Sammy wouldn’t like that.

Forcing his fogged brain to think, Foster wondered how he could gain time. Sammy had already seen him. If he could duck out the back.

It had become altogether too silent in the bar. He needed noise to cover his movements. He saw the nickel in the juke-box’s coin-lever and hastily pushed it in.

Money began to spew out of the coin return slot.

Foster got his hat under the slot almost instantly. Quarters, dimes, and nickels popped out in a never-ending stream. The juke-box broke into song. A needle scratched over the black disc. The torchy mourning of “My Man” came out sadly. It covered the tinkling of the coins as they filled Foster’s hat.

After a while the money stopped coming out of the juke-box. Foster stood there, thanking his personal gods, as he saw Sammy moving toward him. The bookie glanced at Foster’s hat and blinked.

“Hi, Jerry. What gives?”

“I hit a jackpot,” Foster said.

“Not on the juke-box!”

“No, down at the Onyx,” Foster said, naming a private club several blocks away. “Haven’t had a chance to get these changed into bills yet. Want to help me out?”

“I’m no cash register,” Sammy said. “I’ll take mine in green.”

The juke-box stopped playing “My Man” and broke into “Always.” Foster put his jingling hat on top of the phonograph and counted out bills. He didn’t have enough, but he made the balance up out of quarters he fished from the hat.

“Thanks,” Sammy said. “Too bad your nag didn’t make it.”

“ ‘With a love that’s true, always—’ ” the juke-box sang fervently.

“Can’t be helped,” Foster said. “Maybe next time I’ll hit ’em.”

“Want anything on Oaklawn?”

“ ‘When the things you’ve planned, need a helping hand—’ ”

Foster had been leaning on the juke-box. On the last two words, a tingling little shock raced through him. Those particular two words jumped out of nothing, impinged on the surface of his brain, and sank in indelibly, like the stamp of a die. He couldn’t hear anything else. They echoed 

 Prev. P 3/15 next