The Mugger Read Online Free Page B

approaching in the rearview mirror. Then, simultaneously, both Temple and Meyer stepped out of the car from opposite sides.
    The man stopped, fright darting into his eyes.
    “What…” he said. “What is this? A holdup?”
    Meyer cut around behind the car and came up alongside of the man. Temple was already blocking his path.
    “Your name Clifford?” Temple asked.
    “Wah?”
    “Clifford.”
    “No,” the man said, shaking his head violently. “You got the wrong party. Look, I—”
    “Police,” Temple said tersely, and he flashed the tin.
    “P—p—police? What’d I do?”
    “Where’re you going?” Meyer asked.
    “Home. I just come from a movie.”
    “Little late to be getting out of a movie, isn’t it?”
    “Wah? Oh, yeah, we stopped in a bar.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “Right down the street.” The man pointed, perplexed, frightened.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Frankie’s my name.” He paused. “Ask anybody.”
    “Frankie what?”
    “Oroglio. With a g.”
    “What were you doing following that girl?” Meyer shot.
    “Wah? Girl? Hey, whatta you nuts or something?”
    “You were following a girl!” Temple said. “Why?”
    “Me?” Oroglio pointed both hands at his chest. “Me? Hey, listen, you made a mistake, fellers. I mean it. You got the wrong guy.”
    “A blonde just walked down this street,” Temple said, “and you came along behind her. If you weren’t following—”
    “A blonde?” Oroglio said.
    “Yes, a blonde,” Temple said, his voice rising. “Now how about it, mister?”
    “In a blue coat?” Oroglio asked. “Like in a little blue coat? Is that who you mean?”
    “That’s who we mean,” Temple said.
    “Oh my God,” Oroglio said.
    “HOW ABOUT IT?” Temple shouted.
    “That’s my wife!”
    “What?”
    “My wife, my wife, Conchetta.” Oroglio was wagging his head wildly now. “My wife, Conchetta. She ain’t no blonde. She bleaches it.”
    “Look, mister.”
    “I swear. We went to the show together, and then we stopped for a few beers. We had a fight in the bar. So she walked out alone. She always does that. She’s nuts.”
    “Yeah?” Meyer said.
    “I swear on my Aunt Christina’s hair. She blows up, and she takes off, and I give her four, five minutes. Then I follow her. That’s all there is to it. Lord, I wouldn’t follow no blonde.”
    Temple looked at Meyer.
    “I’ll take you up to the house,” Oroglio said, plunging on. “I’ll introduce you. She’s my wife! Listen, what do you want? She’s my wife!”
    “I’ll bet she is,” Meyer said resignedly. Patiently, he turned to Temple. “Go back to the car, George,” he said. “I’ll check this out.”
    Oroglio sighed. “Gee, this is kind of funny, you know that?” he said, relieved. “I mean being accused of following my own wife. It’s kind of funny.”
    “It could’ve been funnier,” Meyer said.
    “Yeah? How?”
    “She could’ve been somebody else’s wife.”
    He stood in the shadows of the alley, wearing the night like a cloak. He could hear his own shallow breathing and beyond that the vast murmur of the city, the murmur of a big-bellied womanin sleep. There were lights in some of the apartments, solitary sentinels piercing the blackness with unblinking yellow. It was dark where he stood, though, and the darkness was a friend to him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder. Only his eyes glowed in the darkness, watching, waiting.
    He saw the woman long before she crossed the street.
    She was wearing flats, rubber-soled and rubber-heeled, and she made no sound, but he saw her instantly, and he tensed himself against the sooty brick wall of the building, waiting, studying her, watching the careless way in which she carried her purse.
    She looked athletic, this one.
    A beer barrel with squat legs. He liked them better when they looked feminine. This one didn’t wear high heels, and there was a springy bounce to her walk; she was probably one of these walkers, one of these