“All right,” I said.
That surprised him.
“What?”
“I said all right, I can't force you to buy something you don't want. All I can do is take the documents to the proper authorities and see that they get the proper publicity. You know, maybe I had you figured wrong, King. I figured your political life was worth at least twenty thousand; I had it figured all along that you would consider it a bargain at that price. Well, I guess I was wrong.”
He looked a hundred years old. “... Ten thousand,” he said finally.
I hooked a chair with my foot, pulled it up and sat down. “I have nothing important to do,” I said. “I can wait. If you want to play it cute, it's all right with me.”
He put his hands to his face and for one horrible moment I was afraid he was going to cry. But he got hold of himself. He wiped his forehead with a crisp white linen handkerchief, then tucked the handkerchief back into his chest pocket, very neatly.
It didn't take long. “... All right. Twenty thousand. Now where are the originals.”
This was more like it. “I told you I didn't have them on me. But I'll have them this afternoon, say one o'clock.”
He nodded heavily.
“At the Central Bus Station,” I said. “I'll have the papers and you have the money, in small bills, nothing over a twenty. One o'clock will give you plenty of time to arrange it at the bank.”
I stood up, smiled. “Mr. King, it's been a great pleasure to do business with a man of your intelligence.”
The girl in the second office, the secretary, smiled as I came out of King's office. “It's a beautiful day, isn't it, sir?” she said.
“It sure is that! It's a beautiful day!”
But it was only the beginning. Let's see now, I thought, floating down the corridor toward the elevators. Let's see, King buys one bill of goods for twenty thousand, and there must be at least enough material in his files for four more sales. Four times twenty thousand... five times twenty thousand, counting the present deal, came to an even hundred thousand. One hundred thousand beautiful dollars, that's what Parker King was worth to me if I handled it right! If I didn't push him too hard or too fast. One hundred thousand dollars!
Still, that was only the beginning!
In John Venci's strongbox there were at least fifteen names that should be worth plenty. Conservatively, there were at least ten names that should be worth as much as King. But let's be super-conservative, let's say they're worth only half as much as King... let's see, that would be five times one hundred thousand dollars, that was what John Venci's strongbox was worth to me!
And this was the land of money that John Venci had passed up for the sake of revenge! With Venci it figured. He'd had all the money he could use; he could afford to be a theorist. A man like that could afford to kick a million bucks in the face if he felt like it, but not me.
Not Roy Surratt.
No sir, there was a time to be practical, and this was it. After I had milked this thing for all it was worth, maybe I too could afford to retire to a private monastery and contemplate the philosophic truths of crime. But not now. By God, I was just beginning to live, and I was going to enjoy it!
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT EXACTLY ONE o'clock Parker King walked into the Central Bus Station. His face was mask-like, his eyes tired and expressionless. He carried a thick leather briefcase and looked more like a European diplomat headed for the United Nations Assembly than a state senator on his way to pay twenty thousand dollars worth of blackmail.
I was at the lunch counter having a sandwich when he came in.
He looked like he needed a sandwich. And plenty of milk and sun and lots of rest. Parker King looked like a man who was very close to a nervous breakdown.
“The papers,” he said huskily. “For God's sake, if anyone should see me here, that alone would be enough to make them suspect something. A bus station!”
I took the papers from my inside coat pocket and gave them to him. Nervously, he glanced at them, then sagged with relief when he saw that everything was there. “There's just one thing,” he said. “I don't want to see you again, ever, understand?”
“I understand.”
He sat the briefcase down and started to go, and I said, “Just a minute, I'll go outside with you and carry the briefcase. You had it in your hand when you came in. We don't want somebody to think you forgot your briefcase and I was trying to get away with it, do you?”
“I... hadn't thought of that.”
“You should set aside an hour every day,” I said, “just for thinking. You'd be surprised how much trouble you can avoid through a little thinking. Well, I'm ready.”
I picked up the briefcase and we went out together, as though we were buddies, or anyway business acquaintances. When we got to the sidewalk I said, “I don't suppose I need to ask what's in this briefcase.”
He looked at me, hard, then turned and motioned to a taxi starter. I grinned. Yes sir, this had been a hell of a day!
At five o'clock that afternoon I was back in front of the Burton Manufacturing and Construction Company watching the flow of white-collar workers as they crowded out of the building. I called out when I saw Pat.
Her eyes widened when she saw the car. It was a Lincoln, just like the one Dorris Venci had, only this one was black and brand new. She crossed through a line of waiting taxis to where I was parked.
“Where on earth did you get that?”
“Just drove it off the show room floor. Get in.”
“Well....” She shook her head, surprise still in her eyes. I got out then, went around the car and opened the door for her. She turned and stepped inside. After I went around and got under the wheel again, she said, “Are you sure you just drove this off the floor?”
“Look at the indicated mileage; exactly twenty-seven miles. What do you think I did, steal it?”
“I must admit the possibility crossed my mind.”
“I can afford an automobile like this. Remember what I said last night about turning this town upside down and shaking it?”
“... Yes.”
“And you said you'd like to be standing in the right place when the money started to fall?”
“I... might have said something to that effect; I can't be sure.”
“You can be sure about one thing,” I said. “Look in the back seat.”
She turned her head and made a small sound when she saw the package. It was a hell of a fancy package, a big flat box wrapped in black and silver striped paper, tied with a black and silver ribbon.
“What is it?”
“It's for you,” I said. “This is the day money started to fall, and you were standing in the right place.”
She didn't touch the package; she was still a little stunned, and that amused me. “I think I called you a peasant last night,” she said after a moment. “It looks as though I'll have to take back those words.”
I grinned. “You want to open it now, or wait?”
“Where are we going?”
“To my apartment,” I said. “This is a day worth remembering, this is a day to celebrate. I bought some wine, and had a caterer get the place in shape and prepare some snacks. How does it sound?”
“... Interesting. Unusual, I must say, but interesting.”
“We'll wait, then, with the package. All right?” She nodded, and I switched on the Lincoln and moved it through the crowded traffic. We had traveled six or seven blocks and she hadn't said a word.
Then: “I don't suppose you want to tell me where your sudden riches came from... I know it's none of my business.”
“It's simple. I had something to sell and found a man who wanted to buy; the very soul of commerce, the life blood of capitalism, the age-old law of supply and demand. Look,” I said, “I got off on the wrong foot with you; I admit it. I got a little rough, but actually I'm not a rough guy at all. Believe me, everything is fine.”
“Forget it.”
I parked th
e Lincoln in one of the garages behind the apartment building and Pat and I used the rear entrance to get to my place. I had the package under my arm, anxious to see her face when she opened it. This will thaw her out, I thought. If she doesn't react positively to the stimulus of this package, then I've wasted a hell of a lot of time studying the science of human motivation!
“Here we are,” I said, putting the key in the lock. I had opened the door, just a little, just a crack, when I saw Dorris Venci there in my apartment! I had just started to shove the door all the way open and step inside for Pat to enter, when I saw her sitting there, motionless, those Zeiss-lens eyes focused emptily on my face. I closed the door, fast.
“Look,” I said, “I just happened to think of something. Something I forgot to do. Will you do me a favor, will you go in your own apartment for a few minutes, powder your nose or something, until I get everything just right? I don't know about you, but this is a big day for me, and I want to be absolutely sure that everything is right. Will you humor me?”
An eyebrow lifted the slightest bit, that was all. “Of course,” she said.
She gave me her key and I opened the door to her own apartment. “Just a few minutes,” I said heartily, “this isn't going to take long.”
Alone, I stood there in the hallway thinking: Christ, I hope she didn't see Dorris in there! She would recognize her sure as hell and pretty soon she would start putting things together. Pat Kelso was no dummy. She wasn't just another piece of gorgeous sex machinery; she had a brain.
I took a deep breath, feeling the anger flow over me, feeling it in my guts, in my muscles, in my brain. I gave myself a few seconds to calm down, then shoved the door open and went in.
I had forgotten about the caterer. She was a short, fat German woman of about fifty, very neat and businesslike in a starched white dress, gleaming white shoes, a small heart-shaped light blue apron. She looked perfectly antiseptic and sterile and happy.
“Oh, Mr. O'Connor,” she beamed, “I believe everything is in order. Everything, just as you ordered it. Smoked turkey, baked ham, a shrimp bowl, mushroom salad. The sweetbreads are in the chafing dish, sir, over the warmer, and the wine is in the refrigerator ready to be iced.”
“Thank you,” I said, “everything looks fine.” Dorris Venci sat as though she were hypnotized, saying nothing. I paid the woman from the caterer's, made a deposit on the dishes and told her she could go.
I turned to Dorris and said, “I'm getting pretty goddamn tired of your walking into my place like this. To be perfectly honest, I'm getting tired of you. Can't you see I had something of my own arranged here?”
She turned those eyes on me, and only then did I see how washed out she looked. Her face had aged ten years in the past two weeks.
“You... haven't called,” she said flatly. “I... haven't heard from you in several days.”
“Listen to me,” I said, “we'd better get something straight, and right now. You have no hold on me at all; the minute you turned over your husband's strongbox, it was over. You didn't buy a damn thing. Is that clear?”
Suddenly she put her hands to her face, covering her face.
“Now what's wrong with you?”
“I wish I were dead!” Her voice came muffled through her hands. “I wish I had the courage to end it!”
“Great God!” I groaned, “don't go into that act. I couldn't stomach it. Look here, you're a good looking woman, there are plenty of men who would go for you in a big way. Stop seeing yourself as so damned abnormal. You know what's really wrong with you? Not your abnormality, but your fear of it. You're a starving woman, surrounded with food, and you haven't got the guts to admit you're hungry. You can't go on pretending that your husband took advantage of you, or that I did. You wanted it, and you know you did, desperately.”
“No!” It was almost like a small scream.
“Then why did you come here?”
“I... I love you....”
I laughed. “That's what I thought you would say. You don't love me, but you do need me. Or think you do. Just the way you needed John Venci. He was the only man in the world for you, almost a god, simply because he knew about you, and you didn't have to tell him. As long as you didn't have to admit it to yourself, you could go on pretending that you were normal, whatever that means.
“Well,” I said, “I'm going to tell you one more thing. You're going to wind up in a nuthouse, and soon, if you don't snap out of it. You don't have your husband now. And you don't have me, either, because I'm tired of you. What you ought to do is go down to the docks and pick up a gorilla that would really know how to treat you.”
“No!”
“All right. If you'd rather have the nuthouse.”
She took her hands from her face and sat there shuddering. She was looking into the future and seeing nothing but darkness. “Well,” I said, “I tried to tell you, but you won't listen. Now you've got to get out of here.”
“... Roy.” It was barely a whisper. “Please... don't send me away!”
“I told you I'm through with you. I told you what's wrong with you and what you need to set you right. That's all I can do.”
I took her arm and pulled her out of the chair. I guided her to the door, made sure that the hallway was clear and shoved her out.
I was through with Dorris Venci.
I've made that clear, I thought, even to her. I'm through with her. If she wants to kill herself, that's fine with me. If she winds up in a nuthouse, that's fine too, I just don't give a damn what happens to her. But she had better keep away from me!
I got myself calmed down, finally. I went to the bathroom and rinsed my face with cold water and felt a little better. Crazy damn woman!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“HOW DO YOU like it?”
“It's beautiful! It's positively beautiful!”
“Come on in the bedroom and look at yourself in the mirror.”
“Really, you shouldn't have done this! It's much too expensive!”
“That's nonsense. All good things come expensive, I learned that long ago, while dishwashing my way through college.”
It really was a hell of a coat. To be perfectly truthful, it was much more coat than I had figured on at first, but the minute I saw ft I knew that nothing else would do. It was a French import, a Balmain, with an exterior of oyster white nylon velvet which is absolutely the most decadent material ever created by the hand of man, and it was completely lined with natural wild mink. The fantastic extravagance of lining a coat with wild mink had completely fascinated the more bizarre aspect of my nature. When they first showed it to me I had burst into laughter. How many Frenchmen would go without shoes this winter, how many Parisian bellies would be empty—and who gave a damn? “That coat,”” I had told the sales girl, “is absolutely the god-damnedest, most decadent example of a completely lost civilization that I have ever seen—and I'll take it!”
Pat hugged the coat around her and studied herself from all angles in the bedroom mirror. She had the kind of poise that could not be taught, it was the result of a long purebred bloodline and nothing else. She was class, every inch of her, and that coat was just for her.
“It comes off pretty well,” I said. “If there are any changes you want on it, the shop it came from will take care of it.”
“I wouldn't have it touched!” she said. “Not for anything in the world! It's just perfect... but it frightens me when I think what it must have cost!”
It had cost damn near as much as the Lincoln, but it was worth it, every penny. I said, “From now on we don't consider price tags, we don't even look at them. Now how about some wine?”
“... All right.”
She kept posing, turning, staring at herself in the mirror. Strangely, she hadn't smiled, not once. From the time she opened the package she had registered a good many emotions, but she hadn't smiled. She had wrapped the coat around her, tightly, hugged herself in it, almost as though she were trying to lose herself in the sheer luxur
y of it. There was a bright ecstasy in her eyes as she burrowed deeper and deeper into the incredible softness of the fur, and for a moment I imagined that she was trying to hide, that she was receding into the soft, secure folds of fur.
I had learned some things about Pat Kelso, and I understood a little of what she must have felt at that moment. At one time the Kelsos had had everything. They were an old family, and very proud, but unfortunately the ability to make money had not grown with their great pride. Pat's father had been forced into bankruptcy, and later, suicide. It must have been quite a comedown for this girl of beauty and breeding. And I could appreciate how she must have felt, smothering herself in a four thousand dollar Paris coat, returning to the past for a moment, in that symbol of lost glory.
I understood. I was pleased.
I had found her Achilles heel, as I had found Dorris Venci's. Now I knew to what frequency Pat Kelso vibrated, and I could control her as surely as an audio oscillator could control the wave form in an amplifier.
Yes sir, I thought, in this world a man must be audacious. With audacity and brains, there's nothing a man can not do.
Nothing!
“This is absolutely the most beautiful coat I ever saw!” she said.
“If you can tear yourself away from that mirror for a minute we'll get on with the serious business of tasting the wine.”
“What wine can possibly be as important as this beautiful coat!”
“This wine. I went to a lot of trouble finding it, and there are damn few bottles left in the world.”
She glanced around as I broke the wires on the neck and very gently began nudging the cork back and forth to loosen it. When it came out with the familiar pop, she said, “Oh. Champagne.”
“My dear lady, it's more than Champagne, much more than that. It's a life blood, it's the very last of the truly great Ambonnay's.”
Age had robbed the wine of nothing, which is more of a rarity than the casual wine sipper might think. It hit the bottom of the glass with plenty of life, it's wonderful bouquet as delicate as moonlight. I handed a half filled tulip glass to Pat and she sipped, still trying to sneak glances at the mirror.
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