• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“You give him one?”

“I did, and you know what? He kept it, wouldn’t give me back my cone.”

“He ate it?”

“Licked it a few times and threw it away.” Carl didn’t mention the trace of ice cream on Frank Miller’s mustache; he kept that for himself. “Yeah, he took my ice-cream cone, robbed the store, and shot a policeman. You believe it?”

She seemed to nod, thoughtful now, and Carl decided it was time to come out in the open.

“You said people think it was marshals gunned down your husband, Skeet. But you know better, don’t you?”

He had her full attention, staring at him now like she was hypnotized.

“And I’ll bet it was Frank himself told you. Who else’d have the nerve? I’ll bet he said you ever leave him he’ll hunt you down and kill you. On account of he’s so crazy about you. I can’t think of another reason you’d stay here these years. You have anything to say to that?”

Faye began to show herself, saying, “You’re not from a newspaper . . .”

“Is that what you thought?”

“They come around. Once they’re in the house they can’t wait to leave. No, you’re not at all like them.”

Carl said, “Faye, I’m a Deputy United States Marshal. I’m here to put Frank Miller under arrest or in the ground, one.”

III

He worried she might’ve acquired an affection for the man, but it wasn’t so. Once Carl showed her his star Faye sat down and breathed with relief. Pretty soon her nerves did take hold and she became talkative. Frank had phoned this morning and was coming. Now what was she supposed to do? Carl asked what time she expected him. She said going on dark. A car would drive past and honk twice; if the front door was open when it drove past again Frank would jump out and the car would keep going. Carl said he’d be sitting here reading about Joan Crawford. He said introduce him as a friend of the family happened to stop by, but try not to talk too much. He asked if Frank brought the magazines. She said they were supposed to be her treat. He asked out of curiosity if Frank could read. Faye said she wasn’t sure, but believed he only looked at the pictures. What was it Virgil called him that time, years ago? A bozo.

He said to Faye, “What you want to do is pay close attention. Then later on you can tell what happened here as the star witness and get your name in the paper. I bet even your picture.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Faye said. “You really think so?”

They heard the car beep twice as it passed the house.

Ready?

Carl was, in the chair facing the magazine table where the only lamp in the room was lit. Faye stood smoking a cigarette, smoking three or four since drinking the orange-juice glass of gin to settle her down. Light from the kitchen, behind her, showed her figure in the kimono she was wearing. Faye looked fine to Carl.

But not to Frank Miller. Not the way he came in with magazines under his arm and barely paused before saying to her, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Faye said. “Frank, I want you to meet Carl, from home.” Frank staring at him now as Faye said he was a busboy at Purity the same time she was working there. “And our moms are both Eastern Star.”

“You’re Frank,” Carl said, sounding like a salesman. “Glad to know you, Frank.” Carl looking at a face from six years ago, the same dead-eyed stare beneath the hat brim. He watched Frank Miller carry his magazines to the table, drop them on top of the ones there and glance over at Faye; watched him plant both hands on the table now, hunched over, taking time to what, rest? Unh-unh, decide how to get rid of this busboy so he could take Faye to bed, Carl imagining Frank doing it to her with his hat still on . . . and remembered his dad saying, “You know why I caught the Mauser round that time, the Spanish sniper picking me off? I was thinking instead of paying attention, doing my job.”

Carl asked himself what he was waiting for. He said, “Frank, bring out your pistol and lay it there on the table.”

Faye Harris knew how to tell it. She had recited her story enough times to marshals and various