Scratch Fever Read Free Page B

one thick hand brushed the pile of peanuts and shells she’d been making into it. Then he reached out and touched her hand. Held it.
    “I don’t kill people, Julie,” he said softly. Eyes and lips wet.
    “I know you don’t.”
    “I’ll do anything for you but that”
    “I know you will.”
    “Anything.”
    “I know.”
    “But if it comes to . . . if it comes to that, I don’t even want to know about it.”
    She smiled at him sweetly, squeezed his hand, thinking, Fucking hypocrite! You don’t care if somebody else does the killing, though, do you? Just so you don’t have to do it; just so you don’t have to know about it.
    She let go of his hand. “Give me some change. I have a long-distance call to make.”
    He half-stood in the booth, dug for some change, and gave it to her.
    “Who are you calling?”
    She got out of the booth. “You just stay put.”
    He licked his lips and nodded, then reached for the basket of peanuts.
    She went over to the pay phone and dialed a number in Illinois direct.
    It rang six times, then a slurry baritone voice came on, saying, “Yeah, what?”
    “Ron?”
    “Yeah.”
    “This is Julie.”
    “I know it is.”
    “I need you.”
    “Do you?”
    “I have a problem.”
    “No kidding.”
    “I’m serious, Ron.”
    “So you’re serious. I ain’t heard from you in three weeks, and you’re serious.”
    “I’m sorry. I really am.”
    “Why should I be surprised you’re in trouble? You only come to me when you’re in trouble.”
    “That isn’t so.”
    “You only come to me when there’s some shit job that old numb-nuts Harold won’t do for you.”
    “Ron, you have to come here right away.”
    “Where’s ‘here’?”
    “The Barn. Outside of Burlington.”
    “Yeah, I know the place. They got good rock ’n’ roll there sometimes. Isn’t this the Nodes’ last weekend? That’s a good band. Better than the shit you book in, anyway.”
    “Ron. This is serious.”
    “Yeah, okay. I can hear it in your voice, it’s serious. Do I need to bring anything?”
    “I think so.”
    “That serious, huh? It’ll cost you.”
    “Money’s no problem.”
    “Who’s talking about money?”
    “Ron. I’ll make this worth it for you. I promise.”
    “Yeah, okay. I’m on my way.”
    The phone clicked dead.
    She shivered and hung up.
    She went back to the booth and sat across from Harold, who was eating peanuts, slowly, methodically.
    “Ron’s coming,” she said.
    “I see,” he said. He pushed the basket of peanuts aside.
    “Well, I can’t depend on you , can I? If something ugly has to happen, Ron’ll be up to it.”
    “How can you . . .”
    “Because I have to,” she said, biting off the words. “I’m supposed to be dead, goddammit . . . I ended up with $750,000 because Logan and Jon thought I was dead. If that kid gets to his friend with the news that I’m alive, that S.O.B.’ll come looking for me, and his money.”
    “I could handle him.”
    She laughed. “You couldn’t handle Ron.”
    “Don’t make fun of me, Julie.”
    “Harold, I’m sorry. You just don’t know this guy Logan. He’s like something out of a Mafia movie. Really scary.”
    “You’ve got money, Julie. Give him his share.”
    “He wouldn’t be satisfied with just his share.”
    “Why not?”
    “He’s a killer. He tried to kill me, once, remember?”
    That was a lie, of course; it had been the other way around, but Harold didn’t know that.
    Harold was balling those thick hands into fists the size of softballs. “If he tries to hurt you, I’ll . . .”
    “What? What will you do? You don’t kill people, remember?”
    They could hear the muffled blare of the band in the other room: “Scratch fever . . . Cat scratch . . .”
    “That would be different,” he said.
    “Would it?”
    “You know it would.”
    “We’ll let Ron handle it.”
    “But who’ll handle Ron?”
    “I will.”
    “Good luck.”
    She could handle Ron, all right, but the price was high: letting