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  He focused his eyes and glared at Carrie. "All right, say it," he demanded. "Get it out."

  She turned and looked at him imploringly. "Does it have to be so much?" she asked.

  He turned his face away from her and closed his eyes.

  "Greg, does it-"

  "Yes!" He drew in a shaking breath. God, would he be glad to get away from her!

  "What if they can't pay?"

  Tough."

  The sound of her repressed sob set his teeth on edge. "Go in and lie down," he told her. "Greg, he hasn't got a chance!"

  He twisted around, face whitening. "Did he have a better chance before we came?" he snarled. "Use your head for once, God damn it! If it wasn't for us, he'd be as good as dead already!"

  "Yes, but-"

  "I said go in and lie down!"

  "You haven't seen the way it's going to happen, Greg!"

  He shuddered violently, fighting back the urge to grab the whiskey bottle, leap at her and smash her head in. "Get out of here," he muttered.

  She stumbled across the room, pressing the back of a hand against her lips. The bedroom door thumped shut and he heard her fall across the bed, sobbing. Damn wet-eye bitch!

  He gritted his teeth until his jaws hurt, then poured himself another inch of whiskey, grimacing as it burned its way into his stomach. They'll come through, he told himself. Obviously, they had the money and, obviously, the woman had believed him. He nodded to himself. They'll come through, all right. Ten thousand; his passport to another life. Expensive clothes. A class hotel. Good-looking women; maybe one of them for keeps. He kept nodding. One of these days, he thought.

  He was reaching for his glass when he heard the muffled sound of Carrie talking in the bedroom. For several moments, his outstretched hand hovered between the sofa and the table. Then, in an instant, he was on his feet, lunging for the bedroom door. He flung it open. Carrie jerked around, the phone receiver in her hand, her face a mask of dread. "Thursday, the fourteenth!" she blurted into the mouthpiece. "Two-sixteen in the afternoon!" She screamed as Greg wrenched the receiver from her hand and slammed his palm on the cradle, breaking the connection.

  He stood quivering before her, staring at her face with widened, maniac eyes. Slowly, Carrie raised her hand to avert the blow. "Greg, please don't-" she began.

  Fury deafened him. He couldn't hear the heavy, thudding sound the earpiece made against her cheek as he slammed it across her face with all his might. She fell back with a strangled cry. "You bitch," he gasped. "You bitch, you bitch, you bitch!" He emphasized each repetition of the word with another savage blow across her face. He couldn't see her clearly either; she kept wavering behind a film of blinding rage. Everything was finished! She'd blown the deal! The Big One was gone! God damn it, I'll kill you! He wasn't certain if the words exploded in his mind or if he was shouting them into her face.

  Abruptly, he became aware of the telephone receiver clutched in his aching hand; of Carrie lying, open-mouthed and staring on the bed, her features mashed and bloody. He lost his grip and heard, as if it were a hundred miles below, the receiver thumping on the floor. He stared at Carrie, sick with horror. Was she dead? He pressed his ear against her chest and listened. At first, he could hear only the pulse of his own heart throbbing in his ears. Then, as he concentrated, his expression tautly rabid, he became aware of Carrie's heartbeat, faint and staggering. She wasn't dead! He jerked his head up.

  She was looking at him, mouth slack, eyes dumbly stark.

  "Carrie?"

  No reply. Her lips moved soundlessly. She kept on staring at him. "What?" he asked. He recognized the look and shuddered. "What?"

  "Street," she whispered.

  Greg bent over, staring at her mangled features. "Street," she whispered, ". . . night." She sucked in wheezing, blood-choked breath. "Greg." She tried to sit up but couldn't. Her expression was becoming one of terrified concern. She whispered, "Man . . . razor . . . you-oh, no!"

  Greg felt himself enveloped in ice. He clutched at her arm. "Where?" he mumbled. She didn't answer and his fingers dug convulsively into her flesh. "Where?" he demanded. "When?" He began to shiver uncontrollably. "Carrie, when?!"

  It was the arm of a dead woman that he clutched. With a gagging sound, he jerked his hand away. He gaped at her, unable to speak or think. Then, as he backed away, his eyes were drawn to the calendar on the wall and a phrase crept leadenly across his mind: one of these days. Quite suddenly, he began to laugh and cry. And before he fled, he stood at the window for an hour and twenty minutes, staring out, wondering who the man was, where he was right now and just what he was doing.

  Dying Room Only

  The cafe was a rectangle of brick and wood with an attached shed on the edge of the little town. They drove past it at first and started out into the heat-shimmering desert.

  Then Bob said, "Maybe we'd better stop there. Lord knows how far it is to the next one."

  "I suppose," Jean said without enthusiasm.

  "I know it's probably a joint," Bob said, "but we have to eat something. It's been more than five hours since we had breakfast."

  "Oh-all right."

  Bob pulled over to the side of the road and looked back. There wasn't another car in sight. He made a quick U-turn and powered the Ford back along the road, then turned in and braked in front of the cafe.

  "Boy, I'm starved," he said.

  "So am I," Jean said. "I was starved last night, too, until the waitress brought that food to the table."

  Bob shrugged. "So what can we do?" he said. "Is it better we starve and they find our bleached bones in the desert?"

  She made a face at him and they got out of the car. "Bleached bones," she said.

  The heat fell over them like a waterfall as they stepped into the sun. They hurried toward the cafe, feeling the burning ground through their sandals.

  "It's so hot," Jean said, and Bob grunted.

  The screen door made a groaning sound as they pulled it open. Then it slapped shut behind them and they were in the stuffy interior that smelled of grease and hot dust.

  The three men in the cafe looked up at them as they entered. One, in overalls and a dirty cap, sat slumped in a back booth drinking beer. Another sat on a counter stool, a sandwich in his hand and a bottle of beer in front of him. The third man was behind the counter looking at them over a lowered newspaper. He was dressed in a white, shortsleeved shirt and wrinkled white ducks.

  "Here we go," Bob whispered to her. "The Ritz-Carlton."

  She enunciated slowly, "Ha-ha."

  They moved to the counter and sat down on stools. The three men still looked at them. "Our arrival in town must be an event," Bob said softly.

  "We're celebrities," Jean said.

  The man in the white ducks came over and drew a menu from behind a tarnished napkin holder. He slid it across the counter toward them. Bob opened it up and the two of them looked at it.

  "Have you got any iced tea?" Bob asked.

  The man shook his head. "No."

  "Lemonade?" Jean asked.

  The man shook his head. They looked at the menu again.

  "What have you got that's cold?" Bob asked.

  "Hi-Li Orange and Dr Pepper," said the man in a bored voice.

  Bob cleared his throat.

  "May we have some water before we order? We've been-"

  The man turned away and walked back to the sink. He ran water into two cloudy glasses and brought them back. They spilled over onto the counter as he set them down. Jean picked up her glass and took a sip. She almost choked on the water it was so brackish and warm. She put down the glass.

  "Can't you get it any cooler?" she asked.

  "This is desert country, ma'am," he said. "We're lucky we get any water at all."

  He was a man in his early fifties, his hair steel-gray and dry, parted in the middle. The backs of his hands were covered with tiny swirls of black hair, and on the small finger of his right hand there was a ring with a red stone in it. He stared a
t them with lifeless eyes and waited for their order.

  "I'll have a fried egg sandwich on rye toast and-" Bob started.

  "No toast," said the man.

  "All right, plain rye then."

  "No rye."

  Bob looked up. "What kind of bread have you got?" he asked.

  "White."

  Bob shrugged. "White then. And a strawberry malted. How about you, honey?"

  The man's flat gaze moved over to Jean.

  "I don't know," she said. She looked up at the man. "I'll decide while you're making my husband's order."

  The man looked at her a moment longer, then turned away and walked back to the stove. "This is awful," Jean said.

  "I know, honey," Bob admitted, "but what can we do? We don't know how far it is to the next town."

  Jean pushed away the cloudy glass and slid off the stool.

  "I'm going to wash up," she said. "Maybe then I'll feel more like eating."

  "Good idea," he said.

  After a moment, he got off his stool, too, and walked to the front of the cafe where the two restrooms were.

  His hand was on the doorknob when the man eating at the counter called, "Think it's locked, mister."

  Bob pushed.

  "No it isn't," he said and went in.

  Jean came out of the washroom and walked back to her stool at the counter. Bob wasn't there. He must be washing up, too, she thought. The man who had been eating at the counter was gone.

  The man in the white ducks left his small gas stove and came over.

  "You want to order now?" he asked.

  "What? Oh." She picked up the menu and looked at it for a moment. "I'll have the same thing, I guess."

  The man went back to the stove and broke another egg on the edge of the black pan.

  Jean listened to the sound of the eggs frying. She wished Bob would come back. It was unpleasant sitting there alone in the hot, dingy cafe.

  Unconsciously she picked up the glass of water again and took a sip. She grimaced at the taste and put down the glass.

  A minute passed. She noticed that the man in the back booth was looking at her. Her throat contracted and the fingers of her right hand began drumming slowly on the counter. She felt her stomach muscles drawing in. Her right hand twitched suddenly as a fly settled on it.

  Then she heard the door to the men's washroom open, and she turned quickly with a sense of body-lightening relief.

  She shuddered in the hot cafe.

  It wasn't Bob.

  She felt her heart throbbing unnaturally as she watched the man return to his place at the counter and pick up his unfinished sandwich. She averted her eyes as he glanced at her. Then, impulsively, she got off the stool and went back to the front of the cafe.

  She pretended to look at a rack of sunfaded postcards, but her eyes kept moving to the brownish-yellow door with the word MEN painted on it.

  Another minute passed. She saw that her hands were starting to shake. A long breath trembled her body as she looked in nervous impatience at the door.

  She saw the man in the back booth push himself up and plod slowly down the length of the cafe. His cap was pushed to the back of his head and his high-topped shoes clomped heavily on the floor boards. Jean stood rigidly, holding a postcard in her hands as the man passed her. The washroom door opened and closed behind him.

  Silence. Jean stood there staring at the door, trying to hold herself under control. Her throat moved again. She took a deep breath and put the postcard back in place.

  "Here's your sandwich," the man at the counter called.

  Jean started at the sound of his voice. She nodded once at him but stayed where she was.

  Her breath caught as the washroom door opened again. She started forward instinctively, then drew back as the other man walked out, his face florid and sweaty. He started past her.

  "Pardon me," she said.

  The man kept moving. Jean hurried after him and touched his arm, her fingers twitching at the feel of the hot, damp cloth.

  "Excuse me," she said.

  The man turned and looked at her with dull eyes. His breath made her stomach turn.

  "Did you see my-my husband in there?"

  "Huh?"

  Her hands closed into fists at her sides.

  "Was my husband in the washroom?"

  He looked at her a moment as if he didn't understand her. Then he said, "No, ma'am," and turned away.

  It was very hot in there, but Jean felt as if she'd suddenly been submerged in a pool of ice water. She stood numbly watching the man stumble back to his booth.

  Then she found herself hurrying for the counter, for the man who sat drinking from his water-beaded bottle of beer.

  He put down the bottle and turned to face her as she came up.

  "Pardon me, but did you see my husband in the washroom before?"

  "Your husband?"

  She bit her lower lip. "Yes, my husband. You saw him when we came in. Wasn't he in the washroom when you were there?"

  "I don't recollect as he was, ma'am."

  "You mean you didn't see him in there?"

  "I don't recollect seein' him, ma'am."

  "Oh this-this is ridiculous," she burst out in angry fright. "He must have been in there."

  For a moment they stood looking at each other. The man didn't speak; his face was blank.

  "You're-sure?" she asked.

  "Ma'am, I got no reason to lie to you."

  "All right. Thank you."

  She sat stiffly at the counter staring at the two sandwiches and milk shakes, her mind in desperate search of a solution. It was Bob-he was playing a joke on her. But he wasn't in the habit of playing jokes on her and this was certainly no place to start. Yet he must have. There must be another door to the washroom and-

  Of course. It wasn't a joke. Bob hadn't gone into the washroom at all. He'd just decided that she was right; the place was awful and he'd gone out to the car to wait for her.

  She felt like a fool as she hurried toward the door. The man might have told her that Bob had gone out. Wait till she told Bob what she'd done. It was really funny how a person could get upset over nothing.

  As she pulled open the screen door she wondered if Bob had paid for what they'd ordered. He must have. At least the man didn't call after her as she went out.

  She moved into the sunlight and started toward the car, almost closing her eyes completely to shut out the glare on the windshield. She smiled to herself thinking about her foolish worrying.

  "Bob, wait till I-"

  Unreasoning dread pressed her insides into a tight knot. She stood in the pounding heat and stared into the empty car. She felt a scream pushing up in her throat. "Bob-"

  She started running around the side of the cafe looking for the other entrance. Maybe the washroom was too dirty; maybe Bob had gone out a side door and couldn't find his way around the shed that was attached to the cafe.

  She tried to look through one of the shed's windows, but it was covered with tar paper on the inside. She ran around to the back of the cafe and looked out across the wide, empty desert. Then she turned back and looked for footprints, but the ground was as hard as baked enamel. A whimper started in her throat and she knew that in a few seconds she was going to start crying.

  "Bob," she murmured. "Bob, where-?"

  In the stillness she heard the front screen door slap in its frame. Abruptly she started running up the side of the cafe building, heart hammering excitedly. Stifling heat waves broke over her as she ran.

  At the edge of the building she stopped suddenly.

  The man she'd spoken to at the counter was looking into the car. He was a small man in his forties, wearing a spotted fedora and a striped, green shirt. Black suspenders held up his dark, grease-spotted pants. Like the other man he wore high-top shoes.

  She moved one step and her sandal scuffed on the dry ground. The man looked over at her suddenly, his face lean and bearded. His eyes were a pale blue that shone like milk
spots in the leathery tan of his face.

  The man smiled casually. "Thought I'd see if your husband was waitin' on you in your car," he said. He touched the brim of his hat and started back into the cafe.

  "Are you-" Jean started, then broke off as the man turned.

  "Ma'am?"

  "Are you sure he wasn't in the washroom?"

  "Wasn't no one in there when I went in," he said.

  She stood shivering in the sun as the man went into the cafe and the screen door flapped closed. She could feel mindless dread filling her like ice water.

  Then she caught herself. There had to be an explanation. Things like this just didn't happen.

  She moved firmly across the cafe floor and stopped before the counter. The man in the white ducks looked up from his paper.

  "Would you please check the washroom?" she asked.

  "The washroom?"

  Anger tightened her.

  "Yes, the washroom," she said. "I know my husband is in there."

  "Ma'am, wasn't no one in there," said the man in the fedora.

  "I'm sorry," she said tightly, refusing to allow his words. "My husband didn't just disappear."

  The two men made her nervous with their silent stares.

  "Well, are you going to look there?" she said, unable to control the break in her voice.

  The man in the white ducks glanced at the man with the fedora and something twitched his mouth. Jean felt her hands jerk into angry fists. Then he moved down the length of the counter and she followed.

  He turned the porcelain knob and held open the spring-hinged door. Jean held her breath as she moved closer to look.

  The washroom was empty.

  "Are you satisfied?" the man said. He let the door swing shut.

  "Wait," she said. "Let me look again."

  The man pressed his mouth into a line.

  "Didn't you see it was empty?" he said.

  "I said I want to look again."

  "Lady, I'm tellin' ya-"