Write me a Letter

Tony how to do it but I don’t remember him teaching me. Who cares, anyway?
    I was attempting to do the crossword in the Bee in my head because I didn’t have a pen when my new buddy the orderly popped his head in the door.
    ”Make yourself pretty,” he said. ”Your wife’s on the way up.” He whistled appreciatively, then withdrew.
    Well, at least my wife wasn’t the twerp. She turned out to be Precious. Precious entered, lips pursed. She glared at me, then nodded her head several times, then managed to get out, through clenched teeth, ”Uh-huh. Just about what I expected, you flat on your back again in another bloody hospital. I don’t see any holes, where are they, hidden by that stupid thing you’re wearing?”
    ”That’s not a stupid thing,” I said, hastily pulling up the sheet to my neck. ”That’s my corselet, it’s the latest thing. Anyway, that’s no way to talk to your new bridegroom, snookums.”
    ”Well, I didn’t know, did I,” she said angrily. ”I didn’t know what kind of mess you were in, so I thought if I said I was your wife, at least they’d let me see you.”
    ”I’m fine, I’m fine, I got a sore back is all and I’m not in any mess, so calm down and straighten my sheets or something. Better still, give us a kiss.”
    ”I’ll think about it,” she said.
    ”What are you doing here, anyway? How did you get here?”
    ”It was called an airplane, I think,” she said. ”I got on it in Burbank and got off right here in dear old Sac.”
    ”Sara,” I said. ”She must’ve called the hotel like I asked her. Then of course she had to call you up.”
    ”What else?” declared my beloved. ”She was scared out of her wits by some idiot clerk who was rambling on about bodies and guns and ambulances and cops and God knows what else.”
    ”He’s not an idiot,” I said. ”I happen to know he’s a devoted student of advanced paleontology.”
    ”Who gives a flying fuck what he’s studying,” Evonne said. She crossed over to my bedside, then stooped and gave me a peck on one cheek. ”There,” she said. ”You’re lucky to get that much. You sure you’re all right?” she asked in softer tones.
    I assured her I was right as rain, almost, and in no time at all we’d be highland-flinging together again just like in the good old days.
    ”And Benny?”
    ”Shhh,” I said, one finger to my lips. I beckoned her closer; she sat on the bed and lowered her pretty head to mine. ”How do you know Benny’s here?”
    ”Sara told me,” she whispered back.
    ”Who else?” I said. ”How did she know?”
    Evonne shrugged.
    ”He’s here, but he’s not Benny,” I whispered. ”He’s Henry C. Clam, and he’s a total stranger, got it?”
    She nodded. ”I got it. I don’t understand it, but I got it.”
    ”The bad thing is,” I said, ”he got shot. I don’t know the details, because the cops have cleverly kept us apart till now so we couldn’t collude on a story, but I’m afraid he’s only using one lung right now.”
    ”Oh, Jesus, no,” she said, laying her cheek against mine. ”Poor Benny.”
    ”Don’t worry,” I said hastily. ”They’re blowing the other one up again, the doc said. But yeah,” I said into her blond hair. ”Poor Benny. And don’t bother piling the blame on me, it’s already piled.”
    I convinced Evonne Louise Shirley that there was no point in her hanging around Sacramento ; I’d be up and about in a couple of days and she couldn’t even legitimately visit Benny’s bedside as long as he was being someone else. I told her a version of the events of the night before that was skillfully edited to prevent her getting any madder at me. The name of a certain Miss Ruth Rotten-Liar Braukis did not, repeat, not, come up even once.
    Before she flew home that evening, my angel of mercy did the following—bussed out to Locke. Packed up my things from my room. Paid the bill. Tried unsuccessfully to retrieve my gun and holster, but there were too many sightseers around. No great problem—its serial number did not correspond to the one on my license and so could never be traced back to me. Then she returned to Sacramento with car and luggage. Then she went shopping for books, magazines, including that month’s Pro Basketball, fruit, candy, and assorted nuts.
    And, last but by no means least, she brought me a large brown paper bag, in which was my supper—one pastrami on rye, one salami on white, heavy on the mustard, a tub of pickles and