The Running Man

MINUS 085 AND COUNTING

The suite was sumptuous.

Wall-to-wall carpeting almost deep enough to breast stroke in covered the floors of all three rooms: living room, bedroom, and bath. The Free-Vee was turned off; blessed silence prevailed. There were flowers in the vases, and on the wall next to the door was a button discreetly marked SERVICE. The service would be fast, too, Richards thought cynically. There were two cops stationed outside his ninthfloor suite just to make sure he didn’t go wandering.

He pushed the service button, and the door opened. “Yes, Mr. Richards,” one of the cops said. Richards fancied he could see how sour that Mister tasted in his mouth. “The bourbon you asked for will be-”

“It’s not that,” Richards said. He showed the cop the book of coupons Killian had left for him. “I want you to take this somewhere.”

“Just write the name and address, Mr. Richards, and I’ll see that it’s delivered.”

Richards found the cobbler’s receipt and wrote his address and Sheila’s name on the back of it. He gave the tattered paper and the coupon book to the cop. He was turning away when a new thought struck Richards. “Hey! Just a second!”

The cop turned back, and Richards plucked the coupon book out of his hand. He opened it to the first coupon, and tore one tenth of it along the perforated line. Equivalent value: One New Dollar.

“Do you know a cop named Charlie Grady?”

“Charlie?” The cop looked at him warily. “Yeah, I know Charlie. He’s got fifth-floor duty.”

“Give him this.” Richards handed him the coupon section. “Tell him the extra fifty cents is his usurer’s fee.”

The cop fumed away again, and Richards called him back once more.

“You’ll bring me written receipts from my wife and from Grady, won’t you?”

Disgust showed openly on the cop’s face. “Ain’t you the trusting soul?”

“Sure,” Richards said, smiling thinly. “You guys taught me that. South of the Canal you taught me all about it.”

“It’s gonna be fun,” the cop said, “watching them go after you. I’m gonna be glued to my Free-Vee with a beer in each hand.”

“Just bring me the receipts,” Richards said, and closed the door gently in the cop’s face.

The bourbon came twenty minutes later, and Richards told the surprised delivery man that he would like a couple of thick novels sent up.

“Novels?”

“Books. You know. Read. Words. Movable press.” Richards pantomimed flipping pages.

“Yes, sir,” he said doubtfully. “Do you have a dinner order'?”

Christ, the shit was getting thick. He was drowning in it. Richards saw a sudden fantasy-cartoon: Man falls into outhouse hole and drowns in pink shit that smells like Chanel No. 5. The kicker: It still tastes like shit.

“Steak. Peas. Mashed potatoes.” God, what was Sheila sitting down to? A protein pill and a cup of fake coffee? “Milk. Apple cobbler with cream. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like-”

“No.” Richards said, suddenly distraught. “No. Get out.” He had no appetite. Absolutely none.