<i> From </i> “The Postman Always Rings Twice”

We lay there a few minutes, then, like we were doped. It was so still that all you could hear was this gurgle from the inside of the car.

“What now, Frank?”

“Tough road ahead, Cora. You’ve got to be good, from now on. You sure you can go through it?”

“After that, I can go through anything.”

“They’ll come at you, these cops. They’ll try to break you down. You ready for them?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe they’ll pin something on you. I don’t think they can, with those witnesses we got. But maybe they do it. Maybe they pin it on you for manslaughter, and you spend a year in jail. Maybe it’s as bad as that. You think you can take it on the chin?”

“So you’re waiting for me when I come out.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Then I can do it.”

“Don’t pay attention to me. I’m a drunk. They got tests that’ll show that. I’ll say stuff that’s cock-eyed. That’s to cross them up, so when I’m sober and tell it my way, they’ll believe it.”

“I’ll remember.”

“And you’re pretty sore at me. For being drunk. For being the cause of it all.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then we’re set.”

“Frank.”

“Yes?”

“There’s just one thing. We’ve got to be in love. If we love each other, then nothing matters.”

“Well, do we?”

“I’ll be the first to say it. I love you, Frank.”

“I love you, Cora.”

“Kiss me.”

From “Crime Novels: American Noir of the 1930s & 40s,” edited by Robert Polito (The Library of America: 990 pp., $35)