I Will Fear No Evil Read Online Free PDF Page B

cloak is heavier than it looks.”
    “I noticed it was heavy. Body armor?”
    “Yes, sir. I’m out by myself quite a lot.”
    “No wonder you’re too warm. Take it off. Take off anything you wish to.”
    She grinned at him. “I wonder if you are a dirty old man, too. For another million?”
    “Not a durned dime! Shut up, child, and let me phone.”
    “Yes, sir.” Mrs. Branca wiggled out of her cloak, then raised the leg rest on her side, stretched out, and relaxed.
    Such a strange day! . . . am I really going to be rich? . . . doesn’t seem real . . . well, I’m not going to spend a dime —or let Joe spend it—unless it’s safe in the bank . . . learned that the hard way first year we were married . . . some men understand money—such as Mr. Salomon, or Boss—and some don’t, such as Joe . . . but as sweet a husband as a girl could wish . . . as long as I never again let him share a joint account . . .
    Dear Joe! . . . those are pretty ‘gams’ if you do say so as shouldn’t, you bitch . . . ‘Bitch—’ . . . how quaint Boss is with his old-fashioned taboos . . . always necessary not to shock him—not too much, that is; Boss enjoys a slight flavor of shock, like a whiff of garlic . . . especially necessary not to annoy him with language everybody uses nowadays . . . Joe is good for a girl, never have to be careful around him . . . except about money—
    Wonder what Joe would think if he could see me locked in this luxurious vault with this old goat? . . . probably be amused but best not to tell him, dearie; men’s minds don’t work the way ours do, men are not logical . . . wrong to think of Mr. Salomon as an ‘old goat’ though; he certainly has not acted like one . . . you had to reach for that provocative remark, didn’t you, dear? . . . just to see what he would say . . . and found out! . . . got squelched—
    Is he too old? . . . hell, no, dear, the way they hike ‘em up with hormones a man is never ‘too old’ until he’s too feeble to move . . . the way Boss is . . . not that Boss ever made the faintest pass even years back when he was still in fair shape . . .
    Did Boss really expect to regain his youth by transplanting his brain? . . . arms and legs and kidneys and even hearts, sure, sure—but a brain? . . .
    Salomon switched off the telephone. “Done,” he announced. “All but signing papers, which I’ll do in Toronto this evening.”
    “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, sir.”
    “My pleasure.”
    “I do appreciate it. And I must think about how to thank Boss—didn’t thank him today but didn’t think he meant it.”
    “Don’t thank him.”
    “Oh, but I must. But I don’t know how. How does one thank a man for a million dollars? And not seem insincere?”
    “Hmm! There are ways. But, in this case, don’t. My dear, you delighted Johann when you showed no trace of gratitude; I know him. Too many people have thanked him in the past . . . then figured him as an easy mark and tried to bleed him again. Then tried to knife him when he turned out not to be. So don’t thank him. Sweet talk he does not believe; he figures it’s always aimed at his money. I notice you’re spunky with him.”
    “I have to be, sir, or he tromps on me. He had me in tears a couple of times—years back—before I found out he wanted me to stand up to him.”
    “You see? The old tyrant is making bets with himself as to whether you’ll come trotting in tomorrow and lick his hand like a dog. So don’t even mention it. Tell me about yourself, Eunice—age, how long you’ve been married, and how often, number of children, childhood diseases, why you aren’t on video, what your husband does, how you got to be Johann’s secretary, number of arrests and for what—Or tell me to go to hell; you are entitled to privacy. But I would like to know you better; we are going to be working together from here on.”
    “I don’t mind answering”—(I’ll tell just want I want to tell!)—“but does