Free Somebody Owes Me Money by Donald E. Westlake Page A

know. Is it a deal?”
    “Definitely,” she said, and smiled a glowing smile, and stuck her hand out. I took it, and it was cool and smooth and very delicate. “Thank you,” she said.
    “I haven’t done anything yet,” I said. “Can I make a suggestion?”
    “I wish you would.”
    “You go to this wake,” I said. “Stay there from beginning to end. Check out everybody who comes in, find out who they are. If Tommy’s wife shows up, ask her some questions about where she’s been. If anybody that Tommy worked for shows up, ask them about where I can get my money. What time is the wake over?”
    “Nine o’clock.”
    “Okay. There’s a poker game I’m in on Wednesdays, I’ll be there by then, I’ll give you the number. You can—”
    “Do they let girls sit in?”
    Surprised, I said, “Well, we’ve had girls sit in a couple of times.”
    “I’m not like them,” she said. “I promise I’m a good player.”
    “Not too good,” I said, and grinned.
    “We’ll see,” she said. “Do you think they’d mind if I sat in?”
    “They won’t mind,” I said. “You come right along. It’s in Manhattan, 38 East 81st Street. Between Park and Madison. The guy’s name is Jerry Allen.”
    “All right. I’ll be there around nine-thirty.”
    “Good. Where do you want to go now?”
    “Back to Tommy’s place,” she said. “That’s where I’ve been staying.”
    “Okay. I’m going to have to run the meter, you know, or a cop is liable to stop us.”
    “That’s all right,” she said. “I have money.”
    “Fine. You already owe me six forty-five for the trip down.” I started the car and the meter and headed up to Rockaway Parkway and made my left to go back to the Belt.
    “I’m glad you’re going to help,” she said.
    “Only till I get my money,” I reminded her. “I don’t want to act unchivalrous or anything, but it really isn’t my scene to go looking for murderers.”
    “It isn’t mine either,” she said. “But it has to be done. And I know you naturally don’t have as strong feelings about it as I do, so I won’t ask you to do any more than you want.”
    “Good,” I said.
    “Oh,” she said, as though it had just occurred to her, “and could I have my gun back, please?”
    “Ha ha,” I said.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing,” I said.
    “You mean I can’t have the gun back?”
    “Right.”
    “That’s mean, Chet. I need that gun, for my own safety.”
    “You’ll be a lot safer without it,” I said. “And so will everybody else.” And that was the end of that conversation.

11
    What with one thing and another I didn’t check the cab in till seven-thirty, and when I did I made no mention of the gunshot wound in the roof. It would have led to a very complicated conversation I didn’t particularly want to get into, and if somebody did notice the hole eventually, who was to say when it happened or that I was the one driving the cab at the time?
    The reason I worked till seven-thirty, even though the game starts at seven, was because I was almost out of cash. I didn’t know if my losing streak was over or if Purple Pecunia had been a fluke, and if I lost tonight at least I didn’t want to have to write any markers in front of Abbie McKay. Don’t ask me why I thought that was so important, because I don’t know. But I did.
    I’d already phoned my father a little after five that I wouldn’t be home for dinner, so I went to a greasy spoon near the garage and had franks and beans before going across town to Jerry Allen’s place. I kept being conscious of the weight of Abbie’s gun in my coat pocket. I didn’t particularly want to carry it around on me, but I couldn’t think of what else to do with it.
    I took the 79th Street crosstown bus and walked up to Jerry’s apartment. And I do mean up. Jerry lives on the top floor of a five-story building with no elevator. People tend to arrive at his door out of breath.
    As I did now. I rang the bell, and it was opened