“Oh?”
“Not today, that is. She’s gone to the store, like I said, but, but, she’s going on from there to visit her mother. Yeah. She’s going to visit her mother, in Schenectady. She’ll be back, two or three days, maybe a week.”
“That’s a shame,” I said.
“Why?”
“I wanted to tell her something.”
“What?”
“I just wanted to tell her there’s a woman buried over in the empty lot, screaming under tons and tons of dirt.”
Mr. Nesbitt dropped his cigarette.
“You dropped your cigarette, Mr. Nesbitt,” I pointed out, with my shoe.
“Oh, did I? Sure. So I did,” he mumbled. “Well, I’ll tell Helen when she comes home, your story. She’ll be glad to hear it.”
“Thanks. It’s a real woman.”
“How do you know it is?”
“I heard her.”
“How, how you know it isn’t, well, a mandrake root.”
“What’s that?”
“You know. A mandrake. It’s a kind of a plant, kid. They scream. I know, I read it once. How you know it ain’t a mandrake?”
“I never thought of that.”
“You better start thinking,” he said, lighting another cigarette. He tried to be casual. “Say, kid, you, eh, you say anything about this to anyone?”
“Sure, I told lots of people.”
Mr. Nesbitt burned his hand on his match.
“Anybody doing anything about it?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “They won’t believe me.”
He smiled. “Of course. Naturally. You’re nothing but a kid. Why should they listen to you?”
“I’m going back now and dig her out with a spade,” I said.
“Wait.”
“I got to go,” I said.
“Stick around,” he insisted.
“Thanks, but no,” I said, frantically.
He took my arm. “Know how to play cards, kid? Black jack?”
“Yes, sir.”