Janey watched, dry-throated. In another moment Charley would reach him, would cut him up, and then the two of them would be free to leave. Suddenly she remembered the way Martin had been in bed, and the slick, smooth way he had talked to her in the bar. That was lots better than spending the rest of her life with a clod like Charlie, she thought.

The decision took only a second. She grabbed up the ornamental vase that was sitting on top of the television set and smashed it down on Charley’s skull.

He dropped like a felled oak. She looked down, seeing the blood welling out of his hair.

“Janey,” he whimpered. “Janey—you hit me—”

His voice died away. He was out cold. Martin snatched the knife from his nerveless fingers and put it in his pocket.

“I didn’t think you were going to do that,” Martin said in a hoarse voice. “I thought for sure that ape was going to cut me up.”

Janey smiled. There was a strange, bright, new look about her. She looked down at the unconscious Charley. To hell with him, she thought.

“We leave for New York tomorrow,” she said.

Drunken Sailor

DRUNKEN SAILOR

Originally published in the October, 1958 issue of
TRAPPED DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE

Marty Bowman felt slightly scared as he walked down Broadway in his sailor’s uniform, heading for the big bar on the corner at 42nd Street. Tony Donelli had told him he was sure to pick up a girl for the night there, and Marty hoped so. But he was scared. He had joined the Navy to see the world, like the posters said, and this was the first time he was seeing New York.

The bright lights of Times Square dazzled his eyes. He had never seen anything like them before, certainly not back in his home state of Nebraska. He had been to Omaha a couple of times, but Omaha was pretty small potatoes compared with New York.

He reached the corner and stood outside the bar, looking in. It was a big place, long, dim inside. He could see people sitting at the bar—other sailors, too—and girls. Other people were sitting at tables in the back. Marty felt a lump in his throat. He was nineteen, a big raw gangling blond kid, and he had never had a woman in his life. Tony Donelli had been kidding him about it on the ship, all the past months while they had cruised the Atlantic making a tour of the American defense bases. Marty wished Tony Donelli had come along with him tonight, this first night of shore leave in New York.

But Tony had insisted that he go out on his own. “It’s the only way to learn, kid. The fledglings have to be pushed out of the nest. But you’ll make out okay. I got faith in you, kid.”