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carried it along the corridor to the back stairway and down to the narrow alley that ran behind the building. He pushed the black makeup case deep inside a garbage can, underneath an old hat, a few empty bottles of Boone’s Farm and a Dunkin Donuts box. Then he returned to the pay phone and, trembling, dialed Deenie’s apartment number; there was no answer, so he called the Club Zoom. Mike, the bartender, picked up the phone. “How’s it goin‘, Cal?” In the background the Eagles were on the jukebox, singing about life in the fast lane. “Nope, Cal. Deenie’s not comin’ in today until six. Sorry. You want to leave a message or something?”
    “No,” Calvin said. “Thanks anyway.” He hung up and returned to his room. Where the hell was Deenie? he wondered. It seemed she was never where she was supposed to be; she never called, never let him know where she was. Hadn’t he bought her a nice gold-plated necklace with a couple of diamond specks on it to show her he wasn’t mad for stringing along that old guy from Bel-Air? It had cost him plenty, too, and had put him in his current financial mess. He slammed his fist down on the card table and tried to sort things out: somehow he had to get some money. He could hock his radio and maybe collect an old pool-hall debt from Corky McClinton, but that would hardly be enough to carry him and Deenie for very long in Mexico. He had to have that three thousand dollars from Mr. Marco! But what about Crawley? That killer would shave his eyebrows with a .45!
    What to do, what to do?
    First, Calvin reasoned, a drink to calm my nerves. He opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of Jim Beam and a glass. His fingers were shaking so much he couldn’t pour, so he shoved the glass aside and swigged out of the bottle. It burned like hellfire going down. Damn that makeup case! he thought, and took another drink. Damn Mr. Marco: another drink. Damn Crawley. Damn Deenie. Damn the idiot who switched those lousy makeup cases. Damn me for even taking on this screwy job…
    After he’d finished damning his second and third cousins who lived in Arizona, Calvin stretched out on the sofa bed and slept.
    He came awake with a single terrifying thought:
    The cops are here! But they weren’t, there was no one else in the room, everything was okay. His head was throbbing, and through the small, smog-filmed windows the light was graying into night. What’d I do? he thought. Sleep away the whole day? He reached over toward the Jim Beam bottle, there on the card table beside the makeup case, and saw that there was about a half-swallow left in it. He tipped it to his mouth and drank it down, adding to the turmoil in his belly.
    When his fogged gaze finally came to rest on the makeup case, he dropped the bottle to the floor.
    Its lid was wide open, the silver claw cupping blue shadows.
    “What are you doin‘ here?” he said, his speech slurred. “I got rid of you! Didn’t I?” He was trying to think: he seemed to remember taking that thing to the garbage can, but then again, it might’ve been a dream. “You’re a jinx, that’s what you are!” he shouted. He struggled up, staggered out into the hallway to the pay phone again, and dialed the antique shop.
    A low, cold voice answered: “Marco Antiques and Curios.”
    Calvin shuddered; it was Crawley. “This is Calvin Doss,” he said, summoning up his courage. “Doss. Doss. Let me speak to Mr. Marco.”
    “Mr. Marco doesn’t want to speak to you.”
    “Listen, I need my three thousand bucks!”
    “Mr. Marco is working tonight, Doss. Stop tying up the phone.”
    “I just… I just want what’s comin‘ to me!”
    “Oh? Then maybe I can help you, you little punk. How’s about two or three forty-five slugs to rattle around in your brain-pan? I dare you to set foot over here!” The phone went dead before Calvin could say another word.
    He put his head in his hands. Little punk. Little man. Little jerk. It seemed someone had been