By Gil Brewer

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Every single thing had to be worked out in minute detail, and some of it was coming to me, bit by bit. Every loophole had to be found. It was hazy, but I knew it was all there. If we were going to do this it was going to be right, straight down the line. Not one flaw. Every tiny thing had to be sweated over, methodically. I knew it might drive me nuts, but it had to be done and done right. I began to think of birth certificates. False ones. At least two new addresses. Passports. Europe. I slowed down.

He’ll be home. ” I had thought of the whole week end with her, one way or another. At least tonight and Sunday. There was a lot to cover. “Well, get this,” I said. “You’re going to have a joint bank account with George. You’ll spend all day tomorrow convincing him of this fact. I say a joint account because it’ll look better. ” “You’re crazy. It’s all I can do to get a food allowance. I try to save off that. ” “Nevertheless, that’s what you’ll do. I don’t give a damn how you do it. But it’s got to be at least five thousand dollars, Felice.

I knew that. It was just words. A million and a half dollars. Meaningless. All right A million and a half Easter eggs. A million and a half razor blades. A million and a half condoms hanging on a clothes line. A million and a half bottles. A million and a half pin-heads. “Think about it till it means something,” she said. ” A million dollars, I thought. Jesus Christ. “You don’t rob banks,” I said. ” “Like hell. ’ ” She leaned, kissed me quickly, then looked in the mirror. She snatched a lipstick up, ripped it open—slash—slash— capped it—oomph-ahh—and her lips were perfect.

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A Taste for Sin by Gil Brewer


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