The Man on the Washing Machine by Susan Cox Read Free Book Online Page B

need. And my money troubles are over. I’m owed big money—I am! But if I don’t pay the rent right this minute I’ll be out on the street.”
    This was Nicole’s strength in recent weeks—fifteen seconds of indignation, irritation, wheedling smiles, and pathos.
    â€œYou’ve been saying someone owes you money for two weeks,” I began.
    â€œBig money, sweetie. Honest.”
    â€œYou sold a painting?” Nicole’s work had developed a good, local reputation.
    â€œNot exactly.” She smiled a secretive little smile, which did nothing to ease my mind.
    â€œWe should talk—”
    She flushed and waved away whatever else I might be planning to say with an impatient gesture. “By this time next week I’ll be straightened out and we can sort out how much I owe the store. I’d have it now except for goddamn Tim Callahan. My bloodsucking landlord wants his money now, this instant, and I’m short fifty. I ran into him in the street and he’s waiting, if you can believe it!”
    â€œWhat does Tim Callahan have to do with—”
    â€œDammit, Theo! I need the money now!”
    I thought of how this rapidly developing drama would play with the customer outside and calculated whether I could get through the morning with fifty dollars less in the till.
    â€œFor God’s sake, Nicole, this can’t go on. Where have you been? You’re never here; you’re not home—Haruto said he had to open up yesterday.”
    â€œI came by last night to deliver the Gibney Brothers stuff,” she said sulkily. And to rifle the cash drawer, I thought but didn’t say. She patted my cheek and fingered her lips nervously.
    I glanced through the two-way mirror into the shop as I heard the old-style spring bell jangle. A woman came in. Two people was at least one too many to leave in the shop alone.
    I went back outside and with a small inner struggle, took two twenties and a ten out of the cash drawer.
    â€œI’ll write an I.O.U.” she said, picking up the inspector’s notebook and glancing at the doodles.
    â€œNo need,” I said.
    She dropped the notebook as if it were red hot and unexpectedly clasped me in a fierce hug. “It’ll all work out,” she whispered.
    â€œI’m worried about you,” I said, returning the hug. She had been my first friend in the city and the past few weeks hadn’t changed my affection for her. Even if she was driving me crazy.
    â€œI know, sweetie. I know. I’ll pay back the store in a few days. I’ve been feeling like shit for the mess in your apartment; I’ll take care of that, too. Pretty soon everything will be back to normal, okay? So stop worrying!” She laughed and patted my cheek.
    As she passed the counter, she picked up the two bars of newly priced soap knowing I wouldn’t say anything. At nine dollars each, retail, it was probably a halfpenny worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack, but it still grated. Don’t you love how Shakespeare has a phrase for everything?
    â€œThe new labels look great,” she said. “Anyone bought any of this damn gardenia soap?”
    â€œI’ve only had time to label those two,” I said with a reluctant grin.
    â€œPut out some of the rose; we’re low and it sells.” She hesitated a moment and made for the door.
    â€œTake care of yourself,” I said, meaning it, and trying not to sound as worried as I felt.
    She glanced back at me with a mocking smile. “I said ‘don’t worry,’ sweetie. Bye.” She waggled the soaps at me. “White gardenia, eh?” She winked and scrunched up her nose, then waggled them at me again as she left.
    I saw her shove the bills at a stolid-looking man on the sidewalk and take off down the street. Sure enough, I recognized her landlord, who carefully counted out the money. At least she hadn’t lied about that, although I