Fury on Sunday Read Free

sound of bubbly snoring filled his ears. He sat up quickly and slid his bare legs over the side of the bed.
    He stood looking down over Harry. On his flesh he still felt the bruises and teethmarks. As he stood there, breathing evenly, his hands moved on his stomach as if they were rubbing off something.
    His mouth tightened. Well, it
was
over now and he was one step closer to freedom. His plan had worked. Harry was dead drunk. Vince had seen to that. He’d needed an advantage and now he had it. Smiles and touches had made the male nurse drink all of the whiskey, leaving Vince clear-headed and strong.
    Now he reached out as if he meant to start the opening chords of the Rachmaninoff Second. But instead of music he drew an empty whiskey bottle to himself. He stood there motionless over the bed, looking down. Then, with a sharp motion, he broke the bottle in half across the table edge. Harry stirred and mumbled to himself and Vince heard someone screaming in his brain,
If you dare touch his hands, I swear to God I’ll kill you!
    Vince leaned over Harry, his eyes glittering in the light of the bedside lamp. He rolled the bottle neck in his fingers. Then, abruptly, the color drained from his face and a trembling pulled back his lips. He tapped Harry on the shoulder.
    “Wake up, Saul,” he said.
    And, when the sleep-thickened eyes fluttered open for a second, he raised his arm and drove the jagged glass edges straight down into them.

1:15 AM
    Bob looked up from his work as the kitchen door swung open and Ruth came in carrying a tray with sandwiches and milk. She was wearing her pink quilted robe and her blonde hair was drawn back in a ribbon-knotted horse’s tail. She smiled at him as she moved across the rug.
    He put down his blue pencil.
    “Honey, you should be in bed,” he scolded her.
    “If you can work until one o’clock Sunday morning I can stay up to feed you.”
    She set down the tray on the card table over the sheaf of papers he’d been working on.
    “There,” she said.
    He smiled tiredly and stretched.
    “You look cute,” he said.
    She leaned over and kissed him on the nose.
    “That’s for flattery,” she said.
    She got the hassock by the chair and drew it up to the table. Then she sat down on it and smiled up at him. A slight yawn parted her red lips.
    “There, you
are
sleepy,” he said. “You should be in bed.”
    “You’re sleepy too,” she countered. “Are you in bed?”
    “I am the wage earner,” he said. “The bread-winner. The proletariat.”
    “Eat.”
    He picked up a sandwich and bit into it.
    “Mmmm. Good,” he said.
    “How’s the work coming?” she asked.
    “Oh, pretty good, I guess.”
    “Almost finished?”
    “Just about,” he answered. He sighed and reached for the glass of milk. He took a sip and put it down.
    “I’m sorry we had to miss that dance,” he said.
    “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “Anyway—I guess I won’t be gallivanting around much any more.”
    He grinned and patted her warm cheek.
    “Little mother,” he said.
    Then he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.
    “I take mustard,” she said.
    “How romantic.” He yawned again.
    “I bet you say that to all the expectant mothers.”
    “Not all.”
    “All the girls then.”
    “Only those I love,” he said.
    “That would be—” she estimated, “Ava Gardner, Lana Turner…”
    “Marie Dressler.”
    She made a tiny amused sound.
    “How about Jane?” she said. “She’s a hot number.”
    “She’s an odd number,” he said. “All she has is a body.”
    He grinned at her. Her face had fallen a little.
    He knew what was bothering her. Ever since Ruth had become pregnant she would keep looking in the mirror, searching for signs that she was getting fat. It bothered her. She always liked to look her best for him.
    “Well…” she said.
    “Honey, you know you’re the only one.”
    “She
is
sort of pretty,” she said.
    “Who, Marie Dressler?”
    When she didn’t answer he pulled