The Gutter and the Grave Read Free

more, but actually I needed a partner and was glad to have him. He’s a wonderful guy.”
    “You said that before.”
    “Well, he is.”
    “Then what’s the trouble?”
    “Well, I don’t know. Dom’s not a rich man, you understand. That five grand was probably his life savings. He’s got some government bonds, and maybe a little in the bank, and some insurance to take care of Christine—God forbid anything should happen to him.”
    “Christine? Is that his wife?”
    “Yes. But what I’m trying to say is that he isn’t a rich man, and maybe he’s in some kind of financial trouble or something, I don’t know. It’s the only way I can figure it.”
    “Figure what?”
    “The thefts,” Johnny said.
    “Someone’s been stealing something?”
    “Yes,” Johnny said. “From the cash register.”
    “How much? Large amounts?”
    “No. No, that’s just it. The thefts have been small. Ten dollars at a time. Sometimes fifteen dollars. Until this last one.”
    “How much was the last one?”
    “Fifty dollars.”
    “That still isn’t very large,” I said.
    “Well, it’s large enough to be serious,” Johnny said.
    “How much has been stolen altogether?”
    “Two hundred and thirty-five dollars.”
    “Over how long a period of time?”
    “About six months, I think. In any case, that was when I noticed the first shortage.”
    “Did you tell Dom about it?”
    “Yes. He said I probably added wrong. Then, when I found the second theft, a couple of weeks later, I told him again.”
    “And what did he say that time?”
    “The same thing. He’s either a very trusting person, Dom, or else…” Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know what to think.”
    “Who else works in the shop?”
    “A kid named Dave Ryan. He’s our presser.”
    “Does he handle the cash register at all?”
    “No.”
    “But he could get into it when you or Dom aren’t around, couldn’t he?”
    “No. If both of us are out of the shop, we lock the register.”
    “Then he does sometimes work alone in the shop? When both of you are gone?”
    “Yes. He presses at night sometimes. I told you, there’s a lot of work to be done.”
    “But the register is locked?”
    “Yes.”
    “So you figure it’s Dom who’s been dipping into the till?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, what do you want from me?” I said.
    “Matt, I don’t know what to do. How can I blow the whistle on my partner and friend? How can I go to the police? If he’s taking the money, he must have a damn good reason.”
    “Why don’t you talk to him? Tell him…”
    “And suppose I’m wrong? Suppose it isn’t him? Suppose…I don’t know…suppose somebody’s sneaking in at night or something? Jesus, I don’t know what to do, Matt. That’s why I came down to see you. I’ve been all over the Bowery looking for you. Finally, some guy told me I might find you in that park outside the school. Won’t you help me, Matt?”
    “By doing what?”
    “Come up to the shop. Look over the register, look over the windows. Maybe somebody’s getting in at night and forcing the drawer. I can’t tell, but I’m sure you could.”
    “Do you ever leave any money in the register at night?”
    “Yes. Usually about fifty bucks or so. Just enough to start the next day. It saves the trouble of taking it out and then bringing it back in the morning.”
    “Mmmm. Then there is the possibility…”
    “Will you help me, Matt?”
    I thought about it for a while. Did I want to go back to the old neighborhood, see people I’d known when I was a kid? Did I want more memories to add to the memory I already carried, the memory of first meeting Toni, that goddamn corny meeting as she was coming off the Triborough Bridge, laughing, her blonde haircaught by the November wind, walking with the Randall’s Island football crowd, carrying a pennant in her hand? Did I want that memory to come welling back, and with it all the other ghosts, all the shadows I’d been drinking away for five