"Who are you?" Ivy insisted.
Go for it, I thought. See if you get away with it.
"I'm a collector of last resort," I explained. "I collect gambling debts. Football pools, mostly, but whatever else, too. A guy makes a bet in a bar about a football game, his team doesn't win, he has to pay off."
"He pays you?"
"I get twenty-five percent of whatever I collect."
"What about Corky Collins?"
"I'm just here to collect what he owes another guy."
"How come he hasn't paid you yet?"
I could be magnanimous. "He needs a couple days to get it together."
"Are you going to beat him up if he doesn't?"
"I don't beat people up. People pay off their gambling debts. It's a matter of pride. The principle of the thing."
"What if Corky doesn't pay you?"
"He'll pay me," I said.
Ivy was dubious. "Then what's the gun for?"
"I don't want to be robbed."
"What!"
"The money's not mine. If I'm robbed, I have to pay it back."
She stared into my eyes to read my soul.
"See, that's why I want us to start my life over. I don't want to do this shit no more. That's why I want us to work so well together."
She wasn't sure if she should be skeptical or not.
"If you think I'm lying, Ivy, there's no reason for us to stay together."
She loved me. She hugged me with all her heart and soul.
Me, I kept worrying.
Corky banged on the door like a deranged husband. When I let him in my room, he was livid with rage.
"What were you doing with my wife on the beach this morning?"
I amused. "Do I tell you how to do your job? Do I bother you when you're working?"
"You'll jeopardize everything!"
I stopped him. "It can go down tonight, if you're ready." Smiling: "It'll look like a robbery, a burglary gone bad. And you'll be down at the bowling alley having a beer."
"With Debra?"
I shrugged. "Sure. Why not?" I had a sudden thought and stopped. "Are you both planning to go somewhere together afterwards? Las Vegas or Acapulco or Paris? Maybe meet there, having come separate ways, under assumed names, and then celebrate together?"
Corky's guilty expression was enough to convict him.
I was ice-cold. "Don't."
Corky swallowed hard. "What do you want me to do tonight?"
An hour before twilight I stood on a deserted beach. I held my Browning like a crucifix. Flea was on the ridge above the beach with a pile of empty soda cans. I had my back to him.
I spoke to myself: "A professional calls his shots and then makes them." Then, calling to Flea: "Now!"
Flea threw an empty can down the rocky slope towards the beach.
I heard the clattering can, spun and fired once from the hip. The tin can was hit by my bullet, which sent the can flying.
"The longer I'm here," I said to myself, "the harder a clean hit becomes."
I turned my back and waited for Flea to throw the next tin can.
When it came clattering down the rocky slope, I fired again.
The tin can blew apart.
"And then there's Ivy," I said, and turned my back.
When Flea threw the next can down the rocky slope towards the beach, I watched the clattering can and fired my pistol from the waist. I shattered the can.
"I'll call her," I said, "tell her, gotta go, take care of yourself."
When Flea threw the last can down towards the beach, I heard the clattering can, spun around, aimed and fired. The can went flying, then landed among the other tin cans.
"That's the last one!" Flea called down.
I reloaded, while Flea came scrambling down the slope. Flea looked over the tin cans.
Why say anything? Just walk away and never come back.
Awed and frightened, Flea approached me. "You never missed!" he said. He shut up, seeing the frustration in my eyes. He thought it was anger.