Free A Manhattan Ghost Story by T. M. Wright Page B

quite wonderfully alive.
    “Yes,” Art answered.
    “When?”
    “A month-and-a-half ago, just before I left. Actually, Abner, it’s why I left.”
    “Christ, Art!”
    “But it’s not working out here. It’s just not working out; I feel so alone—”
    “Art, tell me who she was. Was she someone you knew?”
    “Of course she was someone I knew. You think I go around killing strange women, Abner?”
    “Is that supposed to be a joke?”
    “No. I’m sorry.” A pause. “I called to let you know that I’ll probably be back sometime before May—”
    “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Wait a minute. Are the cops looking for you?”
    A brief hesitation. “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe. I thought it was all straightened out; I had hoped it was all straightened out.” A quick chuckle of clearly pretended impatience. “But maybe it isn’t, Abner. There’s this homicide captain—hell, I don’t even remember his name. He was there, at the hospital; his name was Whelan, I remember now. His name was Kennedy Whelan. He might show up at the apartment one of these days. You’ll probably have to talk to him, I’m afraid. And he was there, Abner, at St. Ignatius, when I took Phyllis there, and he’s been calling it manslaughter right from the start—”
    “Did you say St. Ignatius, Art?”
    “Yes. It’s on the Lower East Side.”
    “Art, I don’t understand; this is very strange—this is very, very strange. Listen to me now, because when I got here, to your apartment, I found this woman here and she told me her name was Phyllis; she said she was your girlfriend—”
    “Phyllis is dead , Abner. She died at St. Ignatius Hospital a month-and-a-half ago. I know that because I killed her, so whoever this woman is, she cannot be Phyllis Pellaprat.”
    “She showed me a picture, Art. She got it off the mantle. It’s a picture of you and her together—”
    “Yes, Abner. I know the picture.”
    “Art, listen to me, please. Listen to me. Phyllis and I have been living together. Here. At your apartment.”
    “No, Abner. It’s not Phyllis, it can’t be Phyllis. You understand that. You must understand that.’” He was speaking slowly, his enunciation crisp, as if he were talking to a small child. “You are sharing the apartment with someone else , Abner. I don’t know who. But my very strong suggestion is that you get rid of her!”
    “I can’t do that, Art. I love this woman; I really do love this woman.”
    “Jesus!” He was clearly at a loss for words. “Jesus, Abner—”
    “We’ll move out if you’d like, Art.”
    “I can’t ask you to do that.” He sounded uncertain.
    “Art, I trust her.”
    “Of course you do. I just want to know who she is, Abner; you can understand that.”
    “She said her name was Phyllis; I don’t know—she showed me the picture. Hell, Art, she even introduced me to her parents.”
    “Phyllis Pellaprat’s parents are dead.”
    “Well, for Christ’s sake, I met someone , Art.”
    “I believe you. I do believe you. But now I think, for your sake, and for my sake, Abner, that you have to find out who the woman is. There are lots of con games going on, and obviously someone read about it …” There was a short pause; when he continued, his voice had altered slightly, had become higher in pitch. “Someone read about the shooting—”
    “The shooting?”
    “Yes.” Another pause. “That’s how Phyllis died, Abner. I shot her.”
    “Good God!”
    “I had a gun. I was cleaning it. Christ, it’s the same old story, isn’t it? I was cleaning the gun, and I didn’t know it had any live rounds in it, and it went off—”
    “What in the hell did you have a gun for, Art?”
    “For protection. You need a gun in Manhattan, Abner. Ask anyone. It’s not like Bangor.”
    “She told me you hit her. She said that you hit her in the stomach and you ruptured her spleen and she went to St. Ignatius …”
    “Abner, please, find out who this woman really is, okay?!