Write me a Letter

to his feet and wandered over to the window. He didn’t seem particularly upset by my news, but then that was one of Fats’ few, if not only, redeeming characteristics, you never saw him get upset about anything.
    ”Right on!” I said brightly, getting up as well. ”Sorry you’re out the five grand, Fats, but I did my best and, like the man said, win some, lose some.” I patted my breast pocket reassuringly, then departed. He didn’t bother to wave me good-bye.
    I paused briefly on the stairs outside, readjusted my personal belongings slightly, and descended, whistling.
    It was only a few minutes’ stroll to the car park; I waved at the guy in the booth and headed toward the back of the lot where I’d left my Nash. Just as I was unlocking the door, I got jumped by the punk kid from Fats’ office—who had a new pig-sticker, I couldn’t help noticing—and a tough-looking black kid in some flashy gang jacket who was brandishing a tire iron; they poured out of a black Ford that had been following me ever since I’d left Fats’. Which is why, I suppose, he hadn’t waved at me, he was too busy waving at them. There’s one I owe you, Fats.
    Well, there are times to get tough and times to get moving. I got moving. ”No! Please!” I screamed at the top of my voice as I was rolling over the hood to the far side of my car. ”Here! Take my money!” I threw my wallet at them and took off, sprinting for the entrance and people and crowded streets. They followed a few steps, then went back and collared the wallet, then jumped into the Ford and screeched after me. I ducked down a line of cars trying to figure out what to do if they followed; they didn’t, which was lucky for someone, probably me. The front gate was up; they flew through it, hung a right, and disappeared into the traffic. I got up from my crouch, dusted my hands, and made my way briskly back to my car. I took off immediately, not thinking it would be all that smart to linger. When I was well away from the area, I pulled over to calm down and count my losses.
    Which were: one two-dollar wallet, bought at a yard sale. One American Express credit card, in my name, reported lost or stolen by me a while back when I had merely misplaced it and had found it again the next week. Hopefully, the punk would try to use it, maybe to buy a sword this time. Also included: nine fake twenty-dollar bills, but good fakes, good enough so maybe the dynamic duo would try passing a few of them; a photo of Sandra Dee, which was in the wallet when I bought it: one used, slightly greasy, comb; and a perfectly genuine U.S. one-dollar bill. Too bad the boys were in such a hurry; they could have been the new owners of my elegant Rolex Oyster timepiece as well. Evonne bought it for me on a street corner that time we visited Mexico together. I recall we had been slightly suspicious as to whether or not it was the real thing as oyster was spelt ”oister,” and even I knew that was wrong. Also the price, forty-five thousand pesos, translated into American dollars, comes to two of them, plus fifteen cents. Roughly. So children, your nature lesson for today is—in the jungle, watch your ass.
    I drove home without hitting anyone, or anyone hitting me, and without seeing any trace of the black Ford. I’d just retrieved Fats’ contribution to the family exchequer from my back pocket, where I’d so wisely transferred it outside Fats’ office, when the phone rang. I picked it up.
    ”Hi,” a husky voice breathed. ”It’s me.”
    ”Hi, you,” I breathed back. I might even have breathed something more inane, like, ”Hi, me.” As Curly would put it:

    That poets are fools, ’tis well known,
    When Helen of Troy is on the phone.

    ”So you’re back,” she said. ”I’ve been trying to get you.”
    ”No, I’m not back,” I said. ”You’re lucky to catch me at all, actually, I just dropped by the office to pick up the mail and I’m off again.” There; that was better, that was telling her.
    ”Oh,” she said.
    ‘Yfeah,” I said. ”Something’s come up. Awfully sorry and all that. Where would you like me to send the retainer you gave me, the Fairfax Hotel, where you’re not, or maybe the United Jewish Appeal?”
    ”Oh,” she said.
    ”And how’s Mummy, by the way?” I said. ”Would you believe Kaiser has no record of her being a patient there? I’d sue them if I was you.”
    ”Stay there,” she said.
    ”No way,” I said, firmly.
    ”Please,” she