Authors: Hilary Thomson
A Will To Murder (34 page)
Smith found his friend in the side hallway, but Eric was still on the phone, so Bradley went into the kitchen. “Here, Frankie, let’s feed you. I’ll bet those cops didn’t even bother.”
“Why Frankie?” Bernie asked. “That’s not his name.” She was eyeing the decor in a skittish way.
“It is now. It’s because he has a hoarse meow--Vegas throat--and he used to hang out with thugs. Could you put Purrball and Muffin in their room? I need to wait for Eric.”
Bernie went upstairs, while Smith found a can of crabmeat and fed the ginger cat off a Wedgewood plate. The cat was still purring over his meal when Eric wandered into the kitchen, looking shaken.
“I don’t believe this,” he said to Bradley. “Three women were flirting with me this past week, and now one’s dead, another’s in jail, and the third’s just dumped me! Wendy said it was enjoyable working with me, but she didn’t see any future for us.” He laughed bitterly. “She must have only wanted me for my seedy connections.”
“God, Eric, you’re never going to get married at this rate. You’re way behind me.”
“Hey, you’re not married.”
“Yes I am.”
“No, you are not!”
“Yes I am.”
“Prove it!”
Smith eased off a loafer and pulled a smashed piece of paper out from under his sock. This he handed to his friend, and Eric took it reluctantly. Unfolding the creases, Eric read it. “This is a marriage license,” he said in confusion.
“Uh-huh. Nixie and I got married today, and Arthur was a witness--that’s one reason I bought him the rabbits, to reward him. And we’re going to be having a little baby.”
Eric was speechless for a moment. Then he asked, “Who’s Nixie?”
“Bernice. It’s her nickname.”
“Who’s Bernice?”
“Bernie! God, you don’t catch on very fast, do you?”
“Just a damn moment here. I see it’s time for the emergency room psychiatrist. Since when did you have any interest in women?”
“Hey, I can deviate from my norm if I want to.”
“Why?”
“Well, she’s sort of tired of guys, and I am too, right now. All I ever meet are scumbags.”
“But is that any reason to get married? Marriages need a stronger foundation than that. And you should marry someone you’ve known longer than a day and a half.”
“We know each other well enough. We’re the same personality type, adventurous, but decent.”
“God,” Eric moaned. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve married your mother. You’ve picked a girl who’s as screwy as she was.”
“So what? Don’t they say that if you marry someone with a personality you’re used to, it usually works?”
“Speaking about that baby, does it already exist or is it planned?”
“Already there.”
“Who’s the father?”
“Irv.”
Eric moaned again.
“Hey! You can’t blame a helpless little baby like Nadia/George for her father.”
“Nadia/George?”
“Names we’re considering. I’m damned if I’m going to name the kid Eric after this conversation. I
was
thinking of it, you know.”
“How’s the kid going to react when he hatches and sees you’re his father? With his genes he’ll probably blow you away with the first gun he can toddle over to.”
“That’s ridiculous. I won’t allow guns in my house. Besides, what makes you think I can’t make a small child love me? I do perfectly well with cats.”
“Another point. Can you take a bloodied and screaming kid to the emergency room if little Nadia/George hurts himself? Are you up to all the stressful moments involved in raising a child?”
Bradley wore a lofty expression. “Of course. I take cats to the vet all the time.”
Eric gave up. “All right, that’s the last I’ll say about it. When’s the baby due?”
“Little N/G or possibly E should be showing up in about seven months. That’s one reason why Nixie wanted to get away from Irv. He would have forced her to abort the baby, and she wanted to keep it.”
“I see Irv had
some
sense,” Eric said under his breath.
“Speaking of which, what are you going to buy me for a wedding present?”
“Hey, you owe me for a hotel room.”
“He’d remember something like that,” said Bradley to the ceiling. “Some friend you are, urging me to get a divorce and hitting me up for money. Just to show you what a nice guy I am, I’ll give you my ticket.”
“
What
ticket? A
speeding
ticket? If you’ve gotten one in my car--”
“It’s my racetrack ticket, dummy.” Bradley slid the strip of paper across the table.
Eric waved his hands over his head, distraught. “Do you friggin’ think I need a souvenir of Irv? Keep it for yourself.”
“Dummy, it’s a winning ticket. I called first, second, and third places correctly, which is pretty cool of me considering I don’t know anything about horses except that they eat hay. Take it. It’s a lot of money.”
Eric stared blankly at the ticket. Bradley flapped it up and down in front of his friend’s face. “Eric, uh, Eric?”
“Winning ticket?” Eric asked feebly. “You won?”
“I just told you that, bozo. I called the racetrack after we landed at the airport and found out the results. They told me I have a week to cash it in.”
“Wait a minute. Who would I have to collect the winnings from?”
Bradley grimaced. “Irv. They told me that for really big payouts, the owner of the racetrack has to sign the check and oversee the transfer of cash.”
Eric put a hand over his face. “I thought so. I wondered why you hadn’t already collected the money yourself.”
“Hey! Are you criticizing my generosity?”
Eric lifted the hand and gave him a bemused look. “No. But I’d rather live. I doubt Irv will pay up voluntarily, even though he’s in jail. He’d be so mad that we’d have to sue him for the money, and it wouldn’t surprise me if his assets wind up mysteriously vanishing. He might even have his associates do me in. Frankly, I’d be too scared to collect.”
Bradley stared at the ticket, lying abandoned in the center of the breakfast table. “I’m scared too.”
Eric laughed ruefully. “I figured that’s why you offered it to me. You might as well keep it.”
“Maybe I could donate it to charity, and take it off my income tax,” said Smith.
“You don’t make enough money to have to pay income tax. Neither do I. We’re both starving writers, remember.” They stared at the ticket, paralyzed.
“I think I’ll have to pay tax this year,” said Bradley. “I inherited all the Boyle money, you know.”
“What!?” squawked Eric.
The End
Acknowledgments
The Author thanks Mom and Dad for helping to kill off Colette.
Cover Photo by Edward Steichen. (1924)
Cover Design by The Pongid Press.
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