A CHOICE OF WITNESSES
by Henry Slesar
Gordon knew that icy little whistle in the hallway, knew the light-knuckled knock that would follow. He could picture the lumpy, long-jawed face under the porkpie hat, the yellow smile, and an old man’s bleached-out blue eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles. Kellerman, you’re ugly, Gordon thought, ugly and vicious and I hate you. But it was easier to dig into his pocket, peel off the forty that Kellerman demanded (all he demanded, this considerate, charitable blackmailer), shove it into the wrinkled white hand, and be done with it for another month.
The extortion payment had become one of life’s fixed expenses, like the rent and the electric bill and Pamela’s book club fees. Nor did he hide the fact of Kellerman’s existence from his wife. To Pam, Kellerman was just another remittance man; she had no idea what service he rendered, paid no attention to the boring world of finance. Her world was arranging art exhibits, joining book clubs, walking their two children in the park, taking night school courses in political history. Gordon loved her very much. The thought of Kellerman ever telling her that dirty story, showing her those photographs of him and that girl, made Gordon’s flesh crawl and a tic start in the corner of his right eye.
But Kellerman wouldn’t tell, of course. He wasn’t interested in spoiling idyllic marriages. Like the good, professional blackmailer he was, Kellerman had a code of ethics. Pay up, and Kellerman’s silence was assured. Gordon might have gone on paying his forty dollars, month in and month out, except for the Inflation.
. . .
