Free Murder Me for Nickels by Peter Rabe Page A

waiting. I didn’t see them at first because the place was so dark. There was the long bar, with one morning drinker and the bartender was doing a crossword puzzle. And there was a gray cat. She sat on top of the jukebox and her eyes were closed. Suddenly she gave a screech like a woman and flew off the machine. Somebody laughed. They were sitting behind the jukebox, at a round table, playing cards. But without much interest. One of them was laughing.
    The bartender came over with the cat on his arm. The cat was clawed into his shoulder as if she were afraid of the height.
    “Listen,” said the bartender. “Who done that?”
    The cat smelled a little bit of burnt fur and the bartender knew very well who had done that But he was short and thin and the one who was laughing was big and fat.
    “Phew,” he said, “what a stinker,” and threw his cigarette on the floor.
    It hit me on the shoe and I stepped back a little. Then I stepped on the cigarette and rubbed it out.
    “They been bothering you?” I said to the bartender.
    He knew me and didn’t know what to say. He knew that those punks and I worked for the same outfit, but he felt different about them and me.
    “It’s just the cat here, Mister St. Louis. They keep bothering the cat.”
    “We’re here to see nothing happens to jukeboxes,” said the big one, “and cats sitting on top of jukeboxes is not allowed. Right, fellers?”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” they said, or something like that.
    “She just sits there,” said the bartender. “The light from underneath keeps her warm and she likes that.”
    “Not allowed,” said the big one.
    “Put the cat back up there,” I told the bartender.
    He did it and nobody said anything while this went on. There wasn’t any noise at all except for the slow scrape of the chair when the big one got up. He leaned one arm on the jukebox and looked at me.
    “So you’re that feller with the name,” he said. “New Orleans, wasn’t it?”
    I didn’t have to answer because he filled the space right after that crack with a long, phlegmy laugh. After a while it even sounded stupid to him and he let it die down. Then he talked as if he had never laughed before in his life.
    “Folsom’s been telling me about you, New Orleans.”
    “St Louis. And now I’m going to tell you about me.” I came just a little closer to make it more personal. “Folsom is running you and the rest of the apes, but the orders come from me. You sit down and hold still. You wait till you hear from Folsom before practicing your art and in the meantime no extracurricular activities. And leave that cat alone.”
    He looked at me and then at his buddies and I think he didn’t answer anything right away because he wasn’t sure of all the words I had used.
    Then he said, “You come all the way down here to tell me about that cat?”
    He hit the ridiculous part of the conversation right on the head and I didn’t feel very impressive. Which was no trick anyway. I’m just built average but he wasn’t. I felt I should talk about something else.
    “You don’t look,” I said to the men at the table, “as if you’ve been doing any work today.”
    “I might any minute though,” said the big one at the jukebox.
    “I’m asking because we haven’t heard from Folsom. There’s been nothing today?”
    “Just the cat,” said somebody at the table.
    “And you,” said the big one.
    I was getting that feeling in my hands and along both shoulders, that fine little tickle and tension I always get before I just have to take a sharp swing. I would have enjoyed that Only it wouldn’t have been part of the business. Besides, I felt he was too big for me.
    “I’m leaving,” I said. “So don’t worry.”
    “I’m worried? I’m not leaving. I’m not worried.”
    “When Folsom comes, ask him to call, will you?”
    “St Louis,” said the big one. “Are you trying to change the subject?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Frankly, yes.”
    It was now a good