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“New York,” she said. “I bought them on my shopping trip. How do I look, Don?”

“You look fine. We’re back to Don again?”

“For the time being. Do you like the name?”

“I don’t mind it.”

“Good.” She turned her back on me and walked to the window. She looked out, leaning against the sill. She turned around slowly, her eyes amused.

“Did you bring the money, Don?”

“Sure.”

“That’s good. It costs a lot of money to phone a lawyer in New York every day. This ten thousand will ease the burden.”

“I’m sure it will.”

“It will. May I have it now, Don?”

There was a bottle of gin on the bureau. It was about half full. That was sort of an added touch, although it would have been even better if it had been a scotch bottle. You can’t have everything.

“The money, Don.”

I took out my wallet and tossed it past her, onto the bed. She looked at me, then at the wallet. And she turned around to pick it up.

“This isn’t ten thousand,” she said. “Are you out of your—”

I hit her before she finished the sentence. I picked up the gin bottle and in one motion brought it down on her head. The cork was in the bottle. Not a drop spilled.

One blow wasn’t enough. She went down, sprawling at the foot of the bed, and she was too dazed and groggy to scream. I hit her again and again and I went right on beating her over the head until her skull was soft and it was very definitely over. I took her pulse, which was only a matter of form. She was very dead.

I looked at her again. That was a mistake, because what I saw was that fine black hair and those fine blue eyes — blind eyes now. And I saw also, for just an instant or so, an image of what could have been. In another world, perhaps. Long ago, in another country. The wench was dead now. I had murdered her.

I put the gin bottle down. I took my wallet and returned it to my jacket pocket. I did not wipe fingerprints from anything. That would have been silly.

The hallway was quiet. I stepped out of it, closing the door and locking it. I rang for the elevator. It came along soon enough and I rode to the lobby and walked out into the street.

I took a taxi to the airport. On the way I made small talk with the driver. He let me off at the entrance to the terminal. I went inside, walked over to one of the flight desks and picked up the ticket I’d reserved earlier. I paid for it with a crisp, fresh hundred-dollar bill.

Then I wandered outside again and caught another cab. I had him drop me at the bus terminal. There I got my lumber jacket and airlines bag from the locker I’d stuffed it in. I carried them upstairs to the men’s room. There was a large booth at one end where for a quarter you could do anything from taking a bath to sleeping for a quick hour. It was one of several favorite places for junkies looking for a spot to shoot up. I dropped my quarter in the slot and went inside.

I took off my coat, my jacket, my pants, my shoes. I washed up, then uncapped the bottle of hair dye and rubbed it into my hair. I worked on it until my hair was black instead of mud-colored. Then I put the bottle of dye on the edge of the sink and played around with the absorbent cotton. I packed cotton in my cheeks, under my upper lip, I checked myself in the mirror. It made a difference. How much of a difference was something I couldn’t tell for sure.

I dressed again. I put on the plaid flannel shirt, the denim work pants. I unlaced the work shoes and got my feet into them. I tied them. They weren’t as comfortable as my thirty-dollar pair but I had no complaint. The work shoes had not cost thirty dollars.

I put my own clothes back in the airlines bag. I took all my cards from my wallet, shredded them and flushed them down the toilet. I folded the money and slipped it into a pocket of the work pants. I dropped the wallet into the airlines bag. It was a shame to part with it, but men in denim pants don’t carry alligator wallets.

I looked at my watch — To Nat From Lou Baron. I dropped it into the bag. I looked at my lighter — To Nat From Tony — and dropped it into the bag too.

I checked myself in the mirror again. Not perfect, not close to perfect, but as good as I was going to be able to do. I got into the lumber jacket, zipped the airlines bag, dropped my own coat over my arm, picked up the bag and left the men’s room. I walked down a flight of stairs and went back to the lockers. I found one, used a dime on it and left the bag and the coat there. They would open that locker in time, but not for a few days.

Fifteen minutes later a bus left Buffalo headed for Cincinnati with a half-dozen minor stops along the way. I was on it.

We hit Cleveland at nine, then headed south and west. I sat in my seat and smoked a cigarette. An old man with whiskey breath dozed next to me. I tried to relax. It didn’t work.

The lawyer would have mailed the letters by now. Tomorrow the FBI would get a letter, the Buffalo police would get a letter, the home town police would get a letter. By that time, or even by now, somebody would have found Annie’s body at the foot of her bed in her room at the Malmsly.

I put out my cigarette. A minute later I scratched a match and set another one on fire. The bus kept rolling along an empty highway. I had a ticket to Cinci but somewhere along the way I was getting off. I had no idea where.

The big towns were out now. Big towns were mob towns and mob people would be looking for me. I knew too much to go on outside the organization. The mob wouldn’t look too hard but people would be keeping eyes open.

That left small towns. And a stranger stuck out like an infected pinkie in a small town.

Last time it had been easier. Last time only a few people had been looking for me and last time I’d been able to run with my own face and my own hair. Now it wasn’t safe to do that any longer. Now I had black hair and cotton in my cheeks. Someday somebody would notice this. Somebody would wonder why, and then...

I finished my cigarette and lit another one. My throat was raw from a few thousand cigarettes. I was tired but sleep was impossible. I didn’t even try.

Big towns, small towns. I had seven thousand dollars around my waist and no place to run to. Barshter was dead and Crowley was dead and I didn’t even have a new name picked out. Or a new personality, or a new person, or anything. I wondered who I would be, how I could hope to bring it off.

I sat in darkness and smoked. The drunk next to me started snoring. I went on smoking.

The Connecticut authorities were looking for Donald Barshter. The New York authorities were looking for Nat Crowley. The FBI was looking for us both.

I wondered who they’d catch first.