Murder Me for Nickels by Peter Rabe

Author:Peter Rabe [Rabe, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781440539978
Publisher: F+W Media, Inc.
Published: 2012-01-15T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

I had a time waking her in the morning but she had to be at work. When she was good and awake I had a notion she should stay in bed a little bit longer, but she said I should take her home or she would never come back. The thought was new to me but it was a good one.

I took her home first, to change, and then to her office. The Benotti place, I could see from across the street, showed some activity. There was somebody with a broom and somebody else with a clip board and pencil and what they were working on must have been inventory.

Then I drove off, top down, for some morning air and deep breathing, a refreshing way of starting the day and more harmless, it is my feeling, when done in a convertible, than in the fanatic’s manner, such as calisthenics or hikes.

At eight-thirty I had ham and eggs, at nine o’clock it was still too early for anything. Lippit, after all, had been having a party. I spent twenty minutes or so calling a few of our places and the word was peace in each case and we’re glad it’s over. I had chitchat with a few of them—what is called customer relations work—and it was, “Why don’t you drop in sometime,” and, “Sure, Jack, the machines are fine.” In two places our service hop with the change of records was late but that happened sometimes and was not a real complaint.

At ten o’clock I rang the bell of Lippit’s apartment.

“The door’s open!”

The morning paper was in front of the door and I brought that with me.

But they didn’t pay any attention to me. I stood there with the paper in my hand and watched Lippit try to get into his jacket. He was so mad it took him twice as long as it would have taken a child.

“And if I want back talk,” he was yelling, “I’ll ask for it. And if you can’t handle a sane conversation, then don’t talk to me!”

Pat was on the couch, holding a coffee cup, but then she put it down to be less encumbered.

“And if you don’t like me to talk to your help then don’t invite them up here for a party!”

“You telling me who to invite and who not?”

“Whom, Walter.”

“I’m going nuts!”

“Good morning,” I said.

“You go to hell, too!” said Lippit.

I went back to the door and said, “All right. I’ll see you, maybe?” but then he called after me I should wait, he’d come along right away.

I stood around while he finished with his jacket and while Pat sipped her coffee as if it was poison but she liked drinking poison. Once she kicked at a glass on the floor.

The whole place was a mess. It was the standard post-party formula of cigarette butts, dead soldiers, brown dregs in the bottoms of glasses with lipstick stains on the rim. Sometimes there was a switch on the order of things and there was liquor in an ashtray and butts in a liquor glass.

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