“Well, I don’t know,” I said, deciding to tease her along a while. “I guess I ain’t real sure that you do want me. Seems like as if you did, you could give me a minute or two.”

“But it wouldn’t be a minute or two, darling! You know it wouldn’t!”

“Why not?” I said. “It don’t take no longer than that to kiss you a little, and give you a few squeezes and pats, an’—”

“D-Don’t!” She moaned shakily. “Don’t say those things! I—”

“Why, I’d probably even have time to hold you on my lap,” I said. “With your dress sort of pulled up, so’s I could feel how warm and soft you are where you sit down. And I could maybe sort of pull your dress down from the top, kind of slide it down from your shoulders, so that I could see those nice things underneath, and”

“Stop it, Nick! I—you know how I get, a-and—I can’t! ‘I just can’t honey!’”

“Why, I wouldn’t even expect you to take your dress all the way off,” I said. “I mean, it ain’t really necessary, when you get right down to cases. With a tight-packed little gal like you, a fella don’t have to do hardly nothing at all except—”

She cut me off, groaning like a spurred horse. She said, “Goddam! I don’t give a damn if the son-of-a-bitch beats my tail off!”

Then, she grabbed me by the hand and began to run, dragging me toward the house.

We got inside, and she slammed the door and locked it. She stood leaning into me for a moment, twisting and writhing against me. Then, she flung herself down on the bed, rolled over on her back and hitched her dress up.

“What the hell you waiting for, honey?” she said. “Come on, darling, goddam it!”

“What you layin’ down for?” I said. “I thought I was just goin’ to hold you on my lap.”

“P-Please, Nick!” She moaned again. “We’ve g-got no time to waste, so—‘please’, honey!”

“Well, all right,” I said. “But I got some news for you. Sort of a little secret. I think maybe I ought to tell it to you before—”

“Crap on the secret.” She made a wild grab for me. “I don’t want any goddam secrets! What I want is—”

“But it’s about poor old Tom. Somethin’ done went and happened to him . . .”

“Who gives a damn? It’s just too goddam bad that the son-of-a-bitch isn’t dead! Now—”

I told her that that was the secret: Tom ‘was’ dead. “Looks like he got his guts blowed clear through his backbone,” I said. “Looks like he stumbled over his gun when he was drunk, and blowed himself to glory.”

She looked at me, her eyes widening, mouth working as she tried to speak. Finally, the words came out in a shaky whisper:

“You’re sure, Nick? You really killed him?”

“Let’s just say he had himself an accident,” I said. “Let’s just say that fate dealt him a crool blow.”