by Jim Thompson
They were fighting, standing almost toe to toe while they slugged each other. A veteran of a thousand such locker-room brawls, Westbrook watched them with a feeling of nostalgia. Every blow was intended to cripple. Anything went, except hitting the other man in the face. Boys didn’t fight that way anymore, Westbrook was thinking. They didn’t fight period. They came whining to the management with their disputes: always, as in every difficulty, they wanted someone to do something for them. They were incompetent, indifferent, completely lacking in pride in their work—“too good” to do the job they were paid to do.
Well…
Westbrook sighed, shook his head and pulled himself back from the happy past. Then, setting his face in a ferocious scowl, he dashed into the locker-room, managing, by a miracle of foot-work, to give both boys a solid kick before they could elude him.
“Up!” he roared, pointing dramatically to the ceiling. “Up on the g’damn floor! What’s the matter with you, anyway? You know what time it is? What d’you mean keeping a watch waiting?”
“Sorry, sir,” said Ed.
“Sorry, Mr. Westbrook,” said Ted.
And they edged warily toward the door. Westbrook advanced on them, one hard little fist drawn back.
“What were you fighting about, huh? Hah? Answer me, you friggers, or I’ll—”
Ted said they had been fighting about nothing. Ed said they had no excuse. These replies were exactly the right ones, in Westbrook’s opinion. In the old days, boys often fought out of sheer high spirits, and they made no excuses if caught. Nevertheless, as a matter of discipline—and because they expected it—he took a vicious swing at the brothers, cursing them roundly as they fled out the door and up the stairs.
Now, those were real boys, he thought, as he left the locker-room. You’d never catch boys like that whining or complaining. They knew how to wait on a guest, to get their own way with a man and do it so ingratiatingly that he was glad to pay for the privilege. In the last twenty years, they had worked with Westbrook in perhaps a dozen different hotels. Shrewd and suave, knowing hotels from subbasement to roof garden, they could probably have managed one as well as he. But they remained bellboys by choice. They were good at hopping bells, and it left them free of onerous responsibilities. Also—unless Westbrook missed his guess—they made more money than he did.
Ordinarily, neither of the brothers would have accepted employment as an elevator operator. One of them had done so in this case because only the night bellboy’s job was open and they insisted on working together. At the time he had hired them, Westbrook had promised to give them day jobs on bells as soon as they became available. But they had later advised him not to bother, that they were completely satisfied with things as they were.
Westbrook correctly suspected that their preference for the night shift was largely due to the scanty supervision thereon. Certainly they would be able to run circles around that goofy clerk, Leslie Eaton. But no one had caught them in any forbidden activities as yet, and until someone did catch them, or at least came forth with a valid complaint…
Well, that was that, Westbrook shrugged. They were good boys.
The dopey dullness of sobriety was creeping back over him. He was passing out on his feet, and there was still that all-important matter of Dudley to settle.
Westbrook hurried out the back door, fighting to keep the telltale smirk from his face. When he returned, some twenty minutes later, he was once again brisk and alert. And there were two half-pints of whiskey in his pockets, and another half in his stomach.
He entered the unattended service elevator and switched on the light. He shot upward, the control pushed all the way over, arriving seconds later at the twelfth floor. It was a perfect stop, with the car exactly level with the landing. Westbrook rewarded himself with a couple of “short ones”—adding another half-pint of whiskey to his interior content.
He tossed the empty bottle into the incinerator chute. Turning away from it, he suddenly staggered wildly and flailed the air with his arms. The fit was gone almost as soon as it came: he had moved in an insane blur for a moment, and then it was all over. But Westbrook knew that it signaled the crossing of an invisible line. From now on the booze would be working against him, sweeping him finally into the dark and disastrous void which he had penetrated so often in the past.
Westbrook shivered slightly, remembering those occasions. He remembered the agony that had followed them, the terrible sickness and the equally terrible shame and embarrassment. He couldn’t go through it again. God, he couldn’t do it! He could not, must not, take another drink tonight!
Except, of course, one very small one. Just enough to see him through this Dudley matter.
He took it. He re-corked the bottle, then slowly uncorked it and took another one. Seemingly, there were no ill effects.
He did feel a rising anger, but that was natural enough. Goddammit, how long could a man go on catching the dirty end of the stick without getting fed up? He never got any rest. He never had a minute to call his own. Work, by God, that was all he ever got. Work and more work, and then still more work. And what did he have to work with, hah? A bunch of bumbling, bastardly lunatics! And was it appreciated, hah? Did he ever get a goddamned word of thanks, hah?
Shit, no!
Westbrook snapped suddenly out of his self-pitying reverie, wondering if he had spoken aloud. He decided (1) that he hadn’t, (2) that he didn’t give a damn if he had, and (3) that he wasn’t the kind of a man who went around talking to himself. The first decision was entirely correct, the last almost. He became hatefully insulting and murderously angry when his alcoholic tolerance was exceeded. But he had to be literally saturated before he appeared drunk, in the usual sense. The fact was at once his curse and his blessing.
He drank the remainder of his whiskey. Then, with his shoulders hunched pugilistically, his eyes squinted to pinpoints, and his face flushed with righteous indignation, he stamped down the corridor. He was in a wing of the building, one of its two wings. Bugs McKenna’s room was a few steps away, facing the court as did the rooms of all employees who slept in.
Westbrook strode up to the door. He drew his fist back, hesitated—held it poised for a matter of seconds—and then he pounded.
4
Bugs had been awakened by the ringing of the telephone. It was his usual eleven p.m. wake-up call, and he and the operator exchanged the usual amenities. With that out of the way, she advised him that yes, he had had one call.
“Mrs. Hanlon. She said you could give her a ring whenever you waked up.”
“Oh,” Bugs said. “Well, thanks.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I get her for you now, sir?”
Bugs didn’t like the tone of her voice, the subtle note of amusement. So he said, “No. I’ll tell you when I want you to call her,” and slammed up the receiver.
He took a shower. Toweling his big body, he decided that he was jumping at shadows again, acting like a touchy kid instead of a man. He was wrong about the telephone operator. Or, if he wasn’t—if she was a little tickled about Mrs. Hanlon’s almost nightly calls—what of it? It was nothing to get sore about. He should have let her have her little joke and pretended not to notice.
“Got to watch that stuff,” he murmured aloud. “You’ve been getting along swell, so don’t start slipping.”
He shaved. He dressed, standing in front of the door-length mirror, and unconsciously, contentedly, he began to hum. He looked like a different man these days. More important, he felt like one. He was still unsure of himself, still inclined to jump down people’s throats for little or no cause, but not nearly to the extent he had used to be. All the old, ugly impulses were vanishing or becoming atrophied. Withering in these strange new feelings of security, an environment which asked no more than he could decently give.
The Hanlon had no interests whatsoever in its guests’ morals. Its concern was not so much with what they did, but how they did it. As long as they were circumspect, they could do anythin
g they chose to within reason. It was only when they became rowdy, or otherwise acted to the hotel’s disadvantage, that McKenna was called in.
It wasn’t that way everywhere, according to Olin Westbrook. In many big hotels, the house dick had to be a keyhole-peeper, a sneak and a snoop. Otherwise, his employers would get a reputation for running a loose house, and the trade would go to their competition. But the Hanlon had no competition, nor would it ever have any. So it could rock along in the easy-going style of its area. And Bugs McKenna had to do nothing offensive to his self-respect.
He heard the rattle of silver as a coffee tray was set down outside his door. Bringing it in, he took it over by the window, sniffing its steam happily as he filled a cup. Now, this was something like it, he thought. To live in a nice place—be treated just about the same as a paying guest—and get paid for doing it.
Of course, Joyce Hanlon was kind of a nuisance. Just a little too interested in how he was getting along, too friendly for comfort. On the other hand, it was a lot better for her to be that way—he guessed—than uninterested and unfriendly. And, anyway, nothing was perfect.
He wasn’t kicking a bit, Bugs McKenna wasn’t. No, sir, not one little bit. He was satisfied with things just like they were. Later on, perhaps, he might want something more out of life than he had now. But for the present…
A slight frown crept into his eyes. Doggedly, he pushed away the thought that had prompted it. The present—that was all that mattered. Maintaining the status quo, and doing nothing that might endanger it. As, surely, it would be endangered by taking an active interest in Amy Standish.
She was Lou Ford’s girl, Ford was obviously a thoroughly bad egg. So for the present, until he was a lot better established than he was now, he would have to leave her alone.
No damned good anyway, Bugs thought bitterly. And knew that he didn’t really think it. A swell girl like that, and she throws herself away on a—a—
Bugs severed his chain of thought again. Firmly and finally. Lou Ford had done him a favor. Thus far, there was no indication that there was any string attached to it. He was in the deputy’s debt, in other words, and it was only decent—as well as smart—to keep the fact in mind.
He drank half the coffee and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Then, he took the cup and saucer into the bathroom and washed and dried them. He had just finished when Rosalie Vara, the maid, arrived.
“How are you tonight, Mr. McKenna?” She came in smiling, a dream come to life in her neat blue-and-white uniform. “I hope you slept well.”
“Not too bad, Rosie”—McKenna gestured toward the coffee tray. “Sent up more than I could drink tonight. Welcome to have it if you want it.”
“Why, thank you! That’s very nice of you, Mr. McKenna.”
“S’all right,” Bugs said. “No sense in letting good coffee go to waste.”
He was conscious that he had used these same words, gone through this same rigamarole, practically every night since he came here. But the fact didn’t bother him, as it would have with another person. Nor was he anything but pleased by her warmly gentle laugh, a laugh which told him that she saw through his gruffness. He felt at ease with her, as he had never felt with anyone else. Probably, he supposed, because she was so completely at ease herself.
She finished the coffee, Bugs idled near the window while she made up his room, wondering why such a swell-looking girl—who could easily have passed for white—should have declared herself a Negro. It wasn’t because she was stupid, as Westbrook said. She was obviously smarter, and better educated, than most of the Hanlon’s white employees. Neither was it because of the aggressive arrogance which Bugs had found in so many Negros, and which had always made him so excruciatingly uncomfortable around them. They—that type of Negro—hit you in the face with their color. They drew a line, then despised you if you came over to their side and hated you if you stayed on your own. Rosalie Vara, on the other hand…well, Rosie was just herself. An exceptionally pretty and nice-mannered young woman who happened to be a Negro, and who saw no reason either to flaunt or conceal the fact.
“Well”—she picked up her work bucket and cleaning equipment—“it looks like I’m all through, Mr. McKenna. Thanks again for the coffee.”
“Not at all. Thank you,” Bugs said. “Well, guess I’ll probably run into you later on tonight, huh?”
“Yes, sir. ’Bye, now, Mr. McKenna.”
She left, her small round hips swinging. A few minutes later, as Bugs was preparing to leave, Olin Westbrook pounded on the door.
Bugs opened it. The manager pushed past him brusquely, seated himself, and pointed imperiously to a chair in front of him. “Sit down. Sit down, I said! I’ve got some things to say to you, and it’s going to take a little time.”
“Well, sure, Ollie…” Bugs sat down. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’ll tell you. But I’ve got a question to ask first. What do you think of me, personally, that is? Think I’m on the square? Got any kicks about the way I’ve treated you since you’ve been here?”
“Why do you ask that?” Bugs looked at him frowning. “Has anyone said that—?”
“Just answer me, dammit! You came here green as a gourd. Have I or have I not done everything that a man could do to put you on the right track and keep you there?”
“You have. No one could have been more helpful, and I’ve tried to tell you how much I appreciate it. Now—”
“Then you do owe me a favor? I helped you when you needed it, and I’m not out of line in asking you to help me now?”
“That’s right.” Bugs nodded curiously. “Look, Ollie. Let’s lay it on the line. I’m going to be pretty short until payday, but you can have what I’ve got. And if there’s anything else that I—”
“It’s something else. It’s Dudley—you know, the auditor. He’s my baby. I hired him over the old man’s objections. All right. Hanlon was right about him. In the last quarter, Dudley’s knocked down more than five thousand dollars. Between five and six—I can’t say exactly how much. I want you to get it back from him.”
“Me?” Bugs gave a start. “Oh, you mean you want me to put him under arrest. Turn him over to the cops and file a complaint—”
“No! I don’t mean that, because I can’t prove he’s stolen it. I know he has, understand. We’ve done just as much business this quarter as we did last, but we’ve got five or six thousand less to show for it. So—”
“But—but how—” Bugs was beginning to see where the conversation was drifting, and it frightened him stiff. “But—”
“What’s the difference how? There’s a thousand and one ways an auditor can knock down. He can’t do it in a place where there’s other auditors, a system of checks and rechecks. But—” Westbrook flung up his hand in exasperation. “Look. Hotel books are kept in pencil!—the transcript sheets, the cash sheets, everything. They have to be because they’re running accounts. New charges being added all the time. Erasures, and changes are taken as a matter of course. All right, then—just to give you one trick for knocking down. A guest checks in one night. He doesn’t leave until after our check-out period the following night, so naturally we charge him for two days. But in hours, he’s actually only been here one day, and by altering his folio and the cash sheet—Yes?”
“Nothing,” Bugs said nervously. “I mean, I was just going to say that if you can’t prove something—if you aren’t absolutely positive—”
“I told you I was positive, dammit! I know that he took that dough, and Hanlon will know it. And he’ll hold me responsible.”
“But—but how did he get away with so much? Why didn’t you stop him when he first started knocking down?”
“It’s not something you can spot on a daily check. The loss isn’t big enough. But when it collects over a period of three months…!” Westbrook scrubbed his face irritably. “Would I be kidding you?” he demanded. “Don’t you think I know what I’m talking about?”
“No, of course not.�
� Bugs shook his head, he nodded it. “But—”
“Dudley took that dough. He wouldn’t have banked it or put it in a safety deposit box. It might cause talk, and anyway he’d want it where he could get to it in a hurry. So he’s got it with him, either in his room or on his person. He’s probably changed it into a handful of big bills, and…” Westbrook’s voice faded suddenly. He choked and coughed, stared at Bugs out of desperately belligerent eyes. “You’ve got to get it back, Bugs. Scare hell out of him. Slap him around, beat him up if you have to. But get it back!”
It was what Bugs had expected. And he had known what he was going to have to do. But still it was hard to do it. He liked Ollie Westbrook. Few people had been as kind to him as the stiff-necked, haughty-mannered little manager.
“Let’s see what you’re asking of me, Ollie,” he said quietly. “You can’t recover the loss through the bonding company, right? They’re in the same boat with you. They can’t prove that any dough he may have isn’t his own. And you can’t prove it either.”
“But, goddammit, where would a guy like that get five or six grand? How can he prove it’s his?”
“He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to say where he got it. So—” Bugs spread his hands. “That’s how we stand, Ollie. I’ve got a criminal record, a damned ugly one. One wrong move, and I’m in the soup up to my neck. And yet you’re asking me to pull a robbery, an act of extortion. To take a man’s money—and it is his, in the eyes of the law—by force and violence…I don’t believe you’ve thought this thing through, Ollie. I don’t really think you want me to take a chance like that. Or do you?”
Westbrook hesitated. Then, shamed but dogged, he said it was exactly what he wanted. And expected. “I mean, I want you to get that dough back. Make him come across. You’re not taking any chances. A bastard like that isn’t going to make trouble for anyone.”
