Beckman slept little during the night. It was not so much the canvas surface of the bare mattress or the mealy smell of the pillow or even, he convinced himself, the shadowy, silhouetted image of Malany’s body beside his, but more that she had vowed, moments before falling asleep, to return to New York. Without her, the scheme failed; and without her, he faced the very real possibility of admitting that the only thing his life meant was washing dishes in greasy spoons and being lovingly pissed on by Herschel.
It was becoming morning outside. Beckman watched it happening from their only window. Then, seized with near panic, he slid out of bed, restraining his urgency so that he wouldn’t wake Malany. He dressed quickly, floundering in the gray light and, violating Malany’s purse for the car
