Somebody Owes Me Money by Donald E. Westlake

Author:Donald E. Westlake [Westlake, Donald E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, Humour, Thriller
ISBN: 9781781161029
Google: IwSQKQEACAAJ
Amazon: B005O0ZU3S
Barnesnoble: B005O0ZU3S
Goodreads: 12772073
Publisher: Titan
Published: 1969-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

18

My arms were around somebody. Somebody warm. Somebody soft. Somebody who smelled musky and nice. Somebody female.

Female? My eyes popped open, and I was looking at a lot of tangled blond hair. I blinked at the hair, felt the warm female body snuggled against mine, and for just a second I was afraid I was in terrible trouble. Then I remembered. I was in terrible trouble, but not that kind.

I must have moved or something, because all at once the mass of hair lifted, like a drawbridge going up, and two wide-open blue eyes were three inches from my face, staring at me. I blinked. They blinked.

I said, “Good morning.”

She jumped a mile, or at least out of my arms, and sat beside me, holding the covers up against herself and staring down at me.

I said, “Abbie, this was your idea. You were very cool about the whole thing last night, so don’t fly off the handle now.”

Comprehension flowed into her eyes as though poured in from above, and she said, “Chet?” As though to be sure what she was seeing was right.

“It’s me,” I said.

She shook her head, fluffed her hair, scrubbed her face with her palms. “Whoof!” she said. “Boy, did I sleep!”

“Me, too,” I said.

She smiled at me. “That was kind of nice. Together like that.”

“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” I said. “When I’m stronger.”

Her smile turned a touch lewd. “It might be fun,” she said.

I reached out and touched the bare skin of her side, between panties and bra. “It might be.”

She pushed my hand away and got out of bed. “You shouldn’t excite yourself,” she said. “You’re still sick.”

“I’m not exciting me.”

“I’ll get dressed. You look away or something. How are you this morning, anyway?”

“All cured.”

“Oh foo.” She put on her robe. “Now. How do you feel?”

It was a peculiarly uninteresting robe, a pale blue terrycloth with a pale blue terrycloth sash. I turned my attention inward instead, and said, “I’m starving.”

“That’s a good sign.” She picked up her watch, wound it, put it on, looked at it. “I’ve got to hurry. How do you like your eggs?”

“Over easy. And coffee regular.”

“Tea,” she said.

“For breakfast?”

“Make believe you’re English.” She went over and knocked on the door, and after a minute Ralph let her out. He glanced in at me and decided to leave the door open.

Abbie came back a while later with a tray for me, and dressed while I ate. Surprisingly, I did not stab myself in the cheek with my fork. When she was dressed she took the tray away again and came back in her orange fur coat and said, “I’m off to the funeral. Isn’t this an awful thing to be wearing? But it’s all I have.”

“You look great,” I said.

“Do I? Thank you.” She smiled and frowned at once. “But you’re not supposed to look great at funerals.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “Nobody will complain.”

“You say very nice things,” she said. “See you.”

“See you.”

She left, and Ralph came in to help me to the bathroom.

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