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for months.”
    “I didn’t know until now, Joe. But that isn’t the point. I’d have sworn this would be one time when, as you’d put it, you’d pass up a bet. If it wasn’t, well, then there’ll never be such a time. You’ve got nothing to share with me. There’s nothing I can do for you.”
    As she started for the door I said, “Well, what do you want to do? Do you still want to go through with it?”
    “By all means,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind about its being too simple for us.”
    I let her go. I’d gone a little goofy when I thought she was in danger. But I should have known we couldn’t patch things up. I still wasn’t hot for the killing—who would be?—but if that was the only way to lead a happy, decent life, why…

9
    I f you’re like I am you’ve probably spotted a thousand couples during your lifetime that made you wonder why and how the hell they ever got together. And if you’re like I used to be you probably lay it to liquor or shotguns.
    Not that I can tell you why I married Elizabeth or she married me. Not exactly. But I can tell you this. We both knew exactly what we were getting, barring a few points, and we went right ahead and made the grab anyway.
    And looking back it all seems perfectly natural.
    That first rainy night when I drove her home in the film truck she got out, fumbled in her purse, and handed me fifty cents.
    “No, I want you to take that, Joe,” she said, when I sort of began to stutter. “It would have cost me much more than that to take a cab.”
    “But—but look here, Miss Barclay—”
    “Good night, Joe. Be careful of the flower beds when you drive out.”
    I told her what she could do with her flower beds and four-bit pieces. I told her she could walk in mud up to her ears before I gave her another ride. I—
    But I was ten miles down the road when I did it. At the time I couldn’t think of any more to say than I can now when she ties me into knots. Not as much, maybe, because I hadn’t had any practice.
    My next run-in with her was a Sunday, about two weeks later. I was still sore, or thought I was; but when she motioned me over to the box office I went running, like a dog running for a bone.
    “Come around to the door,” she said, “you’re in the way of the patrons there.” And I went around. Then, she said, “I want you to do an errand for me, Joe.”
    And I said, “Well—well, thank you.”
    “A whole row of seats has broken down,” she went on. “I want you to go over to the Methodist Church and pick up thirty of their folding chairs. I’ve already called about them.”
    I gulped and got started so fast I didn’t really understand what she’d told me. I heard it, you know, but I didn’t understand it. And when I did, or thought I did, I still couldn’t believe it.
    I got the chairs after some pretty chilly looks from the parson, and took them back and set them up. By that time I was so late on the route that a couple of hours more wouldn’t make any difference, so I found a little engine trouble, and I’d just got it fixed when the show closed for the night. So I drove her home again.
    She didn’t hand me fifty cents that night. She said something about not having any change—I knew she had a five-pound sack full—and that she’d pay me some other time.
    “I’ll settle cheap,” I said, bracing myself. “Tell me—I mean, can I ask you a question?”
    “Certainly you may.”
    “Were those chairs you got tonight—were they some you’d loaned to the church?”
    “No. I thought I mentioned they were theirs.”
    “You mean,” I said, “you borrowed thirty chairs from a church for a picture show on Sunday night?”
    She frowned a little, then her face cleared. “You mean they might have been using them? Oh, but I knew they wouldn’t be. That church never has anything approaching a crowd on Sunday night.”
    “Well,” I said, “well, that makes everything just dandy.”
    I found out later that her old man,