Free The Player by Michael Tolkin

I don’t show up, what if I hide, watch him, see him, and then, later, kill him. No witnesses. An alibi. Go to San Francisco for the weekendand fly down under another name on another airline. Kill him, go back to San Francisco, and come home as Griffin Mill.
    Jan was in the room. “Griffin?” She looked at him with doubt. “Are you okay?”
    â€œWhy?” How long had this reverie lasted? Had he missed a ringing phone?
    â€œWalter Stuckel, what did he want? Was this about the postcards?”
    It was time to take charge. He looked at Jan with an equal blend of impatience, condescension, and affection. “Jan.” It was all he had to say. When she left the room and closed the door, he raised a triumphant fist in the air.
    He wrote, “I said I’d get back to you” on a piece of notepaper. Then he wrote, “It’s time we talked.” He paused. Now what? He crossed out that last line about naming the time and place. The line was weak, a kind of appeasement. It was too familiar. “No more cards. It’s my move now, but I’m giving it to you. Let’s do it soon.” He called
Variety
and got a price for a small ad. They preferred a check but accepted cash. Cashier’s check? they asked. No, said Griffin, cash.
    On his way home that night he stopped at a bank machine and took out two hundred dollars. When he got home, he put the money and the message in an envelope and addressed it to
Variety.
He didn’t have any stamps, because he never mailed anything from home. He bought stamps from a post-office machine in the morning.
    June Mercator called him at nine-thirty. Jan told him her name with a stupid innuendo, as though it were an old affair he was trying to stop. He wanted to say “Who?” but he took the call without a word.
    â€œHello, June. My God, I just found out about David. How are you?”
    â€œOh, I’m not very good, I guess. It hasn’t really hit me yet. It’s very complicated.”
    â€œI can imagine.” Why was she calling?
    â€œI’m just watching myself go through the motions of my own life.” Griffin sensed that she didn’t want to talk about this now, that she wanted to control the call, that she wasn’t feeling particularly emotional and wasn’t up to faking it.
    â€œThis is a blow to all of us,” said Griffin. “Have the police … have they made any progress?”
    â€œNo.” Then she didn’t say anything.
    â€œYou know, I went to the theater after I called you.”
    â€œYes.” Griffin wished she had said, “I know.” Her “Yes” just hung there, a challenge. He had already talked too much. Of course this is why she’s calling. “Yes, I wanted to talk to David about an idea. I had something he would have been good for.”
    â€œYou were going to give him an assignment?”
    â€œIf I say yes, I’ll be lying. I was going to talk to him about something, to see if he was interested, to see what ideas he might have.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œHe said he’d call me in the morning. He didn’t have his date book with him, but he’d try to fit me in.” Griffin said this with a touch of bemused pity, to let June know he wasn’t fooled by David but didn’t hold the game against him.
    A low sound came from June, a kind of sigh. Griffin heard a little exasperation with this bit of silly diplomacy, as though David were still alive, a little reproach directed at his soul, a little anger at herself for staying with him when it was just this kind of obvious gesture in the direction of pride that had kept her lover so far from success.
    â€œPoor David,” she said.
    â€œDid he have parents and stuff, family?”
    â€œEverything. Parents, a brother, a sister, a grandmother. A niece.”
    â€œWhen’s the funeral?”
    â€œYou don’t have to go.” There was a new sound in