“You’ll shoot me,” he said.

“You’re living on borrowed time anyway, Paul. But if you do what I say you might stay alive a little longer.”

The caller hung up.

He dropped the hand piece into the cradle. He sat motionless for a moment, recalling a very pleasant night a few weeks ago. Marion and he had gone to Coney Island for miniature golf and hot dogs and beer, to beat the heat. Laughing, she’d dragged him to a fortune teller at the amusement park. The fake gypsy had read his cards and told him a lot of things. The woman had missed this particular event, though, which you’d think should’ve showed up somewhere in the reading if she was worth her salt.

Marion… He’d never told her what he did for a living. Only that he owned a gym and he did business occasionally with some guys who had questionable pasts. But he’d never told her more. He realized suddenly that he’d been looking forward to some kind of future with her. She was a dime-a-dance girl at a club on the West Side, studying fashion design during the day. She’d be working now; she usually went till 1 or 2 A.M. How would she find out what happened to him?

If it was Dewey he’d probably be able to call her.

If it was the boys from Williamsburg, no call. Nothing.

The phone began ringing again.

Paul ignored it. He slipped the clip from his big gun and unchambered the round that was in the receiver, then he emptied the cartridges out of the revolver. He walked to the window and tossed the pistols out one at a time. He didn’t hear them land.

Finishing the soda pop, he took his jacket off, dropped it on the floor. He started for the door but paused. He went back to the Kelvinator and got another Royal Crown. He drank it down. Then he wiped his face again, opened the front door, stepped back and lifted his arms.

The phone stopped ringing.

“This’s called The Room,” said the gray-haired man in a pressed white uniform, taking a seat on a small couch.