“That's okay,” Doc said. “Only be careful at the station. The place will be lousy with our men.”
I laughed. “Our men? Sure, I'll be careful. Another thing: Before I return to the hide-out, suppose I phone the squad room, slip them a fast story about we're on something hot and may not call in for another three or four hours. That would give us more time.”
Doc scratched his face with his gun barrel, then holstered the rod. “Let's pack while we talk. I'm not so sure about the phone angle. Smith is a shrewdie. First off, if you should be spotted by another dick, play it cool; they can't possibly know anything yet. Just wave and walk away, or ride away, if you're still in the car. Be especially careful at the railway station, and absolutely certain no cop sees you headed for the hide-out. Now, if you phone Smith from the station, that would fit in—in case he can ever trace the call. Make the call abrupt, as if you're in a big rush. A few fast words and hang up before Bill has a chance to talk to you. If you're in doubt, skip the telephone bit. Now let's pack.”
It was some experience—the first time I packed a million bucks.
12—
I came out of the delicatessen with a bag full of beer, a barbecued chicken, orange juice, and a pie. It was my third night of shopping. I went out every other night, never to the same store twice, never bought more than five bucks' worth of food in any one shop. I was pretty cocky and sure of my disguise, almost welcomed leaving the buggy house. Although Doc seemed to think my walking around was a milk run. He was carrying his coolness too far, asking me to hunt around for some kind of sharp cheese, special crackers, frozen egg rolls, or other fancy chow. And he seemed to be worrying more about fuel for his lighter than figuring a way for us to break out of town. Of course I was acting a trifle stir-happy, too. I kept buying light bulbs; had this fear about the light in our room giving out.
But Doc had been right—as always. Luck had been with us all the way. Molly hadn't any friends: In the ten days we'd been in the house not a soul had come near it. I stopped for the evening paper and a couple packs of butts, then walked up to the old house like I owned it. I'd found a key in Molly's purse, along with most of the original five hundred dollars we'd given her. I'd also come across a neat bankbook in another purse. The old witch had $7269.53 socked away in a savings account. We couldn't touch that, but I kept the book anyway.
As I took out the key, my eye hit the dateline on the newspaper. It was a small shock to realize tomorrow would be exactly eight years since Daisy had died. I stared at the date for a moment, upset. I always made a point of putting flowers on her grave every year. I wanted to do it now, wanted to badly because I had a hunch I'd never see her grave again.
I turned around and walked up the street, hunting for a florist shop. It was silly; a florist would starve in this neighborhood. And it would be dangerous going to her grave. Not only all that traveling, but they just might have it staked out. Still, they didn't know her as Laspiza; on police records she was down as Mrs. Daisy Perm.
I kept walking in the night, thinking at least I could send some flowers. It was the very least I could do for Mom, and if I sent them under the name Laspiza, as I'd have to, there was little chance of anybody getting wise. But a little voice in the back of my noggin kept telling me it was risky. A small thing like this could be the very bit that would trip me. Yet this would be my last chance to give Daisy flowers.
I walked across town several blocks—I'd never been this far from the house—and came out on Seventy-ninth Street, which is a pretty big thoroughfare and well lighted. I wasn't too worried, had plenty of confidence in my “clown” outfit. I walked about a block up Seventy-ninth, most of the stores still open, thinking that even if I didn't send them I ought to buy flowers for her. Somehow, she'd know I had her in mind. And would Daisy also know I was on the lam? A—
My heart jumped out of my mouth as I hurriedly faced a store window, raised my grocery bags over my face. There at the curb, getting out of his low-slung MG, was Shep Harris!
Maybe he saw me and maybe he didn't. In the window's reflection I watched him walk directly into a hobby-toy store. I turned and walked by the store—fast—and saw Shep's owl face as he talked to a clerk, pointing to something on the shelf. His back was to me and I turned the corner, headed for the house, trying not to run. I was so jittery I walked into a couple of teen-age girls who giggled at me to watch where I was going.
Shep with his dope about facial angles—had he seen me? With a million bucks in my kick, I was worrying about flowers for a grave. That kind of carelessness could put me underground myself!
Unlocking the door, I made straight for the kitchen, walking fast in the dark. I put the food on the table, turned on the light. My hands were trembling and I leaned against the refrigerator for a moment, to calm my nerves. There was a faint sour stink in the house. Probably only faint because I was used to it—and probably Molly. I was always aware of it after I'd been out of the house. I called out, “Doc?”
There was a few seconds of silence. I got jittery all over again about something else—maybe Doc had taken off with the dough!
But then I heard his steps and a moment later he appeared in the kitchen doorway. I could smell him, too. He sure looked a mess: his clothes crumpled and stained, hair uncombed, the thick gray stubble on his face. Dapper Doc—he hadn't washed or had his clothes off since we'd been here. He asked, “What took you so long?”
“I was shopping around for your damn frozen strawberries,” I said, walking over to the sink, easing the cotton out of my nose, and running cold water over my wrists.
“Pull the shade down,” he snapped, looking through the paper bags on the table. “You get them?”
“No. I didn't see any and I couldn't ask. Dressed like a working stiff, a storekeeper might get suspicious.”
Doc sighed. “You're right. But I certainly have a yen for them. Sound like I'm pregnant.”
“Get pregnant with some ideas for leaving this dump.”
“I hope this chicken isn't stale. Let's get back to our room. Stinks in here.”
He turned out the light and I put two beers in the refrigerator, dropped one of them. It made a noise like thunder in the still house. Doc jumped, then grinned as he asked, “Getting the shakes, Bucky?”
“Could be.”
After we ate, and I threw the garbage in the unused old coal furnace in the damp cellar—and how I wanted to light all the junk in it, burn the bugs that were having a holiday there!—I came back to the room to see Doc sprawled on his cot, smoking a cigarette and contentedly reading the papers. He looked like he was right at home. I asked, “How much longer are we going to stay here? No sense in pushing our luck too far.”
“We haven't been pushing it. This is a good spot.”
“Is it? Molly's odor is reaching outside.”
“Not yet. If this were an apartment, or an attached house, it would, but with empty lots on all sides we're safe.”
“I smelt her outside,” I said to annoy him.
He glanced at me over the top of his paper. “You really did, Bucky boy, or was it your imagination?”