The Grifters

by Jim Thompson

  She didn’t know. Quite possibly Cole had bought it as a fake. “It isn’t worth anything to you?”

  “Why, of course it is,” he said warmly. “I can offer you—well, five hundred dollars?”

  “Very well. If you’ll give me a check, please.”

  He excused himself, and left for several minutes. He returned with the check, placed it in an envelope for her and sat down again.

  “Now,” he said, “I hope you’re not too badly disappointed with us. You’ll give us an opportunity to serve you again, I hope.”

  Moira hesitated. She glanced at the small sign on his desk. Mr. Carter. The store was named Carter’s. The owner’s son, perhaps?

  “I should have told you, Mrs. Langtry. With a valued customer, such as you, we’d be very happy to call at your home. It’s not at all necessary for you to come to the store. If there’s anything you think we might be interested in…”

  “I have only one thing, Mr. Carter.” Moira looked at him evenly. “Are you interested?”

  “Well. I’d have to see it, of course. But—”

  “You are seeing it, Mr. Carter. You’re looking right at it.”

  He looked puzzled, then startled. Then, his face assumed something of the same expression it had worn when he was examining the bracelet.

  “You know something, Mrs. Langtry? A bracelet like the one you sold us, we seldom run across anything like that. A fine setting and workmanship are usually indicative of precious stones. It always hurts me when I find they’re not. I always hope”—he raised his eyes—“that I’m mistaken.”

  Moira smiled, liking him better than ever.

  “At this point,” she said, “I think I should say ouch.”

  “Say it for both of us, Mrs. Langtry,” he laughed. “This is one of those times when I almost wish I wasn’t married. Almost.”

  They walked to the entrance together, the lovely smartly-dressed woman and the homely, clean-looking young man. As they said good-bye, he held her hand for a moment.

  “I hope everything straightens out for you, Mrs. Langtry. I do wish I could have helped.”

  “Just stay in there and pitch,” Moira told him. “You’re on the right team.”

  Very hungry by now, she had coffee and a small salad at a drugstore. Then, she returned to her apartment house.

  The manager was on the lookout for her, and he was knocking at her door almost as soon as she had closed it. Curtly, he thrust an itemized bill at her. Moira examined it, her eyebrows raising now and then.

  “A lot of money, Charles,” she murmured. “You wouldn’t have padded it a little, would you?”

  “Don’t you talk to me that way! You owe every doggone cent of it and you know it, and by golly you’re going to pay it!”

  “Maybe I could get the dough from your wife, do you suppose, Charlie? Maybe your kiddies would crack their piggy banks?”

  “You leave them out of this! You go near my family, and I’ll—I’ll—” His voice broke into a pleading whine. “Y-you…you wouldn’t do that, would you Moira?”

  Moira gave him a disgusted look. “Oh, don’t wet your pants, for God’s sake! Mark the damned bill paid, and I’ll get you the money.”

  She turned abruptly and entered her bedroom. Opening her purse, she took out a roll of bills and dropped it on the dressing table. Then, as she undressed swiftly, slipping into a sheer black negligee, her weary frown suddenly broke and she snickered.

  Laughing silently, she spread herself out on the bed.

  She often broke into sudden fits of merriment. Faced with some unpleasant facet of the present, she would force her mind away from it, letting it wander vagrantly until it seized upon some ridiculous parallel or paradox. And then, for no apparent reason, she laughed.

  Now, the laughter became briefly audible, and Grable called to her suspiciously from the vicinity of the doorway.

  “What are you up to, Moira? What are you laughing about?”

  “You wouldn’t understand, Charles; just a little item from the luncheon menu. Come on in.”

  He came in. He looked at her and gulped, then frantically pulled his gaze away.

  “I want that m-money, Moira! I want it right now!”

  “Well, there it is.” The negligee fell open as she waved a bare foot at the dresser. “There’s the money, and here’s little Moira.”

  He strode toward the dressing table. Just before he reached it, his step faltered and he turned slowly around.

  “Moira, I—I—” He stared at her, gulping again, licking back the sudden saliva from the corners of his babyish mouth. And this time he could not pull his eyes away.

  Moira looked down at herself, following the course of his gaze.

  “The automatic clutch, Charles,” she murmured. “It comes with the de luxe upholstery and the highspeed wiry zone.”

  He made a little rush toward her. He stopped weakly, a hand held out in wretched appeal.

  “P-please, Moira! Please, please! I’ve been good to you! I’ve let you stay h-here month after month, and…You will, won’t you? Just—”

  Moira said, nope, it couldn’t be done. All passengers must pay as they entered, and no free passes or rebates. “That’s a strict rule of the Intercourse Commerce Commission, Charles. All common carriers are governed by it.”

  “Please! You got to! You j-just got to!” Almost sobbing, he sagged down on his knees at the side of the bed. “Oh, God, God, God! D-don’t make me—”

  “Only one choice to a customer,” Moira said firmly. “The lady or the loot. So what’s it going to be?” And then, as he abruptly flung himself at her, “As if I didn’t know…”

  She lay looking up past his shoulder, trying to blot out his panting, thrusting presence. Forcing her mind away from him and to

  Roy Dillon. Their last afternoon at the hotel. Why his sudden hemorrhage, anyway, a young guy with an apparently cast-iron stomach? What had happened to bring it on? Or was it really on the level? Could it be some angle his mother was working to break them up?

  She looked like an angle-player! Plenty like one! You could see that she was sharp as a tack and twice as hard—anyone could see it that knew their way around. And she was loaded with dough, and…

  Moira didn’t want to think about her, the snotty little witch! Anything else, but not her! She’d like to do something about her, but—

  She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. What a character this guy was! What a revolting character! He must be wearing forty dollars’ worth of toilet water and hair gook, but it didn’t really touch him. It was just sort of wrapped around him, like foil around a chunk of limburger, and when you got down under it—

  Ooops! She tightened her lips quickly, her cheeks bulging with repressed merriment. She tried to jerk her mind away from its source, from that darned crazy menu. But it just wouldn’t go away, and again she was shaking with laughter.

  “Whassa matter?” gasped Grable. “How can you laugh at a—”

  “Nothing. N-never mind, Charles. I j-just—ah, ha, ha, ha—I’m s-sorry, but—ahh, ha, ha ha…”

  Luncheon Special. Broiled hothouse tomato under generous slice of ripe cheese.

  12

  Lilly Dillon’s apartment was on the top floor of a Sunset Strip building a few blocks east of the city limits of Beverly Hills. Rented furnished, it consisted of a bedroom, bath, powder room, kitchen, living room, and den. The den was on the rear or south side of the building, and a hospital bed had been put into it for Roy. He lay on it today, in pajamas and bathrobe, its head cranked up so that he could look out over unlimited miles of oil fields, ocean, and beach towns.

  He felt lazy and comfortable. He felt restless and guilty. This was the beginning of his third week out of the hospital. He was fully recovered, and there was no valid excuse for his remaining here. And yet he lingered on. Lilly wanted him to. The doctors passively encouraged him to, seeing little to be gained by his protracted convalescence but a broad margin of safety in it.

  The
ruptured vessels of his stomach could open up again, under just the right circumstances. They could be re-ruptured. Thus, if he wished to remain completely inactive and beyond reach of the smallest risk, it was quite agreeable with the doctors.

  Aside from Lilly and the matter of his health, Roy had another reason for staying on. A guilty reason, and one he tried not to admit to. She, Carol Roberg, was in the kitchen now, cleaning up their luncheon dishes and doubtless preparing a dessert for them. He didn’t want any himself—he had gained almost seven pounds in the past two weeks—but he knew that she did. And not for the world would he have interfered.

  Carol was very dainty about her eating, as she was about everything. But he had never seen anyone who could stow away so much food so quickly.

  He wondered about that, her insatiable appetite, when he was not wondering about her in a different way. Most women he knew seemed hardly to eat anything. Moira, for example…

  Moira…

  He squirmed uneasily as he recalled her visit this morning. He had told her yesterday in a subdued telephone conversation that Lilly was leaving the apartment early today, and suggested that she drop by. So she had come, pulling up startled when she saw Carol, then giving him a quick, questioning look.

  Carol sat down in the living room with them. She apparently felt that it was only polite to do so, and she tried to make conversation about the weather and the usual routine topics. When, after what was probably the longest half-hour on record, she had finally excused herself and gone into the kitchen, Moira turned on him, tightmouthed.

  “I tried to send her out,” Roy said helplessly. “I told her to take off a few hours.”

  “Tried to? If it were me, you’d just said to beat it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to be alone as much as you did.”

  He glanced quickly over his shoulder, then went down beside her chair and took her into his arms. She submitted to a kiss, but there was no response to it. He kissed her again, letting his hands rove over her body, probing the soft, sweet-scented curves. After weeks of enforced continence, and the constant temptation which Carol represented, he had never wanted Moira as much as he did at that moment. But abruptly she had pulled away from him.

  “Just how much longer do you plan on staying here, Roy?” she asked. “When are you moving back to the hotel?”

  “Well. I don’t know exactly. Pretty soon, I imagine.”

  “You’re not in much of a hurry, are you? You like it here.”

  Roy said awkwardly that he had no complaints. He was being well taken care of—much better than he could be in a hotel—and Lilly was anxious to have him stay.

  “Mmm, I’ll bet she is, and I’ll bet you’re darned well taken care of, too!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve seen the way you looked at that simpering little simp of a nurse! Either you’re losing your grip, or you think she’s too good to tumble. She is, but I’m not!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake…” He reddened. “Look, I’m sorry about today. If there was any way I could get rid of her without hurting her feelings…”

  “Naturally, you couldn’t do that. Oh, no!”

  “Let’s just say that I wouldn’t do it then,” he said, tiring of apology.

  “Well, forget it.” She picked up her gloves, and stood up. “If it suits you, it suits me.”

  He followed her out into the hallway, trying to smooth over the rift without unbending too far. Liking her, desiring her more than he ever had, yet wary as always of any tightening of her hold upon him.

  “I’ll be out of here any day, now,” he assured her. “I’m probably a hell of a lot more anxious than you are.”

  “Well…” She smiled tentatively, the dark eyes searching his face. “I’m not so sure of that.”

  “You’ll see. Maybe we can go to La Jolla this weekend.”

  “Just maybe?”

  “I’m practically sure of it,” he said. “I’ll give you a ring, hmm?”

  So he had got things straightened out, for a time, at least, and after a fashion. But he had gotten nothing in return, nothing but the status quo, and unsatisfied desire squirmed in him relentlessly. Something was going to have to give, he told himself. With Moira’s presence still lingering with him, with Carol so readily accessible…

  Carol. He wondered just what he should do about her anyway. Or whether he should do anything about her. She looked completely virginal, and if she was, that was that. She’d remain that way, as far as he was concerned. But looks could be deceptive; and sometimes, when she consented to a kiss and she clung to him for a moment, well, he wasn’t so sure about her status. Was, in fact, almost positive that he had judged it wrongly.

  And in that case, of course…

  She came in from the kitchen, bearing two cream-topped parfait glasses. He accepted one of them, and she sat down with the other. Smiling, he watched as she dipped into it, wanting to sweep her up in his arms and give her a hearty squeeze.

  “Good?” he said.

  “Wonderful!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. Then, looking up at him, pinking with self-consciousness. “All the time here, I am eating! You think I am such a pig, yes?”

  Roy laughed. “If they made pigs like you, I’d start raising them. How about eating mine, too?”

  “But it is yours. More I could not possibly eat!”

  “Sure you can,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed. “Will you come into the bedroom when you’re through?”

  “I will come now. You want your rubdown, yes?”

  “No, no,” he said quickly. “There’s no hurry. Finish your ice cream first.”

  He crossed the deeply carpeted living room and entered the bedroom. Entering the bedroom, he hesitated for a long moment, almost deciding to stop now while he could. Then, swiftly, before he could change his mind, he flung off the robe and his pajama top and stretched out on the bed.

  Carol came in a minute or two later. She started to get the alcohol bottle from the bathroom, and he held out his hand to her.

  “Come here, Carol. I want to ask you something.”

  She nodded, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He drew her closer, bringing her face down to his; and, then, as their lips met, he began to draw her prone.

  Nervously her body suddenly stiffening, she tried to pull away. “Oh, no! Please, Roy. I—I—”

  “It’s all right. I want to ask you something, Carol. Will you tell me the truth?”

  “Well”—she tried to muster a smile. “It is so important to you? Or perhaps you are teasing me again, yes?”

  “It’s very important to me,” he said. “Are you a virgin, Carol?”

  The smile washed abruptly from her face, and for a moment it was something completely blank. Then, a trace of color came back into it and her eyes fell, and almost imperceptibly she shook her head.

  “No, I am not a virgin.”

  “You’re not?” He was vaguely disappointed.

  “I am not. Not by many times.” Under its surface firmness, her voice shook slightly. “And now you will not like me any more.”

  “Not like you? Why, of course, I do. I like you more than ever!”

  “B-but—” She smiled tremulously began to glow with a kind of joyous incredulity. “You really mean it? You would not tease about so important a thing?”

  “What’s so important about it? Now, come on, honey!”

  Laughing joyously, she allowed him to pull her down against him; hugged him with laughing wonderment. Oh, my, she said. She was so happy. And then, with no real resistance, bubbling with the happiness, he had given her, “But—shouldn’t we wait, Roy? You would not like me better?”

  “I couldn’t like you any better!” He tugged impatiently at her white uniform. “How do you get this damned thing—?”

  “But there is something else you must know. You have a right to know. I—I cannot have children, Roy. Never.”

  That stopped him, made him hes
itate, but only for a second. She had an awkward way of phrasing things, twisting them around hindside-to and putting the emphasis in the wrong places. So she couldn’t have children and that was all to the good, but he would have taken care of that, anyway.

  “Who cares?” he said, almost groaning in his hunger for her. “It’s okay and it’s okay if you’re not a virgin. Now, can’t you stop talking, for God’s sake, and—”

  “Yes! Oh, yes, Roy!” She clung to him in wondrous surrender, guiding his fumbling hands. “Also, I want to. And it is your right…”

  The uniform fell away from her; the underthings. The innate modesty, the fears, the past. In the drape-drawn dimness of the room, she was reborn, and there was no past but only a future.

  The purplish brand still lingered on her outflung left arm, but now it was merely a childhood scar; time dulled, shrunken by growth. It didn’t matter. What it memorialized didn’t matter—the sterilization, the loss of virginity—for he had said it didn’t. So the thing itself was without meaning: the indelible imprint of the Dachau concentration camp.

  13

  She came out of the bathroom, modestly wearing her underthings now; still flushed and warm and glowing. Primly protective, she drew up the sheet and tucked it over his chest. “I must take care of you,” she said. “Now, more than ever, you are most important to me.”

  Roy grinned at her lazily. She was sweet, a lot of woman, he thought. And about the most honest one he’d ever met. If she hadn’t told him that she wasn’t virginal…

  “You are all right, Roy? You do not hurt any place?”

  “I never felt better in my life,” he laughed. “Not that I haven’t been feeling okay.”

  “That is good. It would be terrible if I had given you hurt.”

  He repeated that he was feeling fine; she was just what he’d needed. She said seriously that she also had needed him, and he laughed again, winking at her.

  “I believe you, honey. How long has it been, anyway, or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “How long?” She frowned a little, her head tilted in puzzlement. Then, “Oh,” she said. “Well, it—it was—”