Write me a Letter

elderly immigrant of dubious background who stayed strictly on the right side of the law, never once straying, never once provoking any questions into his past. And, for all I knew, maybe Cookie had a bad burn scar as well, like on his arm, where he had his SS number removed. If SS members did have their numbers tattooed on, I wasn’t sure. In any case, careful is what I would have to be for the next few days. Benny likewise, but he didn’t need reminding. I hoped his mystery bride would keep her trap shut, whoever she was.
    It was Benny, of course, who had delivered me the gun, for all the use it was. You can fly with a gun but there are formalities to go through and the gun and the ammunition for same have to travel in different sections of the plane, which makes for a hassle at the other end, all of which makes it highly obvious to any interested party that you are loaded for bear.
    Lunch. Yummy yummy. I was so hungry I ate it, Salisbury steak and all, including the green Jell-O with the fake whipped cream on it. I asked the porter who came to take away the empty tray if he could rustle me up something, anything, to read. He obligingly came back a few minutes later with a copy of that day’s local paper, the Sacramento Bee, and a well-thumbed Louis L’Amour western. Guess which one I appeared in.

    ”Blood-Bath In Chinatown!” proclaimed the headline. Then some small-town Hemingway had penned:

    Gunfire echoed through the peaceful, historic town of Locke early this morning, and when the smoke had cleared, two men lay dead in the parking lot behind the Star Hotel, two others, gravely injured.
    According to Lt. Keith Kalagan, Homicide, who is in charge of the case, one of the dead men was immediately identified as Charles Rivers, 76, owner of Dago Don’s, a popular local bar and restaurant. The identification of the second victim remains a mystery. Also wounded in the fierce gun battle was Henry C. Clay, of Chippewa Falls , Missouri , as well as please turn to page four.

    I turned to the comics. Then I turned to the sports pages. Then I turned to page four. I was relieved to read that my part in the night’s events remained unclear. I was also relieved to read that my condition was described as satisfactory. That wasn’t the way I’d describe it, but it was still a lot better than ”No flowers. Instead, please send your donations to the Sacramento Tall Club for a plaque to be erected in his loving memory.”
    A telephone, that’s what I needed. I summoned up my nerve and pressed the bell-push thing. After a respectable interval, Old Ironsides poked her head in the door and snapped, ”Yes?”
    I explained humbly that my poor old mother was unwell and that I greatly desired to call her, if that was all right with all concerned—the hospital, the cops, and her. She disappeared. After another decent interval the same orderly as before brought me in a canary yellow phone, which he kindly plugged into a jack by the head of my cot.
    ”Automatic,” he said. ”Call Japan if you want, it’ll all go on your bill.”
    ”Sayonara,” I said, with just the hint of a bow. How did people with bad backs survive in Japan ? They’d never be able to leave the house. I called the car rental, which wasn’t the one that tries harder, mine hardly tried at all. I told them I’d need the heap for a few more days, so they needn’t bother putting out an all-points alert. I called that polite chap who ran the Star Hotel, who not only asked about my health but brought up the subject of insurance even before I did. He was pleased to inform me that the hotel was fully covered for mishaps such as the one I had suffered, and I was pleased to hear it. He said he would be delighted to keep an eye on my car until I or someone else came to pick it up. Then I took a deep breath and called up Precious.
    Precious was out, I was relieved to discover, which meant I could legitimately put off telling her where her ardent swain had put his big feet this time. I thought about calling either the Israeli Trade Center or the backup number Miss Ruth Fibber-of-the-World Braukis had given me, but remembering those words of warning I had given myself not so long ago—”Be careful, dope”—I was careful, and did not. Then I tried my mom again, this time successfully. She didn’t remember my last attempt because she wanted to know how come I hadn’t called her when I got back from Canada and did I have a good time up there?
    ”Swell, eh,