I had a nibble but didn't even bother hitting the line. So Mama Morse had to put a dick on my trail! Things were going too well for me, something had to spoil it. Nothing was over, forgotten, that bastard, Mac, was still harassing me—us, even from the grave.

A sudden cramp nearly doubled me up. I started to sweat and Sandler asked what was wrong and I told him, “Nature is calling. Get your line in for a moment.”

Peeling off my trunks, I jumped over and holding on to the anchor rope, I relieved myself, which isn't as easy as it sounds.

The water brought me back to my senses. Climbing back into the boat, I put my trunks on and started to make a lot of chatter—getting Sandler to talk about the islands, fishing, anything... And all the time I was frightened stiff at how close I'd come to giving myself away. We hadn't talked about Mac's death in Sandyhook, of course, but the postman knew Elma's “maiden” name was Morse, and all Sandler had to do was hear that, or notice my sudden nervousness, tie it up with my sudden interest in the dick and... it wouldn't take much to add that up.

After awhile we cleaned our fish and, like all newcomers, Sandler was amazed at how close the gulls came around us—fighting over the fish heads and insides. Cleaning fish is an aid to thinking, just as I find sweeping or mopping a floor helps me think.

I did some furious thinking.

So there was a private dick named Harry Logan on the case. Mac's mother had said she didn't think much of the police efforts, so she had hired this detective. But what did I have to worry about? This... Logan... was obviously running around in little blind circles, still going for that freight hook, the longshoreman idea. Actually he had nothing to connect me with the killing—if I played it smart. He was getting paid, so of course he'd run down any clue. Well, let him run himself crazy, use up the old lady's dough looking for a fat, dark-haired longshoreman with an accent— that guy was another world removed from me.

Sure, I was safe. Even if he came out and questioned Elma for possible clues, there was little chance of his getting suspicious of me... there were millions of short guys. And he mustn't have considered Elma as having any leads, or he would have been out long before this.

By the time we docked, I felt fine, had convinced myself I had nothing to worry about. Hell, these private dicks were known to charge thirty to fifty bucks a day and Sandler had said this incident happened a month ago. By this time the old lady had probably spent all she was going to spend on the case and Harry Logan was off her payroll. Anyway, long as he was fooling around the water front, I was safe.

But I had a few uneasy nights over it, started worrying about fingerprints again, then forgot it. I had other things on my mind—we had an auto accident.

We had invited Sid and his wife over for supper and Elma thought we ought to have lobsters. It was a bright day, with little breeze, and we took the baby and headed for Three Mile Harbor, where you can buy lobsters weighing from one to twenty pounds. Three Mile Harbor is past Easthampton and would be a nice ride for us. They also sold excellent crab cakes and we usually stuffed ourselves with half a dozen or so on the spot, like hungry kids... which was the real reason we drove out there instead of trying one of the markets in Riverhead.

As we were nearing Riverhead, a low slung foreign car tried to pass me, cut in ahead of us sharply, taking off our left fender and bumper and giving us a severe jolt.

Happily Joan was sleeping in Elma's arms, so nobody was hurt. But I was angry because the bastard never even stopped. His car was one of these very light jobs and I figured he'd probably done more damage to his buggy than to our heavier Chewy. I stepped on the gas—after we tossed the fender and bumper in the back of the car— and sure enough, less than two miles down the road I overtook him, his right wire wheel wobbling like crazy.

Forcing him to the side of—the road, I jumped out. A pale, thin fellow of about 22—one of these bow-tie and crew-cut lads with a silly face—sat behind the wheel. He stuck a whole pack of butts up to his thin lips, then jerked it away, leaving a cigarette pasted to his mouth, waved at me and mumbled, “Sorry.” He must have practiced that cigarette deal for a long time.

“Sorry? You didn't even bother to stop, you dumb sonofabitch!”

“Stop? I nearly turned over, took me a mile to get the car under control and...”

“Send that crock of crap C.O.D. to somebody else!”

He looked me over, decided I was too short, said, “No need for all the big talk. I'm insured.” He crawled out of his car and I don't know how he ever got in it—he was six feet tall, but all skin and bones.

We went through the routine of taking each other's license number. I told him I wasn't insured but it didn't matter, since it was clearly his fault. He was getting up more courage by the second, said, “No insurance? And driving a wreck like that? Why even the potato pickers have better cars than your...”

“Keep your trap shut, buster. Having insurance doesn't cover up your hit-and-run deal. We might have been lying dead beside the road for all you care.”

“Happen to be in a bit of a rush, so let's cut the dramatics and get...”

I socked him in the belly, right where his gray flannels and dark blue silk polo shirt met. Elma came running out of our car as big boy doubled up and sank to the road... and started to weep!

Actually I hadn't hit him hard because I wasn't sure if I wanted to wallop him and had only half swung. Elma said, “Shouldn't have done that, Marsh. He drunk?”

“Naw, merely a spoiled brat. He isn't hurt.”

Elma looked down at him, finally said, “Oh stop crying and get up. My goodness, you look positively silly, sitting there and crying like a baby.”

Riverhead is a county seat and you see more prowl cars than in other areas of Long Island. While we were standing there, a police car stopped and a handsome young cop came over and asked what was wrong. We told him and the cop pulled the kid to his feet and shook him. The kid began crying louder than ever, but when he mumbled his name, a sort of servile tone of respect crept into the cop's voice and I knew this must be a real rich kiddy.

The cop came over to us and whispered, “You know he could have you pinched on an assault charge? However...”

“He could? Why he...!”

“... However I think he'll drop it if you'll forget the hit-and-run business. Best to make it a civil thing and let the insurance company take over.”

“I don't know how he got a license in the first place. Acts like a moron,” I said as Elma touched my shoulder, pointed to our car. The radiator was leaking. “Goddamn, look at that and we're at least twenty-five miles from home!”

“Let me drive you to a garage,” the cop said. “One not far...”

“I'm not for running up any tow bill.”

“Forget the charges, he'll take care of it.”

“He will? I didn't hear Slim say anything about that or...!”

“He will,” the cop said like he knew a lot more than he was saying. “Just drive straight ahead. We'll follow.”

Elma and I got in our Chewy and drove slowly, the cop car followed, and crew-cut brought up the end of this sorry parade. We reached a service station in a cloud of steam and had hardly been there any time when a smooth Packard roadster pulled up, a heavy-set bald man at the wheel. He was either a relation of the kid, or the head butler, or maybe merely the boy's keeper. He bawled the brat out—but politely—then came over to us and I didn't catch his name, but it wasn't the same as Slim's. He said, “I'm terribly sorry about all this. Suppose you leave your car here and I will have it completely repaired?”

“Rather have my own mechanic do it.”

“As you wish. Have you called him?”

I phoned Len's garage and Len said he'd send his oldest kid with the tow jeep and I told him to come himself, and he said he was busy—in fact he seemed a little annoyed. But he finally came driving up in a battered jeep he loved. He said it would cost a hundred and fifty bucks, including towing, to fix up the Chewy. Crew-cut had the wheel of his European struggle-buggy repaired and seemed to have disappeared. But the smooth character in the Packard didn't argue with Len, merely wrote out a check, and Len chained our car to his jeep and drove off.

Elma, who seemed amused by it all, said, “Well, no car, * no lobsters.”

Executive-type made with a slight bow. “My car is at your service. I shall be happy to drive you wherever you are going.”

We rode out to Three Mile Harbor in style, bought four fighting lobsters, had some crab cakes, and this guy not only paid for everything, saying, “Least I can do for the inconvenience you've been caused,” but also drove us home.

I had an idea the brat had been in plenty of accidents and his family was afraid one more and he might lose his license, or even land in the jug. I bet if we'd held out, we could have got real dough from them.

That night Len called me. “I can fix your car, Jameson, but frankly it isn't worth putting that kind of money into it. Can get you about... maybe... another hundred and fifty for it as it stands. Gives you three hundred toward either a new car or a good second-hand job. I got a new Buick— only has 4,000 miles on her—that's a steal for fifteen hundred bucks. Means cost you $1,200. It's a buy.”

I told him I'd think it over, drop in to see him in the morning. When I told Elma she said, “That's a bright idea. If we're driving to California this winter, we'll need a decent car. Maybe we ought to consider buying a new one.”

I was busy the next morning. Somebody had lent me a book on Calder's mobiles, and I was all for making myself a mobile. I had a good idea. Start with a heavy iron hook, and suspended from that little figures of seaweed, clams, shells, and suspended from those, a blow fish. I was off on this terra-cotta craze, and I wanted to catch all the bright colors of the fish, the almost human fat face, the green jewel eyes. I spent most of the morning making water-color sketches, wondering if it was hard to get a mobile in balance. Around lunch time, when I was walking to the beach, I remembered the car and called the garage. Len's kid said his pop was in New York, wouldn't be back till the next morning.

The following morning Elma borrowed Sid's car to do her shopping and when she came back, I drove over to see Len. He seemed a little upset as he showed me the Buick, which really looked new. I told him, “We're planning a trip to California this winter. Will this car hold up, or should we buy a new one?”

“Why... eh...” Len was staring at the car without seeing it, his mind a million miles away. I just stood there, waiting. After a long moment he snapped out of it, asked, “Like the car, Mr. Jameson?”

“Sure. Just told you so. Will this hold up on a trip to the Coast?”

“What? The Coast? Sure, sure.”

I laughed. “Have a rough night in the city, Len?” I vaguely remembered he was a widower... maybe he went to town now and then... to go to town.

“I had a terrible day yesterday. I'm in a kind of jam.”

“Money?”

“God, I wish it was just money. Know this reservoir some miles out from here? Well, month or so ago my boy was fishing there. Not supposed to, but you can catch some mighty fine bass. All the kids around here sneak in some fishing there. Well...”

“Game warden slap a ticket on him?”

Len shook his gray head. “Worse than that, much worse. See, the kid fished up a pistol, one of these German guns. Water ain't hurt it much, so I take it apart, dry and oil it up and it works fine. Only I get to thinking I don't want no pistol around with the kids. Rifle is okay, but a pistol.... You listening, Mr. Jameson?”

“Yes, I'm listening,” I said quietly, my voice sounding as though I was talking into an echo chamber.

I knew at that moment it was all over, the world seemed to be squeezing in around me. I was caught. Murder had caught up with me, as it always does, I suppose. Odd, the little things that you couldn't figure on... that private dick... and now a kid fishing up the gun. Odds were probably a million to one against anybody hooking the gun... but somebody had. A kid, excited at his catch. Only he couldn't have known he had caught me on that hook.

“... Guess you never met my younger brother Bud, Mr. Jameson. He's a photographer in New York. Anyway, he wanted the gun and I was glad to get rid of the thing. Well, sir, the darnedest thing happened: Bud's got a combination studio-office and apartment, and the place is robbed by some sneak thief. Bud must have caught him in the act because the guy fled up the fire escape to the roof, and run away. But it turned out he left a pillow case with the loot in it on top of a skylight. Just threw it up there while he was running. The spunky bastard returns the next day and picks it up. Well, Bud... You ain't sick or nothing, Mr. Jameson? Seem kind of pale.”

“Stuffed myself with lobster last two days,” I said, a strange calm, low voice that didn't seem to belong to me. I heard my own voice like a man listening to a judge sentencing him to death... a sentence expected.

“Want a glass of water? Maybe a shot?”

I shook my head. “I'm all right.”

“Well, sir, to make a long story short, Bud reported the robbery, of course. The robber didn't take much, but Bud lost some equipment worth a couple hundred and if you report a theft you can deduct it from your taxes. Bud forgot all about it till last week a cop comes to his studio and says they found the crook. Picked him up for carrying a gun in a bar brawl, and it turns out this very Luger is checked by the cops and it's a gun that killed some man over in Newark....”

Killed some man over in Newark.... The words cut through my brain like a knife. Everybody in the world seemed to know about it. A nobody, a lousy mama's boy like Mac is shot, and suddenly it becomes interstate gossip. That crack about it being a small world... it was making a noose around my not-so-small neck.

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