Free The Curse by Harold Robbins

be repeated again. Who would have guessed that the guy I picked to watch Morty for me on my last trip out of town would help himself to my cold cash in the freezer? He seemed like a nice guy who liked cats … I had even bought him his favorite bottle of rum.
    No, this time the cash was going in a place where no one would ever think to look. The toilet tank. In a sealed plastic baggie.
    What thief would think to look there?
    I thought the idea was inspired.
    *   *   *
    I JUST MISSED THE train by seconds after I walked down the stairs of the subway station and zipped my MetroCard through the turnstile. The next one wasn’t due for another ten minutes.
    I checked for any weird and crazy characters lounging about. I always did this when I was in a subway station. Call me paranoid, but if I saw any weirdos I’d get as far away from them as possible. I had already run into one crazy person today.
    So far so good.
    I picked a spot and waited, thinking about the good old days when I rarely rode the subway. It was a status thing to takes taxis or be picked up by a car and driver even if it took longer to get anywhere on the streets above. I had a good paying job then.
    Back to reality here: at least I had picked up a new client and I was going to England and maybe even Egypt. That’s what I was thinking about when my eye suddenly caught sight of a woman staring at me.
    I froze.
    Oh shit—it was her.
    I wasn’t 100 percent sure since she was dressed differently and there were thousands of women in the city with a similar age, build, and ethnic background. Other women with an alike appearance were in the station, but what keyed me on to her was that she had paused close to me, making the short hairs on the back of my neck fan.
    I stood with my feet cemented to the ground debating what to do. I still hadn’t gotten a look at her face because I was avoiding staring at her. I could run for an exit in the small station without passing her.
    Don’t panic, I told myself.
    She wasn’t making a move toward me, probably because there were other people around. Of course, this was New York, a city famous for its refusal of the average citizen to come to the aid of crime victims. And the cops sometimes weren’t much more helpful. The woman could slice and dice me on the platform and people would simply step around the blood.
    I heard the rumbling noise as a train was approaching the station. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. Train cars were smaller now, making it harder to avoid someone out to stab you. I sure as hell wasn’t going to get into the same subway car with her.
    I started edging away, I hoped subtly, as if I were getting in position to board.
    The woman turned toward me. She was sweating. It was warm in the subway station, but not uncomfortably hot enough to break out in a sweat.
    She also looked tired, no, more than tired; she appeared fatigued, even wasted. Something was definitely wrong with the woman, but she didn’t look threatening, just appeared all worn-out, as if she had been struggling with life’s demons and not winning the war.
    There was something else about her. A hint of hysteria from life or drugs, I didn’t know which.
    I still wasn’t sure it was her and I didn’t want to make eye contact with her even if it wasn’t. I learned that lesson soon after I had arrived in New York for my first curator job.
    I’d had the misfortune to make eye contact with a bag lady on the street who humiliated me by yelling for the whole world to hear, “Doesn’t a lady know she’s not supposed to pick a bugger out of her nose?” I wanted to crawl under the nearest manhole cover and hide.
    After that I never made eye contact with crazies.
    I edged farther away and my movement seemed to galvanize her into action.
    She started toward me, rambling almost unintelligently. “It’s cursed … it’s taken