by Steve Fisher
“Won’t kill you. Oh, I see. You’re afraid. Your true feelings might emerge and become your undoing.”
She drank from the bottle, immediately spit it up, ran to the bathroom, poured water and drank it; but she returned, resolutely, filled his small glass with a shot, drank it down, then washed water from the larger glass after it. “Bravo,” he said. “Now me.”
She poured him a drink and he took it neat.
“Now you.”
She drank again, the same way, then gave him another. “Maybe if you’re drunk enough, you’ll sleep until day-light.”
“Can’t,” he said.
He stood up, turned his back to her and removed his pants; then crawled into bed in his shorts.
“Now you. Come on, climb in.”
She was terrified. “Will you sleep if I do?”
He grunted. “But get me up at four twenty-five.”
He lay still, his back turned. She looked at him, then at the bottle and the glasses, and suddenly she poured herself another drink. Her throat already burned from the first two, but now she took down a double shot, washing water after it. He had heard all of this.
“Taking it for brave juice?”
“Yes.”
“Enough—and you’ll be really brave.”
“Will I?” Her head had just begun to reel. She took one more, smaller drink, then returned the glasses to the bathroom. She gazed at herself in the mirror with interest. “Talk to me,” he said from the other room.
She kept regarding her reflection with wonderment. “What about?”
“Anything. I can’t sleep.”
She ran water, poured one more drink, gulped it, then moved into the room toward the bed—and suddenly leapt on it, playfully, and pulled him around on his back, and looked down at him in the lamplight—his strong face, the square-cut jaw, prominent cheekbones. She ran her hand through his short-cropped hair and blurted:
“How many men have you killed?”
He couldn’t have been more stunned. “What?”
She was playful and serious and drunk and reckless and too conscious of his proximity to her.
“In the war you mean?”
“No, in Las Vegas. Were you in the war?”
“I’m in one now.”
“The real war?”
“Yeah—I made a lot of money gambling in the real war. After it was over, I was with the occupation forces in Japan, and for a while there, I had Tokyo in the palm of my hand—had a piece of every undercover crap shooting joint in town.”
“Were you an officer?”
“A buck private. But I had everything wired. Came back with enough money to open up here.”
“This casino?”
“No. I had to work for that. The syndicate contributed it trying to bust me out of town in a series of big-time crap sessions.”
He was getting sleepy now.
She said: “Every now and then I get glimpses of you—what your life’s been like.”
His eyes closed solidly.
“How many men have you killed in Las Vegas?”
“None.”
“I mean—people who won’t pay or—whatever different kinds of trouble you have.”
“None, none, none—stop asking such stupid questions.”
“But I want to know everything about you.”
He was asleep now and she didn’t know anything. Crap games in occupied Tokyo. Were there people who were born to be gamblers? What kind of a breed of man is that? Then she looked at him—his chest bare, his stomach flat: and she lay down beside him, but couldn’t be still. Her head buzzed with the whisky, and then it seemed to her that her body was buzzing, too. He was safely asleep, she knew that by now; he wouldn’t awaken until she shook him or called him. She sat up and took off her pajama top, then lay back down looking at him from the distance of a foot, but gradually inching closer; and then she felt her breasts against his bare body which was very warm. She crushed in closer, then heard her own loud breathing.
Now she reached down and unknotted the string to the pajama bottoms, intending to go no further than that, but a full minute hadn’t passed before she was wriggling, trying to pull them off. She got them below her hips, and now attempted with first one foot, then the other, to remove them from her legs. She wiggled and twisted far more than she had expected to, and the pajama bottoms were off of one leg when he half awakened.
“What are you doing?”
“You wanted me to sleep close to you, didn’t you?” She was whispering, her breath labored.
“Mm huh.”
“Well, that’s what I’m doing.”
She waited then, in silence, lying very still, her nude body pressed almost against his, and exhaustion closed over him; he felt back into a sound sleep—unaware of her nakedness. And now she did not move any more. Fear negated passion. She remained absolutely quiet, trying to think, trying to reason with herself: and fell asleep.
Fifteen
4:03 A.M.
Sprig rang the bell twice and just as Mai was calling out a muffled “Who is it?” unlocked the door with a pass key, barged into the room and switched on the lights. Mai sat up in bed, blinking at him.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s about Joe.” Sprig closed the door.
“Oh,” Mai said. He reached for a cigarette.
“I had to wake up three other people before I could trace you down.”
“It didn’t occur to you to look for me here in my room?”
“You weren’t here in your room, lover-boy.”
Mai studied his face. “That crack supposed to mean something?”
“How was she?”
“Who?” Mai was getting mad now.
“The little gal who asks you to play Meet Me in St. Louis, then powders out before you have the chance.”
Mai gaped at him. “So what?”
“So you took a ten-minute break and it lasted damn near an hour! What did Dee Scott say when you met her in the St. Louis Club, chum?”
“You’re quite a detective, aren’t you? Wake up the cocktail waitress—”
“Quit wasting my time! You were there. I can verify it a half a dozen ways. Don’t make me. Just tell me what little Dee had to say to you.”
“Nothing.”
“She want to see you again?”
“We didn’t even talk.”
“Level with me!”
“It’s the truth!”
“You ever met her before, seen her before anywhere?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you talk?”
“She was recognized.”
“Nick Saunders?”
“Yeah.”
“Now you’re making sense. So okay, you didn’t talk, but she’ll set up another meeting—some other way—”
“She tried to. But I’m not going.”
“Where is it?”
“Boulder Dam—tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“Perfect.”
“What?” Mai asked.
“You’re going to be there.”
Mai shook his head. “Oh no; I figured it out last night when I got back to the casino. That chick’s too rich for my blood. Why, I could get killed fooling around with her!”
“Bello doesn’t kill people.”
Mai looked up.
“Hires goons to rough them up, maybe—” Sprig went on, “but we’ll screen you every inch of the way, give you protection. Because when you do meet her tomorrow, he’s going to know about it.”
Mai jumped up out of bed. “What are you guys trying to do to me?”
“He’s jealous. She’s the one thing that can get him off balance.”
Mai pointed toward the casino. “Are you talking about that crap game in there?”
Sprig nodded.
“Well, I don’t want any part of it—of Dee Scott—Bello—or anybody else. I’m hired to play piano and sing songs, and that’s it.”
“Don’t make me say how much we need thi
s.”
“Get somebody else.”
“The little tramp doesn’t go for anybody else. Never has, any place, until now. But she’s on the make for you.”
“I tell you, I don’t want her!”
“That isn’t the point.”
Mai moved about the room. “All right—then here’s the point: I’m too chicken. I don’t want trouble with anybody. It’s hard enough to get through life every day without going out and asking for—I don’t know how you guys get the gall!”
“It’s not ‘us guys’—it’s me. Joe won’t know it and there’s no need for him to.”
Mai stared at him. “Really do your job, don’t you?”
“I try.”
“Loyal watchdog.”
“Do it, Mai. A favor.”
“No, I’m not part of your police force!”
Sprig sighed heavily, staring at him through his encircled, bloodshot eyes, then shrugged. “All right. I understand.”
He started for the door, and Mai said: “Would you do it—situation reversed?”
Sprig gazed at him over his shoulder. “Hell, yes. In a minute.”
“How long would I—” Mai could scarcely hear the sound of his own voice, “—have to hang around with her?” Sprig turned, leaned against the door. “An hour, two—at the most. In some cocktail joint in Boulder City. Then you break it off—real definite. You just tell her the truth: you’re too scared to play house with dynamite. And after that, stay away from her, ignore her, no matter what she does—particularly once you get back here. Because if you don’t, then it could be trouble. Real trouble for you.”
“Wish I had guts enough to do it.”
“You have.”
“I like Joe as much as anybody I know.”
All Sprig said was: “So do I.” Looking at him—tall, thin, worn out, Mai knew that he’d do it, he’d meet her.
“Sprig, when you get back to the casino, send me over a double CC, soda chaser, will you? And put in a nine o’clock call for this room. I want to have plenty of time to shower and have breakfast before I leave for Boulder Dam.”
Sprig smiled wanly. “Wilco. You’re a good guy, Mai.”
“And just one thing more. Don’t worry about me ever seeing her again after tomorrow. I’m getting too old to go chasing baubles and bangles like her.”
Sprig nodded. “Okay. Some other time, kid. I’m on a treadmill.”
The moment he closed the door, Mai wondered why he had agreed to go to Boulder Dam. And then he was scared. He needed that double CC.
Sixteen
4:47 A.M.
The telephone in the penthouse rang five times before Joe woke, groggily reached over, grabbed it and heard Sprig almost screaming at him: “Bello’s been back at the table for nearly twenty minutes. Your money’s running out faster than I’ve ever seen it! Joe, get yourself down here! This isn’t like you!”
“Be right there,” Joe said and hung up. He looked at the sleeping girl beside him and wanted to kick her the hell out of the bed; but didn’t. He shook her roughly.
“Get up!” And then he groped toward the bathroom. Inside, he turned the shower on cold and stood under it.
Sunny still wasn’t quite awake. The whisky had drugged her. She was trying to rouse herself. She heard the running water in the shower and Joe’s voice calling above it: “Get me a pair of slacks—a polo shirt.” The water stopped running. “Hurry!”
Obediently, she started to climb out of bed, and then quickly threw herself back in, pulling up the sheets. Joe’s voice was still beating her:
“I trusted you to get me up! You promised. That’s why you’re here.” He came out of the bathroom, wearing shorts. “Where’s the—” and saw her in bed. “Oh, pardon me, if I’ve disturbed you. Go right back to sleep.” Angrily, he started for the closet.
She remembered her pajama bottoms would be at the foot of the bed, under the covers, and started to fish for them with her toe—frantically; Joe stopped, looked at her, then put his hands on his hips. She tried even harder to retrieve the pajamas. Suddenly he moved to the bed and pulled off the covers.
“Joe, please! Please give me back—please!” She started crying.
He went to the foot of the bed, found her pajama bottoms, threw them to her; and then he came around to the side where she had been sleeping and discovered the top. He handed them to her. She put the pajamas on, staring up at him, her lips quivering.
“Come here,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m so ashamed!”
“I said come here.” He lifted her up. She averted her face. “Now give me a kiss.”
“No—I’m going to leave here. First plane.”
He pulled her head around, kissed her on the lips. “Why?”
“Because it’s all over now.”
“What’s over?”
“You see how I am, don’t you? If I stay here—”
“Oh, terrible things will happen,” he said. He started for the closet again.
“No, I’ll get your clothes.”
She raced ahead of him, almost tripping.
“Sunny.”
“What?” She was taking down a pair of slacks.
“Don’t go away.”
“Why?” She gave him the trousers, and returned for a shirt.
“I’d miss you.”
“I’m no good.” She gave him the shirt. “I have some drinks—and don’t even wake you up. And when you do wake up, you see me—” She started crying again.
He buttoned the shirt, sat down to slip into his shoes. “Next time I have a break from the dice table I won’t sleep.”
“But you need it!”
“I’ll just talk. We’ll talk about you, about me, about everything. We’ll talk a blue streak.” He rose. “Do you know that I feel better?”
“Do you?”
He gazed at her. “Sunny, you still crying?”
She looked up, wiping at the tears. Her breasts pushed the pajama top out.
“That’s better,” he said.
“I’m awful, aren’t I?”
“No.”
“Just a cheap Wop.”
“Careful. I can call you that. But you can’t. Anyway, you’re Irish, too. What do they call the Irish?”
She was gazing at him. “Aren’t you in a rush to get downstairs?”
“Did you hear Sprig yelling at me?”
“No. I don’t even know who he is. But—you’re late.”
“Just say you won’t leave.”
She turned away. “I have to think about it.”
“I won’t go downstairs until you say it.”
She swung back, staring at him, and then the words fairly burst from her: “I won’t leave.”
She moved forward and they kissed. Then they looked at each other, and she said: “Suddenly I want to call you ‘darling’ again.”
“Go ahead.”
“Hello, darling.”
“Hi, teacher.”
“Joe, I feel absolutely giddy!”
“So do I.”
“Did the drinks do that?”
“No. No whisky in the world is that good.”
“You feel it, too?”
“Exhilarated.”
“Even as tired as you are?”
“Even as tired as I am.”
“You were very polite when you—when you pulled the covers off.”
“You were very beautiful.”
“You were gentlemanly. I appreciate it.”
“You’re very strange, Sunny.”
“That’s what I think about you.”
“Maybe that’s because we’re not used to people like us. I mean, a professional gambler doesn’t often meet a schoolteacher.”
“And vice versa. So we’re not really strange,” she said, “just strange to each other. For instance, I wouldn’t be strange at all to another schoolteacher.”
“I hope you’re not anything to another schoolteacher.”
“You’d b
etter go now!”
He shook his head. “I’m glued here.”
She walked over and picked up his jacket. “I don’t want you to lose money—have anything go wrong because of me. Later you’d say it was my fault, that I’d kept you from your business. I don’t want you to say that.”
“I won’t.”
“When there’s time we will talk. All about everything. There’s so much to talk about. I don’t know you; you don’t know me.”
“Honey, I’ll see you in the casino when you get up.” He shouldered into the jacket. “Stay somewhere where I can see you.”
“I’m going to get up now. ”
“No need of that.”
“Think I could sleep feeling like this?”
He laughed, and was going to pull her into his arms when the telephone rang again. He looked at it, then headed for the door. “Tell Sprig I’m on my way down.”
“All right, darling, I’ll tell him. And good luck this session.”
When he was gone, her arms felt empty. And she was very giddy.
Seventeen
Boulder Dam is thirty miles from Las Vegas, a drive of about forty minutes on the straight good two-lane highway. Just before you reach it, you pass through Boulder City, a quiet community of stone houses with green lawns and a block or two of shopping section that includes cocktail bars and restaurants. The dam itself, which is the biggest in the world, is seven hundred and thirty feet high and a thousand feet wide.
Mai lay in his room, thinking about it, worrying, and woke just before nine—in time to grab the phone when his call came and say “Thank you—I’m already up.” He climbed out of bed, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and turned off the cold air conditioning; then he showered and shaved. To him, nine o’clock was the crack of dawn, an unheard-of hour—and it’d be a whole, strange different world outside. Different people, different crap dealers, and a solemn unearthly quiet all around like Philadelphia on Sunday. Las Vegas on Monday was just as bad.
Still, he wasn’t prepared for the blast of blinding sunlight that hit him when he opened the bungalow door; nor for the intensity of the dry, unbreathable heat. He was garbed only in tan slacks, a short-sleeved pongee sports shirt and a pair of loafers, but was overdressed. He moved quickly in the direction of the casino-hotel, and by the time he reached it was drenched with sweat, his face and neck burning from the rays of the broiling sun. He stepped inside, breathing deep of the cool, conditioned air. He mopped his face with a handkerchief, then looked around.
