Kill Me Tomorrow by Richard S. Prather

cinating.”
    â€œI’ve never understood why people say that.”
    I’d have bet a dollar to a nickel that when I’d come back to my seat after making the phone call there was at least two more inches of thigh showing than there’d been before.
    Two, maybe even three, inches.
    A good two and a half, anyhow.
    Well, that was all very well, but I—even though I have a natural, healthy interest in such things—was not going to let it distract me from my duty. No matter what they say about me, when there is a job to be done, I am not a man who lets business … How did it go?
    I concentrated. I gathered my mental forces together, knitted my brows together, jammed my teeth together, and said, “Mrs. Blessing, I merely want you to tell me about your brief conversation with Mr. Reyes Tuesday morning.”
    â€œWhat? I can’t understand you when your teeth are pushed together like that.”
    I opened my mouth and wiggled my jaw.
    â€œIt just sounded like a buzz,” she said.
    I felt like telling her to shut up. “Mrs. Blessing,” I said slowly and distinctly, “I merely want you to tell me about your brief conversation with Mr. Reyes Tuesday morning.”
    â€œOh, is that all? Why didn’t you say so?”
    â€œMa’am, I have already said it twice—”
    â€œYou mean when I was with Mr. Yarrow, and Mr. Reyes thought Mr. Yarrow was somebody named Civano? Joe Civano?”
    â€œThat’s it. Let’s keep it going, now we’ve got it.”
    â€œThere isn’t much I can tell you. I was talking to Mr. Yarrow in front of my house when this car parked, and Mr. Reyes—I didn’t know who he was then, neither of us did—walked up and asked Mr. Yarrow if he was from Gardena, in California. Mr. Yarrow said no, he wasn’t, he’d never lived in California. But Mr. Reyes didn’t seem to believe him. Said something about he’d lived in Gardena, and hadn’t Mr. Yarrow lived there too? Several years ago? Wasn’t he Joe Civano? It was funny. I mean, odd.”
    â€œThat’s all?”
    â€œJust about. Henry talked to him a little longer—told him what his name was, and his business and all, then the man went to the car he’d been in, and they drove away. Somebody else was driving.”
    â€œYeah, I know. You saw Mr. Reyes again Tuesday night, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes. That was the really odd thing. That’s when we found out who this Mr. Civano was, that he was a criminal—and he was dead, he’d just been killed.” She shook her head. “How could Mr. Reyes think Henry was a dead man?”
    â€œThat, to put it mildly, is one of the peculiar things about this case. Did Mr. Reyes mention—or have you ever heard of—a Pete Lecci? Or The Letch?”
    She looked at me blankly. “Who are they?”
    â€œHe—they—isn’t they. I mean, it’s one guy. The names don’t mean anything to you?”
    â€œNo. The only funny name was Civano.”
    Yeah, funny name, I thought. Funny man. “Can you tell me a little more about Mr. Yarrow?” I asked her.
    â€œWhen George—my husband for twelve wonderful years, rest his soul—was alive he owned a real estate agency, and Henry worked for him as a salesman. George liked him very much, was even thinking of taking him in as a partner when … well, George passed away. Henry knew all about the business—I don’t understand any of it myself—so I asked him if he’d run it for me.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    She broke the silence by volunteering, “It was just a coincidence that Henry was here so, ah, early in the morning. He dropped by to … have me sign some papers. Real estate things—it’s all a mystery to me, I just sign the papers and somehow everything works out all right.”
    And that was about it. I thanked her, and she showed me to the