Free Memory (Hard Case Crime) by Donald E. Westlake Page A

man with only one arm; Cole watched him with fascination as he drew the beers. He brought them over two at a time, thick fingers entwined between the glasses. The jukebox was playing loudly, an instrumental with a simple repetitive melody over a beat as solid and predictable as the rungs of a ladder, and when they started talking they had to shout over it.
    It was as though there had been something curled up inside Cole, as though some small animal had burrowed away into his chest to hide or nurse itself, and all at once it was gone, the pressure had all whistled out of him, and he laughed and became something like his old self again, forgetting that he couldn’t remember. They all talked together, about nothing at all but without pause, and from time to time they played teams at the bowling machine, Cole and Little Jack against Buddy and Ralph. For Cole, with so many of his memories gone, this was almost like a revelation of a different kind of life. When one of the others mentioned Artie Bellman, some recent memories crushed back into Cole’s mind, depressing him, and he told the others about his money problems, but not about his need to get away. They hadn’t asked him about his past, and he felt reticent to tell them about past or future; only the present was relevant here.
    Buddy said, “You want to be careful, Paul. Bellman’ll bleed you white.”
    “What can I do?”
    “You want to get out of that hotel,” Ralph told him. “Seventeen-fifty a week, Jesus, that’s way too much.”
    Little Jack said, “Get yourself a furnished room. Room and board, maybe. It’ll be a hell of a lot cheaper. Get yourself a paper tomorrow and go find yourself a room.”
    Cole nodded. “All right,” he said. “I will.”
    Shortly afterward, the one-armed bartender, whose name was George, told them it was two o’clock and closing time. They all made a great show of being panic-stricken as they ordered one last round, beating the second hand of the whiskey clock perched on top of the cash register, and a few minutes later they were all out on the sidewalk. Through the window, Cole could see George turning off the lights. His empty left sleeve was folded over onto his stomach and attached to his shirt there with a big safety pin.
    The four of them walked together for a few blocks, and Cole had to ask directions to get back to the hotel. When he and Little Jack parted, Little Jack called, “Don’t forget. Get a paper tomorrow and go find yourself a room.”
    “I won’t forget,” Cole promised. But he was afraid he would forget, so he walked along the cold tilting sidewalks whispering to himself, “Get a paper and find a room, get a paper and find a room.”
    When he got back to his room in the hotel, he took pen and paper and wrote himself a note. Then he picked up the crumpled sheets of paper on the floor and stood by the dresser, holding the sheets of paper down on the dresser and trying to smooth them out with his other hand. He told himself he shouldn’t have got so upset. He looked again at the two names heading the first page, and now he did seem to have a dim memory of a face to go with the name Nick, though what connection that face might have with the word caricature he still didn’t know.
    He read through the rest of his notes. About half of them were meaningful for him, and the other half were just blanks, just gibberish. But that didn’t bother him in particular; isolated memories drifted in and out of his mind, and if the blanks had been real memories a week ago that meant they were still in his head somewhere and he could still eventually get them out again.
    One other matter did bother him. One of his notes read: “WILL & MARY—BLACKJACK.” Another read: “RALPH—SIX-PACK OF BEER UNDER SEAT.” Both of these notes stirred memory images for him, but they were the wrong images. Blackjack brought to mind only Black Jack Flynn, blotting out any possible chance of seeing Will and Mary behind him, and Ralph ,