Barbara took out her purse.
“Name your price,” she said.
“I don’t have a price,” said the sawman, sawing the necklace slowly, perching it on the end table for support. “Sawing a necklace don’t take much effort.”
Barbara put her hand on the sawman’s hand. He stopped sawing.
“Listen,” Barbara said. “When I need a service done, I pay for the service.”
The sawman briefly imagined that Barbara’s breasts were rich and high-hat womanly, the toast of a side of the town he would never know, but he shook the thought away quickly because he was a gentleman in the truest way. He continued to saw.
Barbara put a five-dollar coin on the end table and walked out of the sawman’s office silently.
“Did you get the necklace sawed?” Benny asked, his mouth full of pastrami.
“Yes,” said Barbara.
“Good,” said Benny.
Barbara was not eating. She was sitting at the end of the dinner table watching Benny eat. The lush apartment seemed extra empty and cold tonight. The bronze busts and grape basins seemed unforgiving.
“Because that necklace needed to be sawed,” said Benny.
“I know,” said Barbara.