Free The Rip-Off by Jim Thompson

that I had made a botch of everything. Then I started after her, stopping short as I heard her talking with Mrs. Olmstead.
    "… loved to have dinner with you. Mrs. Olmstead. But in view of Mr. Rainstar's attitude…"
    "… just mean, he is! Accused me of bein' sloppy. Says I'm always sprinklin' rat poison on everything. 0' course, I don't do nothin' of the kind…"
    "He should be grateful to you! Most women would leave at the sight of a rat."
    "Well… Just a minute, Miss Aloe. I'll walk you to your car."
    It was several minutes before Mrs. Olmstead came back into the house. I waited until I heard her banging around in the kitchen, then went cautiously down the stairs and moved on tiptoe toward the front door.
    "Uh-hah!" Her voice arrested me. "Whatcha sneakin' out for? Ashamed because you was so nasty to Miss Aloe?"
    She had been lurking at the side of the staircase, out of sight from upstairs. Apparently she had rushed in and hidden here, after making the racket in the kitchen.
    "Well?" She grinned at me with mocking accusation, hands on her skinny old hips. "Whatcha got to say for yourself?"
    "What am I sneaking Out for?" I said. "What have I got to say for myself? Why, goddammit-!" I stormed toward the door, cursing and fuming. More shamed and furious at myself than I was with her. "And another thing!" I yelled. "Another thing, Mrs. Olmstead! You'd better remember what your position is in this house, if you want to keep it!"
    "Now you're threatenin' me." She began to sob noisily. "Threatenin' a poor old woman! Just as mean as you can be, that's what you are!"
    "I'm not either mean!" I said. "I don't know how to be mean, and I wouldn't be, if I did know how. I don't like mean people, and- Goddammit, will you stop that goddam bawling?"
    "If you wasn't mean, you wouldn't always forget to mail my letters! I found another one this mornin' when I was sending your clothes to the cleaners! I told you it was real important, an'…!"
    "Oh, God, I am sorry," I said. "Please forgive me, Mrs. Olmstead."
    I ran out the door and down the steps. But she was calling to me before I could get out of earshot.
    "Your dinner, Mr. Rainstar. It's all ready and waiting."
    "Thank you very much," I said. "I'm not hungry now, but I'll eat some later."
    "It'll be all cold. You better eat now."
    "I'm not hungry now. I've had a bad day, and I want to take a walk before I eat."
    There was more argument, much more, but she finally slammed the door.
    Not that I ever felt much like eating Mrs. Olmstead's cooking, but I certainly had no appetite for it tonight. And, of course, I felt guilty for not wanting to eat, and having to tell her that I didn't. Regardless of whether something is my fault-and why should I have to eat if I didn't want to?-I always feel that I am in the wrong.
    Along with feeling guilty, I was worried. About what Manny had done or had arranged to have done, its implications of shrewdness and power. And the fact that I had figuratively flung three thousand dollars in her face, as well as cutting myself off from all further income. At the time, I had felt that I had to do it. But what about the other categorical imperative which faced me? What about the absolute necessity to send money to Connie-to do it or else?
    Well, balls to it, I thought, mentally throwing up my hands. I had told Mrs. Olmstead that I wanted to take a walk, so I had better be doing it.
    I took a stroll up and down the road, a matter of a hundred yards or so. Then I walked around to the rear of the house, and the weed- grown disarray of the backyard.
    A couple of uprights of the gazebo had rotted away, allowing the roof to topple until it was standing almost on edge. The striped awning of the lawn swing hung in faded tatters, and the seats of the swing lay splintered in the weeds where the wind had tossed them. The statuary-the little that hadn't been sold-was now merely fragmented trash, gleaming whitely in the night.
    The fountain, at the extreme rear of the yard,