1963 - One Bright Summer Morning Read Online Free PDF

voice, he went on, “I have my own business now . . . doing fine.”
    “That's swell,” Kramer said. “Look, Moe, I want to see you. Something has come up . . . could be you'll be interested. It's big money . . . when I say big, that's what I mean. Your end could be a quarter of a million bucks. You interested?”
    Moe broke out in a sweat.
    “This line's not so hot,” he said. “What was that again?”
    “I said something has come up,” Kramer said, speaking more slowly. “Your end could be a quarter of a million bucks.”
    Moe closed his eyes. He suddenly was back in the small cell again, crouching against the far wall as two warders came in, grinning. Wrapped around their massive fists were leather belts. He felt the bile rise in his mouth and the memory of the awful beating he had taken set his mind quivering with fear.
    “Hello?” Kramer's voice was now impatient. “You still there, Moe?”
    “Sure . . . sounds good. Just what is it, Jim?”
    “I can't talk on an open fine,” Kramer said, an edge to his voice. “I want you out here. We'll talk about it. You know where I am . . . Paradise City. When can you come?”
    Moe looked with dismay at his shabby clothes. The other suit he owned was now nearly as shabby. He knew the way Big Jim lived. The fare to Paradise City would be around twenty dollars, and he hadn't twenty dollars. There were no days off at the restaurant: he even worked on Sundays, but something long forgotten stirred inside him. Big Jim and a quarter of a million dollars! Big Jim had never steered him wrong!
    Lowering his voice so that Fransioli couldn't hear what he was saying, he said, “I could get over there on Saturday. I'm pretty tied up right now.”
    “What's today . . . Tuesday? This is urgent, Moe. I want you sooner than that. You come Thursday. You don't pick up this kind of money every day. How about Thursday?”
    Moe wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand.
    “Anything you say, Jim. Sure. . . I'll be along Thursday.”
    He became aware that Fransioli was listening now and staring balefully at him.
    “Fly in,” Kramer said. “I'll be at the airport. There's a flight arriving at eleven-forty-three. We can drive out here and have lunch. Okay?”
    This would cost him his job, Moe was thinking, but to be hooked up with Big Jim again!
    “I'll be there.”
    “Fine . . . be seeing you, Moe,” and the connection was cut.
    Slowly Moe replaced the receiver.
    Fransioli, smelling of sweat and sweet wine, came over to him.
    “What's all this about?” he demanded. “You thinking of going someplace?”
    “It's nothing,” Moe said, wiping his hands on his dirty apron. “Just a drunk. I knew him years ago. He's stupid in the head.”
    Fransioli stared suspiciously at him.
    “Just so long as you aren't,” he said and began to wash glasses.
    The rest of the day passed very slowly for Moe. The magic words “a quarter of a million dollars” burned into his brain. Around four o'clock, Moe returned to his bedsitting room.
    He had two clear hours before returning to the restaurant. He moved like a man in a desperate hurry. He tore off his greasy clothes and washed himself. He ran an electric razor over his dark, sprouting beard. He put on a clean shirt and his best suit. While he was changing he was aware of the strident sound of a transistor radio blaring offbeat music in the apartment below.
    He paid no attention to the noise, but hurriedly completed his toilet. He ran down the four flights of stairs and into the hot street. A quick walk brought him to the trolley-bus stop. On the way, he had paused to buy a small bunch of violets. Every day, he bought the violets for Doll. They were her favourite flower.
    The trolley bus took him to the door of the hospital. He climbed the steps, walked along the corridors until he finally reached the long, depressing ward full of ageing women, ill or dying, who watched his long walk down the polished aisle until he reached the