The Grifters

by Jim Thompson

  Roy wet his lips nervously. Maybe she wasn’t exaggerating, although it was comforting to think that she must be. But he wasn’t in her league, and he never would be.

  “I’m strictly short-con, Lilly,” he said. “Nothing but small-time stuff. I can walk away from it any time I want to.”

  “It won’t always be small time. With you, it couldn’t be. You’re only twenty-five years old, and already you can lay out three grand without turning a hair. You’re only twenty-five, and you’ve come up with a new angle on the grift—how to take fools for profit without changing hotels. So are you going to stop there?” Her head wagged in a firm negative. “Huh-uh. The grift’s like everything else. You don’t stand still. You either go up or down, usually down, but my Roy’s going up.”

  Roy was guiltily flattered. He pointed out that however it was, it was still the con. It didn’t have the dangers that the organized rackets had.

  “It doesn’t, huh?” Lilly asked. “Well, you could have fooled me. Now, I heard of a guy just about your age who got hit so hard in the guts that it almost killed him.”

  “Well, uh—”

  “Sure, sure, that doesn’t count. That’s different. And here’s something else that’s different.” She held up the burned hand. “Do you know how I really got that burn? Well, I’ll tell you…”

  She told him, and he listened sickishly; shamed and embarrassed. Unwilling to associate such things with his mother, and unable to connect them with himself. Insofar as he could, they tended to widen the rift that lay between him and Lilly.

  She saw how he felt; saw that it was no use. A slow fury welled through her tired body.

  “So that’s that,” she said, “and it doesn’t have anything to do with you, does it? Just another chapter in the Perils of Lilly Dillon.”

  “And very interesting, too,” he said, his voice light. “Maybe you should write a book, Lilly.”

  “Maybe you should write one,” Lilly said. “Carol Roberg would make a good chapter.”

  Roy came stiffly to his feet. He nodded coldly, picked up his hat and started toward the door; then paused with a gesture of appeal. “Lilly,” he said, “just what are you driving at, anyway? What more can I do about Carol than I’ve already done?”

  “You’re asking me,” Lilly said bitterly. “You’ve actually got the guts to stand there and ask me what you should do!”

  “But—you’re suggesting that I should marry her? Ask her to marry me? Oh, now, come off of it! What kind of break would that be for her?”

  “Oh, God! God, God, God,” Lilly moaned.

  Coloring, Roy slammed on his hat. “I’m sorry I’m such a big disappointment to you. I’m going now.”

  Lilly looked at him, as he still hesitated, and remarked that she hadn’t noticed. “That’s the second time you’ve fooled me tonight,” she said. “Now you see him and now you see him, and when he goes nobody knows.”

  He left abruptly.

  Striding down the corridor, his steps slowed and he paused; teetered on the point of turning back. At about the same instant, Lilly jumped up from her chair, started toward the door, and herself paused in teetering indecision.

  They were so much alike, so much a part of one another. They were that close—for a moment.

  The moment passed; a moment before murder. Then, flouting instinct, each made his decision. Each, as he always had, went his own way.

  15

  Roy had his delayed dinner in a downtown restaurant. He ate hungrily, telling himself, and doubtless meaning it, that it was good to be eating in a restaurant. It was what he was used to. The subtle sameness of the food, whatever the restaurant, had a reassuring quality about it, not unlike a mother’s milk to a child. In its familiar and dependable nurture, it bolstered one’s believe-or-perish credo that the more things changed the more they remained the same.

  Similarly, it was good to be back in his own hotel bed. For here also would be his own bed wherever it was; standardized, always ready and waiting for him, simultaneously providing the pleasurable perquisites of permanence and impermanence. Perhaps, in his dreams, Carol briefly shared the bed with him, and he winced, almost crying out. But there were entirely amenable wraiths, also comfortably standardized, who came quickly to the rescue. They asked no more of him than he did of them, a sensual but immaculate penetration which achieved its end without mental or moral involvement. One bathed quickly or lingeringly, sans the danger of nearing the water.

  So, all in all, Roy Dillon slept well that night.

  Awakening early, he lay for a while in the presumable posture of all men awakening. Hands locked under his head, eyes gazing absently at the ceiling, letting his mind roam. Then, with a brisk abandonment of bed, he washed, dressed, and left the hotel.

  He ate breakfast. He visited a barber shop, indulged himself in “the works” and went back to his two-room suite. After bathing, he put on completely fresh clothes, hat and shoes included, and again left the hotel.

  He got his car from its parking lot, and turned it out into the traffic.

  At first he felt a little awkward, nervous, after his prolonged absence from driving. But that passed quickly. In a few blocks he was himself again, moving the car along with automatic ease, driving with the same unthinking skill that a stenographer applies to a typewriter. He was part of this river of cars, aiding its sluggish tide and in turn aided by it. Without losing his identity, free to turn out of the tide when he chose, he still belonged to something.

  Like many business establishments that had once been a traditional integrand of the downtown’s whole, the jobbing house of Sarber & Webb was now set down in a quasi-residential district; commodiously released, for a restless hiatus, from the sprawling giant which would inevitably surround it again. The firm was housed in a roomy sandstone-and-brick building, a lofty one-story high for perhaps three-fourths of its area. At the rear it jutted up to a story-and-a-half, thus accommodating the company offices.

  Roy put his car on the private lot at the side of the building. Whistling absently, his eyes approving as he surveyed the familiar scene around him, he took his briefcase from the car.

  Someone else was looking them over too, he saw, but without his own casualness. A young man—well, perhaps he wasn’t quite so young—in shirtsleeves but wearing a vest. A clerk in appearance, he stood well back on the wide sidewalk bordering the building, looking critically up and down and around, and occasionally jotting into a small notebook.

  He turned and watched as Roy approached, his gaze uncompromising at first, incipiently disapproving. Then, as Roy came on, unflinching, and grinned and nodded, “Hi,” the gaze registered a little warmth, and its proprietor nodded in return.

  “Hi,” he said, almost as though the word embarrassed him.

  Roy passed on, grinning, mentally shaking his head.

  A long, broad service counter stretched along the interior front of the building, breached at one end by a wicket. Behind it, racks of stock-shelves ranged rearward, bulging neatly with the thousand-odd items which were wholesaled by Sarber & Webb, and forming a half-dozen parallel aisles.

  It was early, and he was the only salesman-customer in the place. Usually at this hour, most of the clerks were either having coffee across the street or propped up along the counter in clusters, smoking and talking until they could resign themselves to the day. But there was no such homey nonsense this morning.

  Everyone was present, without a cigarette or coffee carton in sight. The aisles hummed with activity: the pulling of orders, inventorying, restocking, dusting, and rearranging. Everyone was busy, or—much harder—pretending to be busy.

  Through the years, he had become friendly with all of them, and all came forward for a handshake and a word of congratulation on his recovery. But they wasted no time about it. Puzzled, Roy turned to the clerk who was opening a catalogue for him.

  “What’s hit this place?” he asked. “I haven’t seen anyone as busy since the joint caught fire.”

&
nbsp; “Kaggs hit it, that’s what!”

  “Kaggs? Is that anything like the galloping crud?”

  The clerk laughed grimly. “You can say that again! Brother,” he brushed imaginary sweat from his brow. “If that son-of-a-bitch stays around much longer—!”

  Kaggs, he elaborated, was one of the home-office big shots, a seeming mixture of comptroller, trouble-shooter, and efficiency expert. “Came out here right after you went into the hospital—one of those college punks, he looks like. And he ain’t had a kind word for anyone. Ain’t no one knows anything but him, and everyone’s either a dope-off or a bum. Now, you know that’s not so, Roy. You won’t find a harder-workin’, more efficient group of boys anywhere than we got right here!”

  “That’s right,” Roy nodded agreeably, although it was very far from right. “Maybe he’ll run me off, d’you suppose?”

  “I was going to tell you. He did chop off several of the salesmen; just won’t wholesale to ’em any more. And what kind of sense does that make? They’re all selling on commission. If they don’t sell, they don’t make nothing, so—psst, here he comes!”

  As Roy had suspected, Kaggs was the critical-looking young man he had seen outside the building. A split second after the clerk had spoken, he was upon them, shooting out his hand like a weapon.

  “Kaggs. Home office,” he said. “Glad to meet you.”

  “This is Mr. Dillon,” the clerk said, nervously obsequious. “Roy’s one of our best salesmen, Mr. Kaggs.”

  “He is the best.” Kaggs didn’t give the clerk a glance. “Which isn’t saying much for this place. Want to talk to you, Dillon.”

  He turned, still clinging to Roy’s hand as though to hustle him along. Roy remained where he was, pulling Kaggs back around with a jerk. He smiled pleasantly, as the home-office man blinked at him, startled.

  “That was a pretty backhanded compliment, Mr. Kaggs,” he said, “and I never let people get away with things like that. If I did, I wouldn’t be a good salesman.”

  Kaggs considered the statement; nodded with curt judiciousness. “You’re right. I apologize. Now, I’d still like to talk to you.”

  “Lead the way,” Roy said, picking up his briefcase.

  Kaggs led him back down the counter, abruptly swerving away from the wicket and moving toward the building entrance. “How about some coffee, okay? Sets a bad example; too much piddling around here already. But it’s hard to talk with so many people trying to listen in.”

  “You don’t seem to think much of them,” Roy remarked.

  Kaggs said crisply, as they started across the street, that he had no feelings at all about people in the abstract. “It depends on how they stack up. If they’re on the ball, I’ve got plenty of consideration for ’em.”

  In the restaurant, he asked for milk as well as coffee, mixing the two together a little at a time as he sipped from his cup. “Ulcers,” he explained. “Your trouble too, right?” Then, without waiting for an answer he went on:

  “Had you spotted when you passed me this morning, Dillon. Nothing slobby or sloppy about you. Looked like you were going somewhere and you knew the way. Figured then that you must be Dillon; connected you with your sales right away. And when I said that it didn’t say much for Webb & Sarber—your being the best man, I mean—I meant just that. You stack up as a top-flight man in my book, but you’ve had no incentive here. No one walking on your heels. Just a lot of half-asses, so the tendency’s been not to stretch yourself. I’m bouncing the slobs, incidentally. Makes no difference to me if they are only on commission. If they’re not making good money, they’re not giving us good representation and we can’t afford to have ’em around. What’s your selling experience, anyway? Before you came here, I mean?”

  “Selling’s all I’ve done since I left high school,” Roy said, not knowing what all this was leading up to but willing to go along for the ride. “You name it, I’ve sold it. All door-to-door stuff. Premiums, brushes, pots and pans, magazines.”

  “You’re singing my song,” Kaggs grinned crookedly. “I’m the guy who worked his way through college peddling subscriptions. You switched to business-house selling when you came with us; why?”

  “It’s easier to get into doors,” Roy said, “and you can build up regular customers. The house-to-house stuff is mostly one-shot.”

  Kaggs nodded approvingly. “Ever supervise salesmen? You know; kind of head them up, keep ’em on their toes.”

  “I’ve run house-to-house crews,” Roy shrugged. “Who hasn’t?”

  “I haven’t. Don’t have the talent for it, somehow.”

  “Or tact?” Roy smiled.

  “Or tact. But never mind me; I do all right. The point is, Webb & Sarber need a sales manager. Should have had one right along. Someone who’s proved he’s a salesman and can handle other salesmen. He’d have a lot of deadwood to clear out, or put some sap back into em. Hire new men, and give ’em a good draw if they cut the stuff. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Roy said.

  “Now, I don’t know offhand what your best year’s earnings have been. Around sixty-six hundred, I believe. But put it this way. We’ll top your best year by fifteen hundred; make it eight thousand in round numbers. That’s just a beginning, of course. Give you a year at eight, and if you’re not worth a lot more than that by then I’ll kick you the hell out. But I know you will be worth more. Knew you were my kind of man from the minute I saw you this morning. And now that we’ve got that settled, I’m going to borrow one of your cigarettes and have a real cup of coffee, and if my stomach doesn’t like it I’ll kick it the hell out, too.”

  Roy held out his cigarette package. In the rapid-fire delivery of Kaggs talk, he had let its meaning slip away from him. And coming to him abruptly, hitting him like a blow, his hand gave a convulsive jerk.

  Kaggs looked at him, blinking. “Something wrong? Incidentally, don’t cigarettes and coffee bother you? Your ulcers, I mean.”

  Roy nodded, shook his head. “I, uh, it wasn’t a bad ulcer. Just happened to be in a bad place. Struck a vein. I—look, Mr. Kaggs—”

  “Perk, Roy. Perk for Percy, and smile when you say that. How old are you, Roy? Twenty-five or -six? Fine. No reason at all why you can’t…”

  Roy’s mind raced desperately. A sales manager! Him, Roy Dillon, grifter de luxe, a sales manager! But he couldn’t be, damnit! It would be too confining, too proscribed. He would lose the freedom of movement necessary to carrying on the grift. The job itself, the importance of it, would preclude any such activities. As a commission salesman, he might reasonably loiter in the places where the grift could be practiced. But as Webb & Sarber’s sales manager—no! The slightest rumble would dump him cold.

  He couldn’t take the job. On the other hand, how could he turn it down, without arousing suspicion? How could you reasonably refuse a job that was right up your alley, one that was not only much better than the one you had but promised to become far, far better?

  “…glad to get this thing settled, Roy,” Perk Kaggs was saying. “Now, we’ve wasted enough time here, so if you’re through with your coffee—”

  “Mr. Kaggs—Perk,” Roy said. “I can’t take the job. I can’t take it right away, I mean. This is the first day I’ve been up and around, and I just dropped by to say hello and—”

  “Oh?” Kaggs looked at him judiciously. “Well, you do look a little pale. How soon will you be ready, a week?”

  “Well, I—the doctor’s checking me over in a week, but I’m not sure that—”

  “Two weeks then. Or take a little longer if you have to. Be plenty of work, and you’ve got to be in shape for it.”

  “But you need a man right now! It wouldn’t be fair to you to—”

  “I take care of the being-fair-to-me department.” Kaggs permitted himself an icy grin. “Things been going to hell this long. They can go a little longer.”

  “But—”

  But there was nothing more to say. Perhaps he could
think of an out for himself during the next week or so, but none occurred to him now.

  They walked back across the street together, and then he went on by himself to his car. He got into it uncertainly, started the motor, then cut it off again.

  What now? How could he pass the time that Kaggs had given him? Selling was out of the question, of course, since he was supposedly unready to work. But there was the other, his real occupation; the source of the wealth behind the four clown pictures.

  He started the car again. Then, with a dismayed grunt, he again shut it off. Since work was out, so also was the grift. He wouldn’t dare turn a trick. Not before the weekend, at least, when he would normally be idle and could unsuspiciously indulge in some on-the-towning.

  The weekend. And this was only Wednesday.

  He thought about Moira. With an unconscious frown, he dismissed her from his mind. Not today. It was too soon after Carol.

  Starting his car for the third time, he drove around for a couple of hours, then had lunch at a drive-in and returned to the hotel. He spent a restless afternoon reading. He had dinner, and killed the evening at the movies.

  Faced with more idleness the following day, he was again moved to call Moira. But somehow, without seeming to think about it, he rang Carol’s number instead.

  Coming to the phone drowsy-voiced, she said she could not see him. They had no reason to see each other.

  “Oh, now, we might have,” he said. “Why don’t we get together and talk about it?”

  She hesitated. “About what, exactly?”

  “Well…you know. A lot of things. We’ll have lunch, and—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “No, Roy. It is impossible, anyway. I am working regularly at the hospital now. Night duty. In the day, I must sleep.”

  “In the evening, then.” Suddenly it had become very important that he see her. “Before you go to work. Or I can pick you up in the morning, after you finish. I…”

  He rushed on. He had a new job, he explained. Or, well, he was thinking about taking a new job. He wanted her opinion on it, and—