Free Murder Me for Nickels by Peter Rabe Page B

time to leave because what I had said made him open his mouth in sheer wonderment I nodded and turned but then he thought of a way to revive his spirits.
    “You gonna go like that and no instructions about this cat?”
    I turned to look back and he was just pointing his finger at the cat The cat sat, hunched, and its eyes gleamed as it watched the finger.
    I was wishing he wouldn’t think of anything else to do. I don’t really like cats and I didn’t feel then, or any other time, like Saint Francis or Sir Francis, or whatever his name was, who loved all those creatures—and why in hell couldn’t that cat sit someplace else, like on the roof.
    “Now you leave her alone,” said the bartender. “Tell him, Mister St. Louis.”
    “Nice gray cat,” said the big one, and all his brother apes were watching. “Nice and gray, this one. Not yellow at all.”
    I don’t take that kind of thing up. It doesn’t make me feel self-conscious and besides, why should I be at the beck and call of every punk who gets his kicks that way. But this time I had to take it up somehow.
    “Leave her alone,” I said, “before she eats you up.”
    “To save you the trouble?” and he poked his finger at the cat.
    This cat had been made very nervous by now. She whipped at the finger and dug in fast, so when the big one yanked back he did most of the work himself. He let out a terrible yowl and his finger had two smart, red lines in it, deep and straight, with a lot of blood.
    The cat jumped off the jukebox, made way station on top of the guy’s head, catapulted across to the bar from there, and disappeared. It was very funny.
    “Yes sir,” I said, “You got to watch those gray ones,” and on that note I was meaning to leave.
    When the big one jumped me.
    He tried to, at any rate. But if nothing else, I am fast, and—of no less importance—the bartender tripped him. The big one clattered all over the floor and while I stepped back some three pack members jumped up from the table.
    I was badly worried, wishing quickly that I were the cat, until I got the picture. The other three piled all over the big one, yanked him up, bundled his arms, sweated and strained, and then when the big one relaxed a little the one on the right said, “You better get out, St. Louis. While the gettin’ is good.”
    The big one looked choked and much more dangerous now than before.
    “You don’t know Paul when he gets this way,” said the one on the right. “Walk, while the walking’s good.”
    I walked. I knew it did not make a good impression but neither did anything else. The whole West Side set-up stunk and I had to find Folsom.
    I never did. He had been and gone in a couple of places, checking, they told me, and making everyone nervous. Nothing else had been happening. I went back to the club to see how the headman would feel about this.
    Upstairs, in the room, there was just the kid with his do-it-yourself book and the telephone next to him. There had been no calls and I was interrupting him. Lippit, he said, was getting a work-out.
    I went downstairs and looked for Lippit. Why should he have to pay for his work-out when he could get it for free, just running his business this particular morning?
    I got routing instructions at the desk and went on my way.
    The first door said “Physical Culture.” There was a long guy ahead of me, with the big feet of the thin type and the loose sweatshirt to round out the bony structure. He went in before I got there and when I got there a transformed type came out. This one was tall, too, but he groaned with muscle. I felt that my jacket was much too loose.
    “That was fast,” I said to him. “This is a miraculous place.”
    He didn’t understand a word of what I said and just grunted. The next door said “Members Only.”
    It had a pneumatic gadget on top which made the door very hard to open. The door jumped out of my hand and another muscle man came out. My jacket felt like a tent.
    “How long have