The Complete Crime Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

name, address, and phone, and when you’re looked up you’ll get a call. They give you a number, and from then on you phone in and your name will be good for your bets.”
    â€œMy name is Miles Kearny.”
    She wrote it on an envelope, with my phone and address, an apartment in southeast Washington. I took the pen from her hand, rubbed ink on my signet right, and pressed the ring on the envelope, so the little coronet, with the three tulips over it, showed nice and clear. She got some ink off my hand with her blotter, then studied the impression on the envelope. She said: “Are you a prince or something?”
    â€œNo, but it’s been in the family. And it’s one way to get my hand held. And pave the way for me to ask something.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œAre you from the West?”
    â€œNo, I’m not. I’m from Ohio. Why?”
    â€œAnd you’ve never lived in Mexico?”
    â€œNo, but I love Mexican clothes.”
    â€œThen that explains it.”
    â€œExplains what?”
    â€œHow you come to look that way and—and how I came to fall for you. I am from the West. Southern California.”
    She got badly rattled again and after a long break said: “Have you got it straight now? About losses? They have to be paid.”
    â€œI generally pay what I owe.”
    There was a long, queer break then, and she seemed to have something on her mind. At last she blurted out: “And do you really want in?”
    â€œListen, I’m over twenty-one.”
    â€œIn’s easy. Out’s not.”
    â€œYou mean it’s habit-forming?”
    â€œI mean, be careful who you give your name to, or your address, or phone.”
    â€œThey give theirs, don’t they?”
    â€œThey give you a number.”
    â€œIs that number yours, too?”
    â€œI can be reached there.”
    â€œAnd who do I ask for?”
    â€œâ€¦ Ruth.”
    â€œThat all the name you got?”
    â€œIn this business, yes.”
    â€œI want in.”
    Next day, by the cold gray light of Foggy Bottom, which is what they call the State Department, you’d think that I’d come to my senses and forget her. But I thought of her all day long, and that night I was back, on the same old stool, when she came in, made a call from the booth, came out, squawked about the light, and picked up her coffee to drink it. When she saw me she took it to the table. I went over, took off my hat, and said: “I rang in before I came. My apartment house. But they said no calls came in for me.”
    â€œIt generally takes a while.”
    That seemed to be all, and I left. Next night it was the same, and for some nights after that. But one night she said, “Sit down,” and then: “Until they straighten it out, why don’t you bet with me? Unless, of course, you have to wait until post time. But if you’re satisfied to pick them the night before, I could take care of it.”
    â€œYou mean, you didn’t give in my name?”
    â€œI told you, it all takes time.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you give it in?”
    â€œOkay, let’s bet.”
    I didn’t know one horse from another, but she had a racing paper there, and I picked a horse called Fresno, because he reminded me of home and at least I could remember his name. From the weights he looked like a long shot, so I played him to win, place, and show, $2 each way. He turned out an also-ran, and the next night I kicked in with $6 more and picked another horse, still trying for openings to get going with her. That went on for some nights, I hoping to break through, she hoping I’d drop out, and both of us getting nowhere. Then one night Fresno was entered again and I played him again, across the board. Next night I put down my $6, and she sat staring at me. She said: “But Fresno won.”
    â€œOh. Well say. Good old Fresno.”
    â€œHe paid sixty-four eighty for two.”
    I