Free The Octopus on My Head by Jim Nisbet Page B

didn’t look so well herself, but she perked up when she saw the money. “If I were an actress,” she muttered gamely, “I’d say that’s a rôle worth considering.”
    There were eighty-seven one-hundred dollar bills, two twenties, one ten, and four ones. It took almost two minutes to count them.
    Just like that, I was handling more cash than I’d ever handled in my life.
    â€œHe was good for it,” Lavinia marveled.
    â€œThere’s enough to pay off the sound system,” I puzzled. “So what are we doing here?”
    â€œStepnowski was sixty days past his most recent payment, which is a month beyond the pale. Sal couldn’t get him on the phone, so he called Ivy.”
    â€œBetween not being able to get away with it and not wanting to get your guitar-playing fingers broken, let alone get yourself killed,” I gestured at the body, “this doesn’t have to happen too often?”
    Lavinia shook her head gravely. “Ivy doesn’t happen too often. But this,” she blinked toward Stepnowski, “this never happens.”
    â€œNow must be never.”
    She pursed her lips. “It’s certainly more than I bargained for.”
    I held up the money. “What should we do?” Before she could answer, I added, “We should call the cops.”
    â€œIf we call the cops,” Lavinia suggested, “they’ll try to prove that we did it. They won’t look for anybody else.”
    â€œThat would be a hasty conclusion. We only came here to collect a bad debt. It’s unfortunate, I admit, that you had to bring along a gun—by the way, is it licensed?”
    Lavinia rolled her eyes.
    â€œSo your pistol could be a little troublesome. Still, that’s a long way from a murder rap. By the time they coordinate time of death with our whereabouts today, and get back the ballistics, and talk to Ivy and Kramer, we’ll be in the clear. They’ll keep your gun and that’ll be it.”
    Lavinia cleared her throat and recited dully, “I’ll be in the clear until they find the inventory of liquor store videos in my apartment. Then they’ll start wondering all over again about who was driving the getaway car.”
    â€œWhat getaway car?” I was taken aback. “You mean for the robbery?” Of course that’s what she meant. “Lavinia …. ”
    Lavinia looked morose. “Think of it as a youthful indiscretion.”
    I didn’t like this development at all, even if, ultimately, it had nothing to do with me. What the hell is going on, I wondered. Is this the night I grow up? Reluctantly I said, “I guess you have a point.”
    â€œThere’s another one. The cops will impound that wad of money. It might show up in the evidence cage; it might not. It might even make it to the exhibit table at the hearing. Either way, we’ll never get another chance at it. There will be no dough for Kramer, no cut for Lavinia, no bail for Ivy, and no rent for Curly.”
    â€œDamn it,” I declared, “How come I never see things as clearly as you do?”
    â€œBecause I’m a businesswoman,” Lavinia suggested. “And you are only a musician.” She pointed her chin at the corpse. “Like him.”
    â€œThat’s a drummer,” I said reflexively.
    â€œCurly,” she said, “I still have a couple of rounds in this piece, here. But I don’t think I’m going to have to mention them just to help you out with your decision.”
    She crossed her arms, leaned against the wall, and watched me.
    â€œYou wouldn’t …. ” I blinked stupidly. “You would?”
    She rubbed the pinky and ring finger of her left hand back and forth above her left eye, as if to ease a headache. “No, but, on the other hand …. ” She dropped her hand and looked at me. “Have I got a choice?”
    I scarcely credited that she would