A Horse's Head

See, see! What shall I see?

A horse's head where his tail should be.

1: JAWBONE

He Game Tumbling down the stairs head over heels, cursing as his skull collided with each angled joining of riser and tread, wincing whenever a new step rushed up to meet him and thinking all the while, how dare he do this to me, a good old friend like me?

He was a lanky man of 39, needing a haircut, wearing a rumpled brown suit and a raincoat that had once been white, falling down the stairs with all the grace of a loose bundle of sticks, lurching and hurtling and banging every bone in his body. Oh, you will pay for this, he thought, you will most certainly pay for this.

"And estay out!" a voice called from the top of the steps.

He could not believe he had reached the landing, everything still hurt as much as it had while he was falling. He got up and dusted off first the knees of his trousers and then the sleeves of his raincoat and then he picked up his battered fedora, which had preceded him down the staircase with perhaps even less grace, and rubbed the elbow of his coat across the hat and then set it on his head at what he assumed was a jaunty angle. It was while he was putting on his hat that he discovered his forehead was bleeding, which was really no small wonder, considering the number of steps he had hit on his descent. He thought it supremely rude of the proprietor of the place, a Puerto Rican gentleman named Hijo, which means son (and he could guess son of what), to have thrown him down the stairs simply because he'd asked for a $50 loan. He wished he had half the money he had spent in Hijo's place over the past ten years, make that a quarter of the money, and then to be hustled out the door and hurled down the stairs. You'll pay for this, Hijo, he thought, and stuck out his tongue to wet the handkerchief, and then wiped the blood, and then walked out into the daylight.

It was a rare spring day, April flaunting herself like a naked whore. Hello, April, he thought cheerily, and then winced and felt his backside, certain he'd broken something. You dirty rat, Hijo, he thought, sounding in his mind like James Cagney, I'll get you for this, you dirty rat, and he smiled. Oh, it was a lovely day. Oh, all the sweet young girls of New York were out in their summer dresses, having shucked their girdles and other restricting garments, wiggling along the avenue, prancing along as though having been led into the paddock to be ogled by horse bettors of all ages, Andrew Mullaney himself included.

Except, of course, that he himself had not been able to borrow $50 from Hijo, son of, and whereas he had the 20 cents necessary for the purchase of a subway token to take him out to the Big Bold Beautiful Big A, he did not have the wherewithal to bet once he got there, great horse player that he was. The terrible pity about not having been able to raise the $50 was that Mullaney had received from a somewhat disreputable uptown dice player a tip on the fourth race, a filly named Jawbone who was supposed to be a hands-down winner. The disreputable dice player was a charter member of the Cosa Nostra, so it could be assumed that his information had come, if not directly from the horse's mouth, at least directly from the mouth of someone intimate with the horse's mouth. All of which left Mullaney out in the cold, because the only thing you can do with a hot tip is play it. Nor can you tell anyone else how hot the tip is, lest it suddenly cool; there's nothing so fickle as a pari-mutuel board. So Mullaney wasn't feeling particularly cheerful about his inability to raise the money.

The thought of Jawbone waiting to be bet, and the Biblical association with Samson, made him think again of his own aching ass and the way he had bounced along on each of those 37 steps, more than that even, he had stopped counting after he hit his forehead on number 38; one more and he could have made a Hitchcock movie. He was beginning to discover all sorts of little aches and bruises now that he was out in the warm spring sunshine. If only I had some hospitalization insurance, he thought, I could collect on it and then put the money down on Jawbone. The trouble is, they take a long time to pay off on those hospitalization bets; and besides, I don't have any insurance. What I do have is 20 cents in my pocket; I wonder if anybody I know will be out at the track. I can risk the 20 cents and take the ride out; there's sure to be somebody there I know. I can stand outside the entrance—bound to run into somebody out there—and explain that this is really a sizzler of a tip, build it up a little, say I got it from the owner of a big stable down in Kentucky, instead of a small dice player with family connections, maybe promote the price of admission plus a small stake besides. It might be worth the risk. Fifty bucks or so on the nose of a horse that in the morning line was 20 to 1, that's a thousand bucks, even if the odds don't climb, which they usually do on a long shot.

He was standing on the corner of 14th and Fourth, trying to decide whether he should buy himself a couple of candy bars or a token instead, when the black Cadillac limousine pulled to the curb. He backed away from the curb at once, because he had the sudden feeling that this was the President of the United States pulling up, that the doors would open and a few Secret Service men would emerge, and then the President himself would step out and go across the street to S. Klein, Always on the Square, to buy himself a ten-gallon hat that was on sale, maybe several ten-gallon hats to give away to Persian ministers of state. He was convinced this would be the President. He was very surprised when only a gentleman with a beard got out of the car, even though the gentleman looked like someone in very high diplomatic circles, not the President, of course, and not even an American diplomat, but nonetheless a very big wig, indeed. Mullaney stepped aside to give the bearded gentleman room to pass, but the gentleman stopped alongside him instead and said directly into his right ear, "Get in the car."

For a moment Mullaney thought he had also somehow injured his hearing on the trip down from the pool hall, but the bearded gentleman repeated the words, "Get in the car," with a foreign accent Mullaney could not place. Only this time he pushed something into Mullaney's side, and Mullaney knew it wasn't a pipe. He had once been held up in Harlem after a crap game, and he knew the feel of a revolver against his ribs; and whereas this probably wasn't an American-make gun, considering who was holding it, it nonetheless had the feel of a very hefty weapon that could put several holes in a fellow if he wasn't too careful. So Mullaney said, "As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about getting into that car, sir," and immediately got in. The man with the beard got in after him and closed the door. The driver pulled the big machine away from the curb.

"Take me out to Aqueduct," Mullaney said jokingly, "and then you may have the rest of the afternoon off," but no one laughed.

• • •

The stonecutter's establishment was adjacent to the cemetery.

An angry April wind, absent in Manhattan, sent eddies of lingering fallen leaves across a gravel path leading to the clapboard building. The path was lined with marble headpieces, some of them blank, some of them chiseled, one of them announcing in large letters across its black marble face, In Loving Memory of Martin Callahan, Loving Husband, 1935-1967; Mullaney shuddered at the thought.

They had parked the limousine behind what appeared to be a bigger black hearse than Abraham Feinstein had been blessed with at his funeral. Feinstein had been the king of the Bronx blackjack players; Mullaney would always remember his funeral fondly. He wanted to tell the bearded gentleman that it wasn't really necessary to provide anything as ostentatious as Feinstein's funeral had been; Mullaney was, after all, just a simple horse player. A plain pine box would suffice, a small headstone stating simply: mullaney. But the bearded gentleman again prodded him with the Luger and urged him along the gravel path to the cottage that was the stonecutter's office. Three men were waiting inside. One was obviously the owner of the establishment, because he asked, as soon as they entered, whether any of them would care for a bit of schnapps. The bearded gentleman said no, they had business to attend to, there was no time for schnapps when business was at hand. The two other men looked at Mullaney and one of them said, "Gouda, this is not the corpse."

"I know," the bearded gentleman answered. So he is Gouda, Mullaney thought, and winced when Gouda said, "But he will make a fine substitute corpse."

"Where is the original corpse?" the other man said. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He looked very much like a country squire from Wales.

"The original corpse jumped out of the car on Fourteenth Street," Gouda (continued on page 156) Horse's Head (continued from page 62) said. He was a man of excellent wit, Mullaney decided, even though his brown eyes were set rather too close to his nose. "O'Brien, there is no problem," he continued. "This gentleman will make a fine corpse."

O'Brien, who was the man with the leather elbow patches, studied Mullaney with too-morbid interest. Mullaney, deciding this was the time to voice his own sentiments on the subject, said, "Gentlemen, I don't think I will make a fine corpse."

"You will make a fine corpse," Gouda insisted.

"Seriously, gentlemen," Mullaney said, "I can think of a hundred other people who would make finer corpses. I can, in fact, think of three people I contacted only today on a small financial matter who would make excellent corpses, indeed."

"He's too tall," O'Brien said.

"That's right, I'm too tall," Mullaney agreed. "Besides, my uncle is a judge."

"Would anyone care for some schnapps?" the stonecutter said.

The third man who had been present when they arrived had so far said nothing. He sat on a corner of the stonecutter's desk, nattily dressed in a dark-blue suit, his silk rep tie held by a tiny tie tack, the letter K in gold. He kept staring at Mullaney, but he said nothing. Mullaney reasoned immediately that he was the boss.

"What do you think, boss?" O'Brien said, turning to him.

"He'll do," K said.

He spoke in a very low voice; all bosses speak in low voices. All bosses look like K, Mullaney thought, small and dapper and narrow as a stiletto, with an initial lie tack, and cold blue eyes and hair going slightly thin, combed to the side over the encroaching baldness; all bosses look exactly like K.

"Suppose his uncle really is a judge?" O'Brien said.

"His uncle is not a judge," K said.

"He looks as if his uncle could be a judge, or at least an alderman."

"That's right," Mullaney said.

"In fact, how do we know he himself isn't a judge or an alderman or an off-duty detective?"

"That's right," Mullaney said, "how do you know?"

"Do you realize what kind of trouble we'll be in if we've accidentally picked up somebody important?"

"Yes, consider that," Mullaney said.

K considered it, studying Mullaney thoughtfully. At last he said, "He is nobody important."

"I beg your pardon," Mullaney said, offended.

"In any case," O'Brien said, "he's too tall,"

"For the coffin?" Gouda asked, and Mullaney shuddered again.

"No, for the suit."

"We can alter the suit."

"I'm a very difficult person to fit," Mullaney said. "Gentlemen, seriously, I don't want you to go to any trouble on my part. If the suit won't fit me---"

"It'll fit him," K said in his very low voice.

"He'll split all the seams."

"It's only until he gets to Rome."

"You shouldn't have let the original corpse get away," O'Brien said to Gouda. "The suit was measured to order for him."

"He jumped out of the car," Gouda said, and spread his hands helplessly. "Could I chase him down Fourteenth Street? With a plane ready to take off?" He shrugged. "We grabbed the first person we saw." He appraised Mullaney and then said, "Besides, I think he'll make a fine corpse."

"You could have picked someone shorter," O'Brien said petulantly.

"There were no short people on Fourteenth Street," Gouda said. "I would like some schnapps, after all."

"There's no time for schnapps," K said.

"That's right," Gouda instantly agreed, "there's no time for schnapps. Where's the suit, O'Brien?"

"Get the suit," O'Brien said to the man who had offered the schnapps.

The man obediently went into the other room, but over his shoulder he called, "It won't fit."

The other men sat waiting for him to come back. The bald-headed driver was cleaning his fingernails with a long knife. What a dreadful stereotype, Mullaney thought. "What's your name?" he asked him.

"Peter," the driver answered, without looking up from his nails.

"Pleased to meet you."

The driver nodded, as though he felt it wasteful to exchange courtesies with someone who would soon be dead.

"Listen," Mullaney said to K, "I really would not like to become a corpse."

"You have no choice," K said. "We have no choice, therefore you have no choice." It sounded very logical. Mullaney admired the logic but not the sentiment.

"Still," he said, "I'm only thirty-seven years old," lying by two years. Almost three years.

"Some people get hit by automobiles when they're only little kids," Peter said, still cleaning his nails. "Think of them."

"I sympathize with them," Mullaney said, "but I myself had hoped to live to a ripe old age."

"Hopes are dainty things ofttimes shattered," K said, as if he were quoting from something, Mullaney couldn't imagine what.

The stonecutter came back into the room with a black suit on a hanger. "I left the shirt," he said. "The shirt would definitely not fit him. What size shirt do you wear?" he asked Mullaney.

"Fifteen," Mullaney said. "Five sleeve."

"He can wear his own shirt," K said.

"I'd like to wear my own suit, too," Mullaney said, "if that's all right with you."

"That's not all right with us," K said.

"In fact," Mullaney went on, "I'd like to go home right now; or better still, I'd like to go to Aqueduct. If you gentlemen are interested, I have a very hot tip on a horse called---"

"He'll wear his own shirt," K said.

"A yellow shirt?" O'Brien asked, offended.

"It's not yellow," K said. "What color is that shirt?" he asked Mullaney.

"Jasmine."

"It's jasmine," K said.

"It looks yellow."

"No, it's jasmine," Mullaney said.

"Put on the suit," K advised.

"Gentlemen---"

"Put it on," Gouda said, and made a faintly menacing gesture with the Luger.

Mullaney accepted the suit from O'Brien. "Where shall I change?" he asked.

"Here," Gouda said.

He hoped he was wearing clean underwear; his mother had always cautioned him about wearing clean underwear and carrying a clean handkerchief. He took off his pants, feeling the sharpness of the keen April wind that swept over the marble stones in the courtyard and seeped through the crack under the door.

"He's got polka-dot undershorts," Peter said, and made his short laughlike sound. "A corpse with polka-dot undershorts, that's a hot one."

The pants were too short and too tight. Mullaney could not button them at the waist.

"Just zip them up as far as they'll go," K said, "that'll be fine."

"They'll fall down," Mullaney said, transferring his 20-cent fortune from his own pants to the ones he was now wearing.

"You'll be lying in a coffin, they won't fall down," O'Brien said, and handed him the suit jacket.

The jacket was made of the same fine black cloth as the trousers, but was lined and therefore substantially heavier. There were three thick black buttons on the front, each about the size of a penny, and four smaller black buttons on each sleeve. The buttons resembled mushroom caps, though not rounded, their tops and edges faceted instead, a very fancy jacket, indeed, if a trifle too tight. He pulled it closed across his chest and belly, and then forced the middle button through its corresponding buttonhole. The shoulders were far too narrow, the armholes pinched; he let out his breath and said, "It's too tight."

"Perfect," K said.

"What's the lining made of?" Mullaney asked. "It rustles."

"It's silk," O'Brien said, and glanced at K.

"It makes a nice whispering rustle," Mullaney said.

"Those are angels' wings," Peter said, and again gave his imitation of a laugh. The other men laughed with him—all but Gouda, who, it seemed to Mullaney, had suddenly become very nervous and pale.

"Well," Gouda said, "let's get on with it, there isn't much time."

"Put him in the coffin," K said.

"Look," Mullaney protested, "I'm a married man," which was not exactly the truth, since he had been divorced a year ago.

"We will send your wife a floral wreath," Gouda said.

"I have two children." This was an absolute lie. He and Irene had never had any children at all.

"That's unfortunate," K said. "But oft-times even little babes must untowardly suffer," again making it sound like a quote that Mullaney did not recognize.

"I'm a respected professor at City College," Mullaney said, which was also pretty close to the truth, since he used to be an encyclopedia salesman. "I can assure you I'll be sorely missed."

"You won't be missed at all," Gouda said, which made no sense.

Somebody hit him on the back of the head—Peter, he supposed, the dirty rat.

2: Grubel

He woke up groaning. He was in a moving automobile. A man he had never seen before was sitting beside him on the back seat, a gun in his hand. Another stranger, judging from the back of his head, was driving the car. When he heard Mullaney, he turned and said, "E desto, eh?"

"Si," the other man replied. "A questo momento."

"Va bene," the driver said.

They've already flown me to Italy, Mullaney thought. I am now being driven through the outskirts of Rome to a hide-out on the banks of the Tiber. He glanced through the windshield, saw the toll booths ahead and realized they were only approaching the Lincoln Tunnel.

"What the hell?" he said, startling the man beside him.

"What's the matter?" the man shouted. "What is it? What is it?"

"Just where are we?" Mullaney demanded. It was one thing to get pushed around, but it was another to be welshed out of a trip to Rome.

"We're on our way to see Grubel," the man said. "Stop making noise near the toll booths."

"Is this New Jersey?" Mullaney asked shrewdly.

"This is New Jersey."

"You're not even Italians!" Mullaney shouted.

"We are so!" the man said, offended.

"Who's Grubel?"

"The boss."

"And who are you?"

"I'm George," the man beside him said.

"I'm Henry," the driver said.

He was angry now; oh, boy, now he was really angry. They had really got his Irish dander up this time, hitting him on the head and giving him such a headache, and then not even shipping him to Rome as they had promised. His anger was unreasoning and uncontrolled. He knew he could not blame either Henry or George for the empty promises the others had made, but he was angry nonetheless, an undirected black Irish boiling-mad anger that was beginning to give him stomach cramps. In about two minutes flat, as soon as they were past the toll booths (he didn't want any innocent people to get hurt if there was shooting), he was going to erupt in this automobile, rip George's gun in half, wrap it around his head, stuff it down his throat; oh, boy, you started up with the wrong fellow this time! They were past the toll booths now and approaching the tunnel itself, the blue-and-white-tiled walls, the fluorescent lighting, the cops walking on the narrow ramparts, waving the cars on; Mullaney waited, not wanting to cause a traffic jam in the tunnel when he incapacitated these two cheap gangsters.

There were a great many cars on the road; this was Friday night, the start of the weekend. He could remember too many Friday nights long ago, when he and Irene had been a part of the fun-seeking throng, but he tried to put Irene out of his mind now, because somehow thinking of her always made him a little sad, and he didn't want to dissipate the fine glittering edge of his anger, he was going to chop through these hoodlums like a cleaver! But the traffic was dense even when they got out of the tunnel, and he didn't get a chance to make his move until the car stopped outside a brownstone on East 61st, and then he realized they had reached their destination and it was too late to do anything. Besides, by then he wasn't angry anymore.

"Upstairs," George said.

The building was silent. Carpeted steps wound endlessly upward, creaking beneath them as they climbed. A Tiffany lamp, all glistening greens and yellows, hung from the ceiling of the second floor. As Henry walked beneath it, it bathed his head in a Heineken glow, giving him a thoughtful beery look. A flaking mirror in an ornate gold-leaf frame hung on the wall of the third floor. George adjusted his tie as he went past the mirror, and then began whistling tunelessly under his breath as they continued to climb. On the fourth floor, a bench richly upholstered in red velour stood against the wall, just outside a door painted in muted gray. Henry knocked on the door and then patted his hair into place.

The door opened.

Mullaney caught his breath.

Grubel was a woman.

Into that hallway she insinuated springtime, peering out at them with a delicately bemused expression on her face, cornflower eyes widening, long blonde hair whispering onto her cheek. She might have been a fairy maiden surprised in the garden of an ancient castle, banners and pennoncels fluttering on the fragrant breeze above her. She turned to gaze at Mullaney, pierced him with a poignant look. A curious smile played about her mouth, the secret of her delicious joke erupting—Grubel is a woman, Grubel is a beautiful woman. He had once written sonnets about women like this.

He had once, when he was a boy and still believed in magic, written sonnets about delicate maidens who walked through fields of angel's breath and left behind them dizzying scents that robbed men of their souls. When he'd left Irene a year ago, she had asked (he would never forget the look on her face when she asked, her eyes turned away, the shame of having to ask), "Andy, is there another woman?" And he had replied, "No, Irene, there is no other woman," and had meant it, and yet was being dishonest. The other woman, the woman for whom he had left Irene a year ago, was this Grubel standing in the doorway, with her shy, inquiring glance, flaxen hair trapped by a velvet ribbon as black as a medieval arch. The other woman was Grubel; the other woman had always been Grubel. She leaned in the doorway. She was wearing a black-velvet dress (he knew she would be wearing black velvet), its lace-edged yoke framing ivory collarbones that gently winged toward the shadowed hollow of her throat. Her hips were tilted, her belly gently rounded, her legs racing swift and clean to black high-heeled pumps. She leaned in the doorway and stopped his heart.

She was the gamble.

He had tried to explain to Irene, not fully understanding it himself, that what he was about to do was imperative. He had tried to explain that in these goddamn encyclopedias he sold to schools and libraries, there was more about life and living than he could ever hope to experience in a million years. He had tried to show her, for example, how he could open any one of the books, look, let's take BA-BL, just open it at random, and look, well here we are, Balls, peoples of the east coast of the Baltic Sea, have you ever seen the people of the east coast of the Baltic Sea, Irene? Well, neither have I, that's what I'm trying to tell you, that's what I mean about taking the gamble, honey.

I don't know what you mean, she said.

I mean the gamble, the gamble, he said, beginning to rant a little, he realized, but unable to control himself; I'm talking about taking the gamble, I've got to take the gamble, Irene, I've got to go out there and see for myself.

You don't love me, she said.

I love you, Irene, he said, I love you, really, honey, I do love you, but I've got to take the gamble. I've got to see where it is that everything's happening out there, I've got to find those places I've only read about, I've got to find them. Honey, I've got to live. I'm dying. I'll die. Do you want me to die?

If you leave me, Irene said, yes, I want you to die.

Well, who cares about curses? he had thought. Curses are for old Irish ladies sitting in stone cottages by the sea. He knew for certain that somewhere there were people who consistently won, somewhere there were handsome suntanned men who held women like Grubel in their arms and whispered secrets to them and made love to them in the afternoon on foreign beaches, and later played baccarat and yelled Banco! and danced until morning and drank pink champagne from satin slippers. He knew these people existed, he knew there was a world out there waiting to be won, and he had set out to win it.

And had lost.

Had lost because Irene had said, yes, I want you to die, and slowly he had died, as surely as Feinstein had died. He had taken the gamble, had thrown everything to the winds, everything, had been laying his life on the morning line for the past year now, had been clutching it to his chest across poker tables for the past year now, had been rolling it across green-felt cloths for the past year now, and had lost, had surely and most certainly lost. This morning, he was down to his last 20 cents and squarely facing his inability to borrow even another nickel in this fair city of New York, and so they had put him in a coffin. He had very definitely lost.

Until now.

Now, this moment, he looked at Grubel standing in the doorway of the apartment and knew he still had a chance, knew by what he read on her face, knew that she was the lady he had set out to find on that February day a year, more than a year ago. He could not breathe; he had never stood this close to a dream before.

And then, because dreams never last too very long, a voice from behind Grubel said, "Is that you, boys?" and he looked past her into the room to see the ugliest, most evil-looking man he had ever seen in his life, and he realized at once that Grubel was not a pretty blonde lady, after all. Grubel was instead a 210-pound monster who came lumbering toward the doorway in a red-silk dressing gown, dirty black fingernails, hair sticking up on his head and on his chest and growing like weeds on his thick arms and on the backs of his hands and over his fingers. This is Grubel, he thought, and he is going to throw you to his crocodiles. You lose again, Mullaney, he thought, and the girl said, "Do come in."

They all went into the room.

He could not take his eyes off the girl. He followed her every movement in terror, because he knew that Grubel could bend steel bars, Grubel could breathe fire, and he did not want Grubel to see him sneaking glances at the girl. But the girl kept sneaking glances back at Mullaney, like luck dancing around the edges of a crap table when the dice are running hot and you can't roll anything but 11s, dancing and tantalizing, and watching him with that strange, sweet, wistful smile, walking as delicately as though she were in a meadow of mist.

Grubel bit off the end of a cigar, spit it into the fireplace, where a real wood fire was blazing, and said, "Where's the money?"

"Are you talking to me?" Mullaney asked.

"Yes. Where's the money?"

"What money?" Mullaney said, and realized instantly he had said the wrong thing. Grubel suddenly made a face that indicated to Mullaney, Oh, are we going to play that game, where you pretend you don't know what I'm talking about and where I have to get rough, perhaps, when you know very well what money I mean?

"He doesn't know where the money is, Henry," Grubel said.

"He doesn't know where the money is, George," Henry repeated.

They all had rather pained expressions on their faces, as if they were distressed by what they now felt they must do. But since Mullaney didn't know where the money was, or even which money they were talking about, he couldn't very well tell them what they wanted to know. It all looked hopeless. Mullaney decided to ask for the manager.

"Where's Gouda?" he said.

"Gouda is dead," Henry said.

"That's not true. I saw him only a little while ago."

"He's dead now," George said.

"How did he die?"

"A coffin was hijacked on the way to Kennedy," George said. "There was a terrible highway accident."

"Terrible," Henry repeated.

The room was very still. Mullaney cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I'm certainly sorry to hear that."

"Yes," Grubel said. "Where's the money?"

"I don't know," Mullaney said.

"We figured it had to be in the coffin," Henry said.

"Well, then, maybe it is."

"No. We looked."

"Did you look carefully?"

"Very carefully."

"They even removed you and put you on the floor," Grubel said. "The money was definitely not in the coffin."

There was a miasma of evil emanating from Grubel, as strong as the stench of garlic, wafted across the room, penetrating the wood-smoke smell, thick and suffocating. Grubel could kill a bug by looking at it; he was evil and he was strong and he was mean, and Mullaney was afraid of him, and more afraid of him because he could not take his eyes off the delicate blonde girl.

"I don't know where the money is," Mullaney said. "Would you happen to know who won the fourth race at Aqueduct today?"

"I have no idea who won the fourth race at Aqueduct," Grubel said.

"Well, I have no idea where the money is," Mullaney said.

"I believe otherwise. I suggest you tell me, sir, or we may be forced to kill you."

He spoke very well for a man who looked the way he did, his cultured voice adding somehow to the terrible menace that rose from him like a black cloud from the smokestack of a steel mill, hanging in the air, dropping black particles of soot on Sunday church clothes. He stuck the cigar in his mouth, but did not light it. Mullaney had the feeling he was simply going to swallow it.

The girl was standing near the window, peering down onto the street below, except occasionally when she turned to look at Mullaney with that same sad, sweet smile on her face. He knew instinctively that she wanted him to save her from the clutches of such as Grubel. She wanted him to start a fight here, knock these fellows around a little and then take her down to the casino, where he'd put 20,000 francs on 17 black, and then maybe they'd go running barefoot along the Grande Corniche—that was what she wanted him to do. She wanted him to become what he thought he would become a year ago, when he had flown the coop in search of some dizzy kind of freedom, finding nothing but cold dice and losing horses, dead hands and buried luck, finding none of the things he thought he was taking the gamble for, and managing to lose Irene in the bargain, the only thing that had ever mattered in his life until then. Now, here in this room, everything seemed within grasp once again. All he had to do was become a hero. All he had to ask of himself, all he had to expect of himself, was that he become a hero.

"If you kill me," he heard himself say, "you'll never find out where the money is."

"That's true enough," Grubel said.

"I thought you'd be reasonable," Mullaney said, and smiled like a hero.

"Oh, yes, I am a very reasonable man," Grubel said. "I hope you are equally reasonable, sir, because I think you know how obsessed one can become by the idea of possessing half a million dollars."

"Yes." Mullaney said, and then said, "Half a million dollars?"

"Or didn't you realize it was that much money?"

"No, I didn't realize that, I certainly never realized that," he said, and knew at once that this was it, this was sweet luck keening to him from someplace, half a million dollars, if only he could be a hero. He felt himself tensing, knew instinctively that he would have to call upon every reserve of strength and intelligence he possessed if he was to get out of this room with what he wanted. He had come into this room thinking that all he wanted was to stay alive, but now he knew that he wanted the blonde as well, not to mention the money.

"That's a lot of money," he said, and swallowed.

"Yes, that is a very large amount of money," Grubel agreed.

"Did somebody rob a bank?" Mullaney asked, thinking he was making a joke.

"No, somebody robbed a jewelry store," Grubel said.

"Who?"

"K and his fellows."

"Where?"

"On West Forty-seventh Street. They stole three very large diamonds---"

"How large?"

"About ten carats each, and eight smaller diamonds as well."

"How large are the small ones?"

"About five or six carats each."

"That doesn't sound like very much."

"Five hundred thousand dollars in cash was paid for them," Grubel said. "The money was to be sent to a Signor Ladro in Rome."

"How do you know?"

"Let us say that where there is cheese, there is also sometimes a rat," Grubel said. "Where's the money?"

Mullaney suddenly knew where it was.

He knew with an intensity bordering on clairvoyance exactly where the money was. He almost grinned at his own ridiculously marvelous perception.

"I know where the money is," he said aloud, surprised when he heard the words.

"Yes, I realize that, sir," Grubel said.

"And I'll be happy to get it for you."

"Good."

"But ... " He hesitated. Grubel stood facing him across the room, the only other player in the game. Mullaney was holding half a million aces, half a million lovely crisp American dollar bills, warm and safe and snug, the best hand he'd ever held in his life. He almost burst out laughing. The girl, leaning against the window drapes, watched him silently, anticipating his opening bet.

"I'd have to go for it alone," Mullaney said.

"Out of the question," Grubel answered, calling and raising.

"Then we'd better forget it."

"No, we won't forget it," Grubel said. "George," he said, and George moved a step closer to Mullaney.

"That won't help you a bit," Mullaney said.

"Perhaps not. I have a feeling, however, that it will help you even less."

"Well, if you want to get clever," Mullaney said, and then could think of nothing further to say. George was very close now. The blued steel of the revolver glinted in the firelight. He flipped the barrel of the gun up so that the butt was in striking position. He smiled pleasantly; lots of people smile pleasantly before they commit mayhem, Mullaney reflected.

"Sir?" Grubel said.

"Just touch me with that gun ... " .Mullaney said.

"You realize, do you not ... "

" ... just touch me with it, and ... "

" ... that we can very easily drop you in the Hudson river ... "

"I realize that."

" ... in little pieces?"

"Little pieces, big pieces," Mullaney said, and shrugged.

"So I suggest you tell me where the money is. Now."

"And I suggest you bet your jacks," Mullaney said. "Now."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Or get out of the game."

Grubel stared at him.

"Well?" Mullaney said.

Grubel was silent for a long time. Then he sighed and said, "How far is it?"

"How far is what?"

"Where the money is."

"It's near," Mullaney said.

"Take George with you," Grubel suggested.

"Out of the question."

"Henry, then?"

"Neither of them. I go alone."

"Why?"

"Put yourself in my position," Mullaney said, not knowing what the hell he was talking about. "I need protection. I wouldn't mind giving up five hundred thousand dollars"—like fun I wouldn't, he thought—"after all, that's only money. But you can't ask me to risk my life getting it, because what's the difference between that and getting killed right here in this room?" he said, still not knowing what he was talking about but realizing he was making sense, because the men were studying him soberly and weighing his words, and the girl was glancing at him in approval and smiling encouragingly from where she stood in black against the red drapes. "If either George or Henry is recognized, I don't think I have to tell you what could happen to me," Mullaney said, not having the faintest idea what could happen to him, but figuring it never hurt to throw in dire predictions when you were dealing with people who had the power to make those predictions come true. "Think of my position," he said.

"He has a point." Grubel said. He kept studying Mullaney. "But think of my position," he said reasonably. "What guarantee do I have that you'll come back?"

"No guarantee at all. Except my word," Mullaney said.

Grubel coughed politely. "I'm afraid that's not enough for me," he said.

"Well, what can I tell you?" Mullaney said, and shrugged. Come on, Grubel, he thought, you are walking right into the sucker bet, it's sitting right here waiting for you, all you've got to do is come a wee bit closer, I'm going to let you pick up the bet all by yourself, come on, baby, come on.

"No," Grubel said. "I don't like the odds."

"They're the only odds in this game."

"You're forgetting that I can end this game whenever I choose."

"In which case, you lose all the marbles."

"I'd be an idiot to let you out of here alone."

"You'd be a bigger idiot to throw away half a million dollars."

"If I let you go, I may be doing both."

"Not if I gave you my word."

"Please," Grubel said politely, and then began pacing before the fireplace, his huge hands clasped behind his back. Mullaney kept waiting for him to have the sudden inspiration he hoped he would have had long before now, but Grubel only kept pacing back and forth, thinking. "Suppose I go with you," he suggested at last.

"No."

"Not too many people know me," Grubel said.

"No, I couldn't take that chance," Mullaney said, waiting for lightning to strike, wondering how many permutations and combinations Grubel had to examine before he fell over the sucker bet that was right there at his very feet.

"I know!" Grubel said, and turned from the fireplace. Mullaney held his breath. "The girl," Grubel said. "You'll take the girl with you."

It's about time, Mullaney thought. "Absolutely not," he said.

"Why not?" Grubel asked, frowning.

"That's the same thing as taking you or any of the others."

"No," Grubel said. "No, it isn't. I beg your pardon, but it isn't. The girl is not known."

"I'm sorry," Mullaney said. "I hate to be difficult, but either I go alone or I don't go at all."

"Either you take the girl with you," Grubel said, looming large and hairy and black and menacing and shooting up cinders and sparks from the evil smokestack that he was, "or you leave here in a coffin."

"All right," Mullaney said, "I'll take the girl with me."

"Good. George, get her a gun."

George went to a cabinet against the wall, opened the top drawer and removed from it a small pearl-handled .22. He showed the gun to the girl and said, "Do you know how to use this?"

The girl nodded, then took the gun and put it into her purse.

"If he does not go directly for the money," Grubel said, "shoot him."

The girl nodded.

"If he tries to contact either the others or the police," Grubel said, "shoot him."

The girl nodded.

"If he gets the money and then refuses to come back here," Grubel said, "shoot him."

The girl nodded.

"Very well, go." They started for the door and Grubel said, "No, wait." He walked very close to where Mullaney was standing and said, "I hope you're not lying to me, sir. I hope you really know where the money is."

"I really know where that money is," Mullaney said, because he really did know.

"Very well. See that you bring it back. We'll get you if you don't, you know."

"I know," Mullaney said.

Grubel opened the door. Mullaney and the girl stepped into the hallway and the door closed behind them.

"Hello, honey," the girl whispered, and grinned.

3: Merilee

The moment they reached the street, he said, "I have half a million dollars."

"Oh, I know you do, baby," the girl said.

"Do you know where it is?"

"No, where is it?" she said, and laughed.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"First tell me where the money is."

"No. First tell me your name."

"Merilee," she said.

"That's very close to my name," he said, "which is Mullaney."

"That's very close, indeed," the girl said.

"We are going to be very close, indeed, Merilee."

"Oh, yes, indeed," she said, "we are going to be very close, indeed."

"We're going to make love on a bed of five hundred thousand dollars. Have you ever made love on such a bed?"

"No, but it sounds like enormous fun," she said. "Where is it?"

"Your ass will turn green," Mullaney said, and laughed.

"Oh, yes, indeed it will. All that money will rub off on it and I will absolutely adore the color of it. Where is it?"

"I wonder if it's in tens, or hundreds, or thousands," Mullaney said.

"Don't you know?"

"I won't know until I see it. I have a feeling, however, that it's in largish bills."

"A feeling?"

"Yes," he said, "a warm, enveloping feeling," and grinned at his inside joke.

"Do you know something?" she said.

"What?"

"We're being followed. No, don't look."

"How do you know?"

"I know. George and Henry are following us."

The girl was right. Mullaney caught a quick glimpse of them as he took her arm and led her onto Madison Avenue, and then spotted them again crossing the street near the IBM showroom on 57th.

"Listen," he said, "are you game?"

"I am game for anything, baby."

"No matter what?"

"Anything."

"Would you, for example, do it on a Ferris wheel?"

"I would, for example, do it on a roller coaster," she said.

"Then, sweetheart, let's go!" he said. and he grabbed her hand and began running. They were both out of breath when they reached the public library on 42nd and Fifth. Pulling the girl along with him, he raced up the wide marble front steps of the library, past the MGM lions, and then ducked onto the footpath leading to the side entrance and through the revolving doors and into the high hallowed marbled corridors, wishing he had a nickel for every encyclopedia he had sold to libraries all over the country (in fact, he had once had even more than a nickel for every encyclopedia he'd sold). He caught from the corner of his eye a sign telling him the library closed at ten, and then saw the huge wall clock telling him it was now 9:37, which meant he had exactly 23 minutes to put his hands on the money, perhaps less if George and Henry found them first. He was fairly familiar with libraries, though not this one, and he knew that all libraries had what they called stacks, which was where they piled up all the books. This being one of the largest libraries in the world, he assumed it would have stacks all over the place, so he kept opening oak-paneled doors all along the corridor, looking into rooms containing learned old men reading books about birds, and finally coming upon a door that was marked staff only, figuring this door would surely open on the privacy of dusty stacks, convinced that it would, and surprised when, instead, it opened on a cluttered office with a pince-nezed old lady sitting behind a desk. "Excuse us," he said, "we're looking for the stacks."

The stacks, he thought, would be symbolically correct for unleashing those stacks of bills, which he had been very close to all along, but which he was now very much closer to, actually within touching distance of, actually within finger-tingling stroking distance of, $500,000 worth of unmitigated loot. The girl's hand was sweating in his own as they went rapidly down the marble corridor, as if she, too, sensed that he was about to unlock that avalanche of cash, turn her backside green with it as he had promised, allow her to wallow in all that filthy lucre. He spotted another door marked personnel and tried it, but it was locked; so he kept running down the corridor with the girl's sweaty hand in his own, the smell of money enveloping both of them, trying doors, waiting for the door that would open to their touch, open upon rows and rows of dusty books in soaring stacks behind which they would allow the bills to trickle through their fingers, floating noiselessly on the silent air, if only Henry and George did not get to them first.

And then, unexpectedly, one of the doors opened on more books than he had ever seen in his life, stacked from floor to ceiling in metal racks stretching as far as the eye could see. He closed the door behind them and then locked it. Taking her hand, he led her between the columns of books, wondering if any of them were the very encyclopedias he used to sell before he took the gamble, the gamble that was now to pay off in half a million lovely dollar bills.

"Oh, my," the girl said, "but it's spooky in here."

"Shhh," he said, and clung tightly to her sweating hand. In the distance, he could hear footsteps, a library page running to get another book on birds for one of the learned old gentlemen reading in one of the wood-paneled rooms. He led her away from the footsteps, led her deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of books, doubting that he would ever be able to find his way out again but not caring, because the money smell hung heavy on the air now, mingling with the musty aroma of old books. The patter of feet disappeared in the distance. There was suddenly a cul-de-sac as private as a woodland copse, books stacked on every side of them, surrounding them, a dim red light burning somewhere over a distant exit door—their escape when they needed it.

"Are you going to lay me now?" the girl asked.

"Yes," he said.

"First the money," she said.

It galled him that she said those words, because they were only the ancient words whispered in cribs from Panama to Mozambique, and he did not expect them from this girl who had said she would do it on a roller coaster.

"I have the money," he said.

"Where?"

"I have it," he insisted.

"Yes, indeed, baby, but where?"

"Right here," he said, and kissed her.

He thought, as he kissed her, that if she still insisted on the money first, he would probably produce it, because that's what money was for, to buy the things you wanted and needed. He thought, however, as he kissed her, that it would be so much nicer if she did not insist on the money, but instead offered herself to him in all her medieval, black-velveted, delicate charm, offered herself freely and willingly and without any promises, gave to him, simply gave to him without any hope of receiving anything in return; that, he thought, would be very nice. He almost lost himself in that single kiss, almost produced the money the instant his lips touched hers, because the money no longer seemed important then; the only important thing was the sweetness of her mouth. The girl, too, he thought, was enjoying the kiss as much as he, straining against him now with a wildness he had not anticipated, her arms encircling, the lingers of one hand widespread at the back of his neck the way he had seen stars doing it in movies but had never had done to him even by Irene, who was really very passionate, though sometimes shy, her belly moving in against him, her breasts moving in against him, her thighs, her crotch, everything suddenly moving in freely and willingly against him, just the way he wanted it. "The money," she whispered.

He pressed her tight against the wall and rode the black skirt up over her thighs. She spread her legs as he drove in against her, and then arched her back and twisted away, trying to elude his thrust, rising onto her toes in retreat, dodging and giggling as her evasive action seemed to work, and then gasping as she accidentally subsided upon the crest of another assault. "The money," she said insistently, "the money," and tried to twist away as he moved in against her again, rising on her toes again, almost losing a shoe, only to be caught once more by a fierce and sudden ascent, her own sharp twisting descent breaking unexpectedly against him. "The money," she moaned, "the money," and seized his moving hips as though to push him away from her, and then found her hands moving with his hips, accepting his rhythm, assisting him, and finally pulling him against her eagerly. Limply, clinging to the wall, one arm loose around his neck, the other dangling at her side, she sank to the jacket he had spread on the floor and said again by tireless rote, softly, "The money, the money." She was naked beneath her skirt now, its black-velvet folds crushed against her belly. His hands touched, stroked, pretended, possessed. She stretched her legs as though still in retreat, protesting, trying to side-step though no longer on her feet. Weaponless, she sighingly moved against him in open surrender, shaking her head, breathing the words once in broken defiance, "The money."

"Turn you green," he whispered.

"Yes, yes, turn me," she said.

"Spread you like honey," he whispered.

"Oh, yes, spread me," she said; and, remembering, she murmured, "Oh, you louse, you promised."

He had not, of course, broken his promise. He had told her he would cause her to lay down in green pastures, and that was exactly what he had done, though not letting her in on the secret; even lovers had to keep their little secrets. But he had most certainly done what he'd promised. Suddenly, he began chuckling. Holding her close, his lips against her throat, he began chuckling, and she said, "Stop that, you nut, it tickles."

"Do you know what we just did?" he said, sitting up.

"Yes, I know what we just did," Merilee answered, demurely lowering her skirt.

"Do you know where?"

"In the New York Public Library."

"Right. Do you know on what?"

"On the floor."

"Wrong."

"Excuse me, on your jacket."

"Wrong."

"On what, then?"

"On half a million dollars," Mullaney said, and got to his feet and dusted off his trousers and then offered his hand to the girl. "May I?" he asked.

"Certainly," she said, puzzled, and took his hand.

He helped her to her feet, grinned and picked up the jacket. As he dusted it off, he said, "Do you hear anything?"

"No."

"Listen."

"I still don't hear anything."

"Listen," he said, and deliberately brushed his hand over the jacket in long, sweeping palmstrokes, striking dust from the shoulders and the back and the sleeves, and keeping his head cocked to one side all the while, grinning at the girl, who kept listening and hearing nothing, and watching him as though making love had done something to his head.

"I don't hear anything," she said.

"Don't you hear the rustle of silk?"

"No."

"Don't you hear the flutter of angels' wings?"

"No."

"Don't you hear, my dear sweet girl, the sound of money?"

"I don't hear anything," she said.

"Have you got a knife?" he asked.

"No."

"A scissors?"

"No."

"Have you got a nail file in your bag?"

"All I've got in my bag is a driver's license and a pearl-handled .22. Where's the money?"

"I'll have to tear it."

"Tear what?"

Mullaney grinned and turned the jacket over in his hands. He could feel the stiffness of the bills sewn into the lining, could almost feel the outline of each dollar-sized packet nestling between the outer and inner fabric. He debated whether he should take the packets out one at a time and spread them across the floor at Merilee's feet or whether he should simply slit the hem at the bottom of the jacket and allow the packets to fall helter-skeher-come-what-may, as if it were raining money. He decided it would be nice to see it rain money, so he grinned at Merilee again (she was watching him intently, her blue eyes narrowed, a feral, sexy look on her face) and then he began plucking at the lining thread at the jacket's hem. The jacket had been excellently tailored—he had known immediately that K and O'Brien and all the others were gentlemen of taste—with good tight stitches placed close together, all sewn by hand, all designed to withstand any possible accidents on the way to Rome. Mullaney finally had to rip the first few stitches with his teeth, something his mother had warned him never to do, and then he thrust two fingers up into the torn opening and began ripping the stitches all the way down the line, keeping the jacket bundled and bunched, because he didn't want the bills to fall out until he was ready to let it rain. When he had ripped the lining clear across the bottom, he rose from his squatting position and, still holding the jacket so that nothing could fall out of it, held it at arm's length in both hands and said, "It's going to rain money, Merilee."

"Oh, yes, indeed, let it rain," Merilee said.

"It's going to rain half a million dollars' worth of money."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes."

"It's going to rain all over this floor."

"Let it rain, baby," the girl said.

"And then we'll make love again," Mullaney said.

"Half a million times," the girl said, "one for each dollar bill."

"Are you ready?"

"I am ready," she said, her eyes glowing.

"Here it conies," Mullaney said, "five hundred thousand dollars in American money, ta-rah!" and he allowed the lining to fall away from the jacket.

This is is Part I of "A Horse's Head," a new novel by Evan Hunter. The conclusion will appear next month.