One for the Money Page 0,53

concerned about the seriousness of his wound. He said he'd had worse, but I could see the pain wearing him down, pinching his face.

I wrapped my arms tight around myself and clamped my teeth together to keep them from chattering. Outwardly I was keeping a stiff upper lip, trying to be as stoic as Ranger, trying to be confidently supportive. Inside, I was shaking so bad I could feel my heart shivering in my chest.

THE COPS CAME FIRST, then the paramedics, then Al. We gave preliminary statements, Ranger was trundled off to the hospital, and I followed the squad car to the station.

It was close to five by the time I reached Vinnie's office. I asked Connie to write out separate checks. Fifty dollars to me. The remainder to Ranger. I wouldn't have taken any money at all, but I really needed to screen my calls, and this was the only way I could buy an answering machine.

I dearly wanted to go home, take a shower, change into clean, dry clothes, and have a decent meal. I knew once I got settled in, I wasn't going to want to go out again, so I detoured to Kuntz Appliances before heading back to my apartment.

Bernie was using a small roller device to paste price stickers onto a carton of alarm clocks. He looked up when I walked in the door.

"I need an answering machine," I told him. "Something under fifty dollars."

My shirt and my jeans were relatively dry by now, but my shoes still leaked water when I walked. Everywhere I stood, amoeba-like puddles formed around me.

Bernie politely pretended not to notice. He shifted into salesman mode and showed me two models of answering machines, both in my price range. I asked which he recommended and followed his advice.

"MasterCard?" he asked.

"I just got a fifty-dollar check from Vinnie. Can I sign it over to you?"

"Sure," he said. "That'd be okay."

From where I was standing I could look out the front window, across the street, into Sal's Meat Market. There wasn't much to see—a shadowy display window with the name lettered in black and gold and the single glass door with the red and white OPEN sign affixed by a small suction cup halfway up. I imagined Bernie spending hours peering out his window, numbly staring at Sal's door.

"You said Ziggy Kulesza shopped at Sal's?"

"Yeah. Of course, there's all kinds of shopping you can do at Sal's."

"So I hear. What kind of shopping do you think Ziggy was doing?"

"Hard to say, but I didn't notice him coming out with bags of pork chops."

I tucked my answering machine under my shirt and ran to my car. I took a last wondering look at Sal's, and I pulled away.

Traffic was slow in the rain, and I found myself mesmerized by the beat and the swish of the wiper and the smear of red brake lights appearing in front of me. I was driving on autopilot, reviewing the day, worrying about Ranger. It's one thing to see someone shot on television. It's quite another to see the destruction firsthand. Ranger kept saying it wasn't a bad wound, but it was bad enough for me. I owned a gun, and I was going to learn how to use it correctly, but I'd lost some of my earlier enthusiasm for pumping lead into a body.

I turned into my lot and found a spot close to the building. I set the alarm and dragged myself out of the car and up the stairs. I left my shoes in the foyer and put the answering machine and my pocketbook on the kitchen counter. I cracked open a beer and called the hospital to check on Ranger. I was told he'd been treated and released. That was good news.

I stuffed myself full of Ritz crackers and peanut butter, washed them down with a second beer, and staggered into my bedroom. I peeled my damp clothes away, half expecting to see that I'd started to mildew. I didn't check everywhere, but the body parts I saw looked mold-free. Hot dog. What luck. I dropped a T-shirt-type nightgown over my head, hiked up a clean pair of undies, and crashed into bed.

I woke with my heart racing and not knowing why. The cobwebs parted, and I realized the phone was ringing. I fumbled for the receiver and stared stupidly at the bedside clock. Two o'clock. Someone must have died, I thought. My Grandma Mazur or my Aunt Sophie. Or maybe my father