The Cat's Pajamas

“So?” I said.

“All of my enemies are dead.”

“Hallelujah!” I laughed. “You’ve waited for that son of a bitch—”

“—bastard.”

“Bastard, yes, for him to kick the bucket for a long time. Rejoice.”

“Rejoice, hell. Now I got no reason, no reason to live.”

“How’s that again?”

“You don’t understand. Tim Sullivan was a true son of a bitch. I hated him with all my blood, guts, and being.”

“So?”

“You’re not listening, I can tell. With him gone, the light has gone out.” Walter’s face grew pale.

“What light, dammit?!”

“The fire, dammit, in my chest, my heart, my ganglion. It lived off him. He kept me going. I went to sleep nights happy with hatred. I woke up mornings glad to breakfast on my need, my need to kill him all over again between lunch and dinner. But now he’s spoiled it, blew out the flame.”

“He did that to you? His last act was to provoke you with his death?”

“You might say that.”

“I just did!”

“Now, let’s get to bed and relapse my need.”

“Don’t be a sap, sit up and drink your gin. Now what are you doing?”

“As you see, pulling back the sheet. This may be my last lie-in.”

“Get away from there, this is stupid.”

“Death is stupid, an insult, dumb trick to die on me.”

“So he did it on purpose?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. Just my kind of nasty. Call the mortuary, read me a menu of headstones, plain rock, no angels. Where are you going?”

“Outside. I need air.”

“I may be gone by the time you’re back!”

“Wait while I talk to someone sane!”

“Who’s that?”

“Me!”

I went out and stood in the sun.

This can’t be happening, I thought.

Oh no? I retorted. Go look.