Heads You Lose

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Michael Shayne moaned and jabbered in his sleep. A faint and insistent ringing disturbed him. Subconsciously he reached out a long arm and his hand fumbled over the night table beside his bed. A glass clattered to the floor. He threw back the covers and sat up in bed, yawning widely.

The faint sound of the telephone persisted, and slowly he remembered why it was so muffled and far away. The instrument was in the other room and the bedroom door was closed. He couldn’t reach out and lift it from the night table any more. That was in the other apartment one flight up where he had lived with Phyllis before her death.

Remembering sent a surge of pain through Shayne and cleared his sleep-drugged mind. He reached for the switch above the bed and flooded the room with light, clawed knobby fingers through his coarse red hair and swung his feet to the floor. Barefooted and in pajamas, he padded into the adjoining room to answer the monotonous summons.

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