“Run, Melinsky!” Solomon shouted. “Flee!”
But Mullaney could not run, would not run while candles were burning on the wooden floor. He began stamping them out, and saw that Purcell had turned from the stairway to level his gun at Solomon, who was bending over the fallen K now, ready to strike another blow, this time on the head perhaps. Cohen veiled, “Solomon, look out!” and then seized a whole handful of talliths from the rack and threw them over Purcell’s head, the shawls covering him as effectively as a net. Mullaney kept stamping on the candles. A pistol shot rang out, shattering the stained-glass window, Purcell firing blindly from beneath his entangling silk shawls.
“We’ve got the situation!” Solomon shouted. “Flee, Melinsky!”
“Thank you!” Mullaney said, or perhaps only thought, and fled.
He fled into a city washed clean by the rain, her streets black and shining and smelling sweet and fresh, the sun poking through the clouds now like a religious miracle, great radiating spikes of dazzling light piercing the overhead gloom, reflecting in curbside puddles. A barefooted little boy stamped his feet in the water and shrieked in glee as Mullaney ran past him, turning left onto First Avenue, running uptown because uptown was where the library was.
The cessation of the storm had summoned everyone outdoors to sit or stroll. There was a holiday mood on First Avenue, partially because it was the sabbath and partially because this was the dirtiest city in the world and everyone was delighted that a rainstorm had carried away some of its soot and grime. Besides, it was spring, and city rain never succeeds the way it does in the spring, when it carries the aroma of unseen green clear across the canyons from Central Park, wafting gently on each crisp new breeze, cool and excruciatingly sweet. You can breathe in New York in the spring, Mullaney thought, you can suck great gobs of air into your lungs, especially after it rains. The clouds were scattering now, the sun was breaking through completely, putting the grey to rout, turning the streets to glittering obsidian. He ran not because he thought he was being chased, but only because he was beginning to enjoy running, feeling very much the way Jean Paul Belmondo must have felt on the Champs Elysees. In fact, when he spotted an old lady in a flowered housedress standing on the comer, holding a shopping bag, he ran up to her and threw the hem of her housedress clear up over her pink bloomers, “Oh, dear!” the lady said, and stared after him in wonder as he raced on past. The jacket was waiting for him at the library. The secret was nestling on the floor of that dusty vault where he had made love to Merilee, the secret to untold wealth, some of which he would lay on Jawbones nose, oh what a lucky man I am, he thought, oh what a wonderfully lucky fellow to be running in this springtime city like Jesse Owens or Gunder Hägg.
But, being thirty-nine and very close to forty, he soon tired of all this springtime frivolity and, out of breath, panting hard, decided he had best try to rustle up twenty cents for a subway token that would take him to the library before he dropped dead of a heart attack right here on this lovely springtime street. He did not want to beg because it didn’t seem fitting for someone as nicely dressed as he was to go around begging on First Avenue; that would hardly seem proper for someone wearing clothes that had belonged to a person ten times the man he was, or so Melanie had claimed, and he had no reason to doubt her word. And, as much as he detested the idea of stealing, he justified the plan that sprang full-blown into his head by telling himself that as soon as he made his killing he would come back and return the money he was about to pilfer — well, not pilfer, but certainly con out of an unsuspecting sucker.
He carefully eased the avenue, picking out the most crowded luncheonette he could find, and taking a seat at the farthest end of the counter, away from the cash register. He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and a Coke, figuring he might just as well eat while he was at it, being very hungry. He ate leisurely and unobtrusively, keeping his head bent most of the time, avoiding the waitress’s eye, and ascertaining what he had learned from his scrutiny of the place through the plate-glass window: that the cashier was a rather portly old gentleman wearing glasses and reading a copy of Sports Illustrated. When he finished his meal, he picked up the check the waitress had given him, walked toward the cashier, and then directly past the cashier and into the telephone booth. He lifted the receiver from the hook, pretended to deposit a dime, dialed Irene’s number because it was the first number that came to mind, and then carried on an imaginary conversation with her while watching the cashier.
The cash register was on the extreme right-hand end of a long, glass-enclosed cigar display case. The cashier sat behind it on a high stool, turning to his right whenever a patron came to pay a check, adding up the items on it, taking the money and making change, and then turning to his left to skewer the check on the spike of a bill spindle that rested on the counter top to the left of the register. He then invariably went back to reading his magazine, leaning against the wall behind him, and looking up again only when the next patron arrived. Mullaney carried on his imaginary conversation with Irene, biding his time, waiting for the proper moment.
The proper moment arrived when three diners walked up to the cash register simultaneously, ready to pay their checks. Mullaney immediately came out of the phone booth, walked quickly to the register, and stood slightly apart from the people gathered there. The cashier turned to his right, took the check from the first patron, and then bent his head to add the column of figures. Mullaney swiftly and daringly thrust out both hands and stuck his own check onto the bill spindle to the left of the register, piercing the green slip, and then glancing quickly at the cashier to see if he had noticed the sudden move. The cashier pushed some keys on his register, opened the cash drawer, made change for his customer, a fat lady in a flowered bonnet, and then turned to his left and skewered the check on the spindle, covering the check Mullaney had just placed there. The only person who seemed to have followed the action was a hawk-nosed man with a heavy beard shadow, who glanced at Mullaney, shrugged uncomprehendingly, and then turned away. Mullaney waited until everyone, especially the hawk-nosed man, had paid his bill and left the luncheonette. Standing expectantly and patiently by the register, he waited for the cashier to look up at him. The cashier was now leaning against the wall again, reading his Sports Illustrated. Mullaney cleared his throat.
“Yes?” the cashier said.
“May I have my change, please?” Mullaney said.
“What?” the cashier said, and looked up at him for the first time.
“May I please have my change?”
“What do you mean, change?”
“I gave you my check and a five-dollar bill, but you didn’t give me my change.”
“What do you mean, you gave me your check?”
“A few minutes ago. You stuck it on your thing there, but you didn’t give me my change.”