort of let him get the idea you were shacked up with me. So he wouldn’t be worried.”

  Benny didn’t seem to be listening to our conversation. I looked at her and said, “Shacked up, huh?”

  She slapped my blanketed knee. “You’re too weak to be thinking about things like that,” she said, and smiled at me.

  “I’ll get well soon,” I said, and Ralph came in.

  Abbie turned to him. “What now?”

  “We wait,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For Sol,” he said.

  I said, “He’s coming here? Solomon Napoli?”

  “Yeah,” said Ralph. “He wants to talk to you.”

  15

  By the time the doorbell sounded nearly an hour later I was about ready to come apart like a broken kaleidoscope. Abbie was sitting beside me on the bed, and I reached out and grabbed her hand, and we gave each other nervous smiles that were supposed to be encouraging, and I began to blink a lot.

  There were voices in the hall, and then Ralph came in, and behind him three other guys.

  Solomon Napoli?

  Even in my astonishment there was no question which of the three was Napoli. The two on either side were just hoods, Benny and Ralph all over again, just better-dressed. It was the one in the middle who was Solomon Napoli.

  I couldn’t help staring at him. He was barely five feet tall, for one thing, the top of his head just about reaching the shoulders of the two guys flanking him. He was dressed very formally, as though on his way to an opera first night. But the most amazing thing was his head, which was too big for his body. Not enough to look deformed, just enough to make him look imposing, commanding, impressive. Leonine, a leonine head, and with the thick mane of hair that goes with it. A square jaw, magnificent white capped teeth, strong level eyes, a healthy hint of tan. He was about forty, with the smooth weathered look of a man who keeps himself in shape with handball and self-esteem.

  And he was smiling! He came in smiling like a politician opening a campaign headquarters, his teeth sparkling, his eyes showing bright interest in everything they saw, his stride youthful and determined-without-crabbiness. He came in, and his flankers stopped just inside the door, and he came over to the bed, hand held out, saying to Abbie in a resonant voice, “Miss McKay! How do you do? I thought very highly of your brother. A shame, a shame.”

  Through my own paralysis I could see that Abbie, too, was mesmerized. Her hand left mine, she rose uncertainly to her feet, she took his outstretched hand, in a vague and uncertain voice she said, “Uh, thank you. Thank you.”

  He turned her off, turned me on. You could see him do it. He kept her hand, but he looked past her at me, his eyes and smile full of candle power, saying, “And how’s our patient?”

  “Okay, I guess,” I mumbled.

  “Good. Good.” He turned me off, turned Abbie on. “My dear, if you’ll go into the living room for just a few minutes, Chester and I have one or two things we want to discuss. We won’t be long. Ralph.”

  “Here, boss,” said Ralph, and in his saying that the spell was broken. I had been totally hypnotized by Napoli up till now, his magnetism, his aura, the massive presence with which he filled the room. It wasn’t until Ralph said, “Here, boss,” that I remembered who this man really was. Solomon Napoli. Gangster.

  I had to remember that. For my own good I had to remember it.

  Suddenly I was twice as frightened as before. A cigar-chewing tough-talking obvious hood would have terrified me, but I would have understood him, I would at least have felt I knew what I was dealing with. But this man? I remembered how Sid Falco’s very ordinariness had been the most frightening thing about him, and this was Sid’s boss. A super-Sid.

  I pulled the covers up around my chin and waited to see what would happen next.

  Ralph led Abbie out of the room, she glancing back at me with a worried look just before going out of sight, and then I was alone with the crocodiles. One of the new hoods brought a chair up beside the bed, Solomon Napoli sat down in it, and we were off.

  He had turned me on again. “I guess you had a close call, Chester,” he said. His smile showed sympathy, but I didn’t count on it.

  “I guess I did,” I said warily.

  “Who would take a shot at you, Chester?” he asked, and now his smile implied an urge to be helpful, but I wasn’t about to count on that one either.

  “I guess the people Tommy worked for,” I said.

  “Why would they do that?” His smile was as delicate an instrument as a theremin, and now it projected polite curiosity.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I suppose they think I had something to do with killing Tommy.”

  Can a smile be threatening? Can it glint as though it would bite? Napoli sat back in the chair and his smile changed again and he said, “Chester, I’m a very busy man. I’m due at the Modern Museum in”—he looked at his watch—“forty minutes for a meeting of the board of trustees. Please just take it for granted we already know your involvement, we already know Frank’s involvement, a lot of wide-eyed innocent lying isn’t going to get you anywhere. There are a few things I want you to tell me, after which I promise you you will not find me an unreasonable man. You know Droble’s people are after you now, it shouldn’t take too much intelligence to realize that under my wing is the safest place for you right now.”

  I closed my eyes. “Oh, go ahead and shoot,” I said. “I really can’t take any more.” And at that moment I think I really meant it.

  Nothing at all happened. I lay on my back, head against the pillow, eyes closed, hands folded over my breast, already laid out you might say, and absolutely nothing happened.

  Well, it wasn’t up to me to make the next move. I was done. I went on lying there.

  Napoli said, “Chester, you don’t impress me.”

  I continued to lie there. My eyes continued to be closed. But my despair, if that’s what it was, had already been diluted by my unsinkable liking for life, and I could feel myself beginning to tense up again. I had shut down like this out of conviction, but I was staying shut down as a kind of technique, mostly because I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  Napoli, with irritation finally creeping into his voice, said, “This is ridiculous. I have thirty-five minutes to get— Chester, I don’t have to give you a break.”

  “A break?” I said. I didn’t open my eyes, because I knew if I was looking at him I wouldn’t be able to talk. Keeping my eyes shut and my body still, it was almost like talking on the phone, and I can talk to anybody on the phone. So my eyes were shut as I said, “You call that giving me a break? Getting a lot of wrong ideas into your head about who I am and what I’ve done, calling me a liar when I just so much as hint at the truth, sending people around to threaten me with guns, you threaten me with your teeth for God’s sake, you think—”

  “Now just a—”

  “No!” I was thrashing around in the bed by now, waving my arms to make my points, but my eyes stayed squeezed shut. “Ever since Tommy was killed,” I yelled, “one God damn fool after another comes after me with guns. Nobody asks me what I’m doing, oh, no, everybody knows too God damn much to ask me anything, everybody’s so God damn smart. Those
clowns in the garage, and then Abbie, and then whoever shot at me, and now you. You people don’t know what you’re doing! You’re so God damn smug, you know—”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  “The hell I will! I’ve been pushed around long enough! I’ve got a—”

  I stopped because a hand was clamped over my mouth and I could no longer talk. The hand was also over my nose and I could no longer breathe. My eyes opened.

  One of the new hoods was standing over me, his arm a straight line from his shoulder to my face. He was leaning a little, pushing my head deeper into the pillow. I blinked, and looked past his knuckles at Napoli.

  Napoli at last had stopped smiling. He was looking thoughtful now, studying me with his arms folded and the side of one finger idly stroking the line of his jaw. He seemed to be thinking things over.

  I needed to breathe. I said, “Mmmm, mmm.”

  “Shut up,” he said carelessly, and went back to thinking.

  “Mm mmm mmmm,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe there is a different explanation.”

  Things were turning a darkish red. There was a roaring deep inside my skull. I began to thrash around like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

  Napoli pointed at me the finger with which he’d been stroking himself. “That won’t do you any good,” he said. “You just be quiet and let me think.”

  “Mm mmm mmmmmmm!” I said.

  “We saw you with Frank Tarbok,” he said. “We followed you and the other two from your place. Now you talk about the clowns in the garage as though you don’t know Frank, as though you don’t work for him, don’t know anything about him. Is that possible?”

  I scratched feebly at the hand between me and air. Far away, up through the red haze, the hood looked uncaring down the length of his arm at me. I tugged at his pinkie, to no avail.

  Napoli was still talking, slowly, thoughtfully, considering all sides of the matter. I could no longer make out the words, the roaring in my head was too loud, it blotted out all other sounds. But through the darkening haze I could still see him, see his mouth moving, his brow furrowed in thought, his eyes gazing into the middle distance. How civilized he looked, but the red haze was closing in and I could no longer make him out clearly.