`Frank, baby,' I said the next evening as he emerged from his taxi. `Long time, no see. It's your old buddy Lou Smith;
you must remember me. Good to see you again.'
I pumped his hand as the taxi pulled away and, still hoping to prevent him from uttering my. name within earshot of
the doorman, I threw my arm around his shoulder and whispered that we were being trailed and began marching him
away.
`But Dr-'
`Had to see you. They're trying to get you,' I whispered as we moved up the block.
`But who's trying `Tell you all about it at dinner.'
He stopped about thirty feet from his apartment.
`Look, Dr. Rhinehart, I . . . I've got an important . . . appointment this evening. I'm sorry, but-'
I had hailed another taxi and it careered over to our curb lusting after our East Side money.
`Dinner first. Got to talk first. Someone's trying to murder you.'
`What?'
`Get in, quick.'
Inside the taxi I got my first good look at Frank Osterflood; he was a bit heavier about the jowls than he had been
before and seemed more nervous and tense, but it might have been his concern about dying. His hair was nicely trimmed and brushed, his expensive suit fit flawlessly, and he gave off the pleasant odor of some heroic after-shave lotion. He looked like a highly successful, well-paid, socially placed thug.
'- To murder me?' he said, staring into my face is search of a jocular smile. I had glanced at my watch; it was six
thirty-seven.
`I'm afraid so,' I said. `I learned from some of my dicepeople that they're planning to murder you.'
I stared sincerely into his face. `Maybe tonight even.'
`I don't understand,' he said, looking away. `And where are we going now?'
`Restaurant in Queens. Very good hors d'oeuvres.'
`But why? Who? What have I done?'
I shook my head slowly from side to side, while Osterflood stared nervously out at the passing traffic and seemed to
flinch every time a car drew up alongside us.
`Ah, Frank, you don't have to hide things from me. You know you've done some things that . . . well, might upset some
people. Someone, someone has found it's you. They plan to kill you. I'm here to help.'
He glanced back at me nervously.
`I don't need any help. I've got to go someplace at - at eight-thirty. Don't need help.'
Tight-jawed, he stared straight ahead at the somewhat un-artistic photograph of Antonio Rosco Fellini, driver of the
cab.
`Ah, but you do, Frank. Your little appointment at eight-thirty may be your rendezvous with death. You'd better let me come along.' `I don't understand,' he said. `Since dice therapy with you and Dr. Boyd I haven't, I haven't . . . done anything I haven't
paid for.'
`Ahhhh,' I said vaguely, searching for my next line.
`Except my wife.'
`Where's this place again?' shouted back Antonio Rosco Fellini. I told him.
`And my wife has left me and is suing me and if I die she won't get a cent.'
`But those early days in Harlem, Frank. They may know.'
He hesitated and stared over at me wide-eyed in fear.
`But I'm leaving my money partly to the NAACP,' he said.
`Maybe they don't know that,' I said.
`Probably no one knows,' he said sadly. `I just recently decided.'
'Ah, and when did you decide?'
'Just now, a minute ago.'
We drove on in silence for a while, Osterflood twice looking mind us to see if we were being followed. He reported
that we were.
`What's this appointment about tonight, Frank?'
'None of your business,' he answered quickly.
`Frank, I'm trying to help you. Someone may be trying to murder you tonight.'