1971 - Want to Stay Alive

by James Hadley Chase

  His thick, short fingers closed around the handle of his knife. It would be easy. He had only to creep across the room and one slash with the knife would finish it.

  Chuck was no stranger to murder. It was always the first one that counted and he had two behind him. What was one more?

  Then he remembered Meg and he grimaced. He should never have picked her up. He was sure she wouldn’t stand for him killing the Indian. His fingers tightened their grip on his knife. Two hundred dollars! Well, if she didn’t go along, then she would have to go the same way. He would be miles from here before the bodies were found—if they were ever found.

  He wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.

  Yes, he would do it! But not yet. The Indian was sleeping lightly. Later, the light sleep would turn heavy . . . that would be the time.

  “Chuck?”

  The sound of the Indian’s voice made Chuck stiffen.

  “I sleep light and I have a gun.” There was a pause, then Poke went on, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  A gun!

  Chuck’s fingers relaxed on the handle of the knife. It was as if this bastard had read his thoughts.

  “Oh, shut up,” he growled. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Eventually, Chuck did fall asleep.

  ***

  For breakfast Poke supplied more ham, some stale bread and a bottle of coke.

  They ate in silence, but again Meg was aware that Poke kept looking at Chuck, his black eyes glittering as if he were trying to make up his mind about him.

  When they had finished, Chuck said abruptly, “When you buy that car, are you giving us a ride?”

  Poke went over to his rucksack and produced a cordless electric razor and a pocket mirror. Propping the mirror against the window frame, he began to shave.

  Chuck clenched his fists and blood rushed into his face.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he snarled.

  Poke glanced at him, then went on shaving. When he had finished, he said, “I’m still thinking.” He cleaned the razor and put it away, then took out a towel and a piece of soap. “The canal is just across the way. You coming?”

  Chuck’s heart skipped a beat. Here was his chance! Away from Meg! He could kill this Indian, come back, and tell her he had drowned. She mightn’t believe it, but at least she wouldn’t be a witness.

  “Sure.”

  He followed Poke out of the room. At the foot of the stairs, he said, “Hell! I’ve forgotten my towel.”

  His brown face wooden, Poke stared at him.

  “Tell her not to bother. I have the money on me,” and he crossed the hall and walked out into the sunlight.

  Chuck returned to the room, his face red with fury. He found a filthy towel in his rucksack as Meg said, “Do you think he’ll let us go with him?”

  “How the hell do I know?” Chuck snarled and left the room.

  He caught up with Poke who led the way through the undergrowth to the canal.

  Chuck thought: I’ll take him when we’ve stripped off. I don’t want any blood on me: a knee in the groin, then the knife.

  They reached the canal. The water sparkled in the sunlight. On the far side, Chuck could see Highway 27 that led to Miami. At this early hour there was no passing traffic.

  He pulled off his grimy shirt and flexed his muscles. Poke wandered away from him. He took off his clothes and moved to the edge of the canal.

  Looking at him, Chuck saw he was wearing a plastic moneybelt around his slim waist. The belt looked bulky and Chuck’s eyes narrowed, then he felt sudden apprehension as his eyes moved over Poke’s body. He had never seen such a build. Flat muscles rippled with every movement. This was a body that seemed to be made of flexible steel and Chuck suddenly lost confidence in his own strength. Maybe this Indian wouldn’t be so easy to take. His hand went to his hip pocket and his fingers closed on the handle of his knife.

  He watched Poke dive into the canal and begin to swim with powerful strokes towards the far side. Turning his back, Chuck took from his pocket a thick elastic band which he slipped onto his wrist. He fastened the knife to his wrist by sliding it under the band. Then taking off his trousers and kicking off his shoes, he dived into the water. He was a clumsy swimmer and not at home in the water. He saw Poke had turned on his back and was floating.

  He heaved himself through the water towards him. A powerful stab upwards would finish the job, but he had to get that belt off before he let the body sink.

  He was now within a few yards of Poke. He trod water.

  “Pretty good, huh?” he said, his voice husky.

  Poke nodded.

  Chuck made a stroke to bring himself closer. The gap between the two men closed, then suddenly Poke sank out of sight. Where he had just been was now a ripple of water.

  Cursing to himself, Chuck waited, his eyes searching the surface of the canal. He felt steel like fingers grip his ankles and he was dragged down, water filling his mouth and nostrils. He kicked out wildly, thrashing around, felt the grip slacken and the fingers leave his ankles. He came to the surface, spluttering and gasping. When he had shaken the water out of his eyes, he saw Poke swimming away from him. The knife that had been strapped to his wrist was gone!

  Chuck started for the bank, frustrated rage swamping caution, but Poke easily beat him to it. He was already on the bank as Chuck scrambled out of the water.

  With a bellow of rage, Chuck went for the Indian like a charging bull, his head down, his thick fingers hooked and groping. Poke weaved aside and as Chuck blundered by him, he kicked Chuck’s legs from under him, bringing him down with a body shattering thud.

  Then Poke was on him. His knee slammed into his chest and Chuck saw his own knife in the Indian’s hand. The razor sharp, glittering blade touched Chuck’s throat.

  Chuck cringed. He looked into the guttering black eyes and with terror he thought his life was about to be wiped out.

  Poke regarded him, the point of the knife pricking Chuck’s skin.

  “You were going to kill me?” he asked softly. “Don’t lie! Tell me!”

  “I wanted the money,” Chuck gasped.

  “You want money badly enough to kill?”

  They looked at each other, then Poke stood up and moved back. Chuck struggled to his feet. He was shaking and sweat ran from his face.

  “You want my money?” Poke said. “You’re welcome to it if you can get it.”

  He tapped the plastic belt. “Two hundred and twenty dollars.” He looked at the knife, then holding it by the blade, he offered the handle to Chuck.

  “Take it.”

  Bewildered, Chuck snatched at the knife. Poke watched him. “Take my money if you can.”

  Chuck looked at the Indian. The glittering eyes and his stillness like a snake waiting to strike frightened him. His nerve failed. The knife slid out of his fingers and dropped onto the grass.

  “So you’re not stupid,” Poke said. “Go and wash. You smell.”

  Cowed, Chuck took the piece of soap Poke was now offering him and went down the bank into the water. When he had washed and dried himself, Poke was dressed and sitting on the bank, smoking a cigarette. He watched Chuck get into his dirty clothes, then beckoned to him.

  Like a hypnotised rabbit, Chuck came and sat by his side. “I’ve been looking for a man like you,” Poke said. “A man without a conscience. You would have killed me for two hundred and twenty dollars . . . how many people would you kill for two thousand dollars?”

  Chuck licked his lips. This Indian was out of his head. He thought of the moment when the knife could have slit his throat and he shivered.

  “You live like a neglected pig,” Poke went on. “You are dirty, you are hungry, you stink. Look at me! When I want something I take it. I shave because I stole a razor. I stole the chicken and the ham from a Self Service store. I stole this money.” He tapped his waist. “Two hundred and twenty dollars! Do you know how I stole all that money? It
was easy. A man gave me a ride and I threatened him. I have a gun. When people are frightened they pay up. All I had to do was to show him the gun and he gave me the money. It’s very simple. Fear is the key that unlocks the wallets and handbags of the rich.” He turned to stare at Chuck. “I have the formula for fear.”

  Chuck didn’t understand. All he knew was he wanted to get away from this Indian. He was sure he was crazy.

  Poke took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered it. After hesitating, Chuck took one and lit up.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Poke said. “I don’t want lies. I think I can use you. Tell me about yourself.”

  “Use me? What do you mean?”

  Chuck had a creepy feeling this Indian wasn’t bluffing. Two thousand dollars!

  “How do I do that?”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  Confident he had nothing to lose, Chuck talked.

  He admitted he was semi-illiterate. He could read, but wrote with difficulty. His mother was a prostitute. He never knew his father. At the age of eight, he was a leader of a gang of kids who stole from stores. Later, he acted as his mother’s pimp. He was continually being chased by the cops and at the age of eighteen he had killed a cop. This cop had been the most hated man on the block and finally Chuck had ambushed him and had battered him to death with an iron bar. At twenty, he had come up against another youth who imagined he could take over Chuck’s mob. There had been a knife fight and Chuck had won. His opponent’s body had been fed into a cement mixer and his bones and flesh had gone into the foundations of a new slum tenement. His mother had met a violent end. Chuck had found her with her throat slit. She had left him a hundred dollars and he had cleared out of the district and taken to the road. He had been on the road for the past year, picking up a living here and there, living rough and not giving a damn about anything.

  He tossed his cigarette butt into the canal.

  “That’s the photo. What’s this you said about two thousand dollars?”

  “So you’ve killed two men.” Poke stared at him. “If you join up with me there will be other killings. That bother you?”

  “I don’t want to stick my neck out,” Chuck said after a long moment. “Tell me about the money.”

  “That will be your cut.”

  Chuck drew in a deep breath.

  “What’s the racket then?”

  “Something I have been planning for months: an idea that will work, but I can’t handle it alone. Tell me about this girl you have with you. I could use her too.”

  “Meg?” Chuck shrugged. “She ran off from home. She’s a good screw. I don’t know anything else about her.”

  “I could use her.”

  Chuck’s little eyes narrowed as he thought. Then reluctantly, he shook his head.

  “She wouldn’t dig for killing.”

  “I want a girl. It’s part of the plan. Could you sell her the idea?”

  “How the hell do I know? I don’t know what you’re talking about! What’s this racket?”

  Poke stared at him. The glittering black eyes continued to worry Chuck.

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I want to know!”

  “You said just now you didn’t want to stick your neck out.”

  “For two thousand dollars, I’ll stick my neck out. What is it?”

  Poke continued to stare at him.

  “If I tell you and you change your mind and don’t want to go along, you won’t leave here alive. This is something I’ve been planning for some time.

  Once I’ve told you, it won’t be my secret, will it? You’re either in or you’re dead.”

  Chuck saw there was a blunt nosed gun in the Indian’s hand. It had appeared like a conjuring trick. He flinched back. Guns scared him.

  “Make up your mind.” Poke stared down at the gun. “If you want out, get up and go and I’ll find someone else. If you want in, you’d better not change your mind.”

  “What’ll it be worth to me?” Chuck said to gain time.

  “I told you. . . two thousand dollars.”

  “And these killings . . . how safe will they be?”

  “There will be three . . . they will be safe. I’ve got it planned. I don’t stick my neck out even though my cut will be bigger than yours.”

  Two thousand dollars! Chuck thought what he could do with all that money.

  “I’m in . . . go ahead and tell me,” he said.

  Poke put the gun back in his hip pocket.

  “And the girl?”

  “Leave her to me. I’ll talk her into it.”

  “Fear is the key that opens wallets and handbags,” Poke said. “I have found a formula for fear.”

  Looking at the expressionless brown face, the glittering black eyes and the Indian’s unnatural stillness, Chuck suddenly had the urge to stop him telling him more. Then he again thought of the money.

  A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, down the bridge of his nose and dripped into his chin.

  He listened as the Indian talked and as he listened he realised the Indian was on to a soft touch.

  “We need a target rifle,” Poke concluded. “There’s a gunsmith in Paradise City. It’ll be easy. When we have it, we’re in business.”

  “You know the City?” Chuck asked.

  A strange, bitter smile crossed Poke’s lips.

  “Yes. One time it was where I lived. Yes, I know it.”

  Chuck was curious. He had told this Indian about himself. He felt entitled to be told in return.

  “Did you work there?”

  Poke got to his feet

  “I’m going now to buy the car.” He stared Chuck. “You’re in?”

  Chuck nodded.

  “I’m in.”

  “Talk to the girl. If you’re not sure of her, we leave her. We can find some other girl.”

  “Okay.”

  Chuck watched Poke walk away towards the highway, then picking up his towel, he went uneasily back to the derelict house.

  ***

  It was after Meg had bathed in the canal and was drying her hair that Chuck came to sit with her on the bank.

  Half an hour ago, she had been waiting anxiously for him and had asked immediately if Poke was going to take them with him in the car.

  “Have a wash,” Chuck had said. “We’ll talk later.”

  Now as he sat down beside her, she repeated the question.

  “Are we going with him?”

  “I am,” Chuck said, not looking at her.

  Meg dropped the towel. She felt a clutch of fear that turned her cold.

  “You are? What about me?”

  Chuck plucked a handful of grass and tossed it into the air.

  “Maybe from now on you’ll be better off on your own.”

  “What do you mean?” Meg got up on her knees. “You’re not walking out on me?”

  Seeing the panic in her eyes, he hid a grin. He lay back, resting his head on his hands as he stared up at the blue sky.

  “Look, baby, I’m sick of living this way. I want money.” He took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “You want one?”

  “Chuck! You’re not aiming to leave me?”

  He lit the cigarette, taking his time.

  “Just listen, will you? To get real money, you have to take risks,” he said finally as she knelt at his side, watching him fearfully. “I don’t want you to get involved, so maybe it’d be better if you and me parted.”

  Meg closed her eyes.

  “You mean you don’t want me anymore . . . you’re sick of me?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I?” Chuck drew in smoke and let it drift down his nostrils. “Can’t you listen? I’m thinking of you. I like you so why get you mixed up in something dangerous? I don’t want to lose you, but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have the nerve to go through with this so we’d better part.”

  “This? What do you mean . . . this?” Meg’s vo
ice became shrill.

  “Poke’s onto a smart racket. He needs me and he also needs a girl.” Chuck was pleased with the way he was handling this. “It could get rough. It could land you behind bars for twenty years.”

  Meg turned cold. So they were planning something criminal! She had been with Chuck now for two months and although he had often talked of stealing, he had never done it. She had had the idea if she had encouraged him he would have done it, but she had always begged him not to do it in spite of them both being hungry at times. She realised this Indian had influenced Chuck. By his talk, he was pushing Chuck over the edge.

  “Chuck!” She caught hold of his hand. “Let’s go! Let’s leave before he comes back! He’s sick in the head. I know he is. We’ll get a job somewhere together. We’ve managed fine so far. I’ll work for you . . . I . . .”

  “Oh, shut up!” Chuck snarled. “I’m joining him so don’t start that sob stuff! You go and get a job . . . if that’s the way you like it. Do you want to stay out in the sun picking goddam oranges for the rest of your life - If you do . . . go ahead!”

  Meg saw it was hopeless to persuade him. She drew in a shuddering breath of despair. An orange picker? What else unless she went home! She thought of her parents, three meals a day, routine, getting up, going to her father’s office, typing, going to bed, getting up, going to the office.

  “Would you get twenty years too?” she asked.

  Chuck crushed out his cigarette.

  “Oh, sure, if it turned sour which it won’t, but I don’t give a damn. I want quick money and this will be quick money! Poke says he’ll pay you five hundred to do this job. He thinks you’ll do it, but I said you wouldn’t. I said it wasn’t your style.” He scratched his beard. “I said you hadn’t the guts/”

  The money meant nothing to Meg, but being left on her own did. After two months with Chuck, she couldn’t imagine life without him.

  “What will I have to do?”

  Chuck turned his head so she shouldn’t see his smirk of triumph.

  “What you’re told. Look, baby, the less you know about this the safer for you and for me. You can come along with us if and only if you do what Poke tells you without asking questions and without arguing. You get five hundred. When it’s finished you and me can go off to Los Angeles.”