Brett Halliday
Target: Mike Shayne
1
Bram Clayton took a cigarette from the package the warden was holding out to him.
“You’re in a hurry to get away,” the warden said, offering a lighter, “and I don’t much blame you. But you’ve given us thirteen years of your time, and you can spare another few minutes.”
Clayton filled his lungs with smoke and breathed out slowly. By the time this cigarette was finished, he would be a free man.
“I don’t mind if you don’t,” he said.
“I don’t get any pleasure out of it,” the warden said. “If I thought I was really finished with a man at this point, I’d take him out and buy him a drink. But you know the come-back figures as well as I do. The chances are I’ll be seeing you again.”
“Not me, Warden,” Clayton said. “Unless you give me a ring when you get down to Miami. Then you’ll have to let me buy the drinks.”
“I hope you’re right,” the warden said skeptically. “You’re a high school graduate. The tests show that you’re well above average in intelligence. I hope you’ll use some of that intelligence, and keep your nose clean.”
Clayton was thirty-eight. His hair was graying at the temples, and the sun-wrinkles at the corners of his gray eyes gave his face a good-humored expression. During his career as an armed robber, he had planned his jobs with care, playing a variety of roles—Western Union messenger, electrician, fire extinguisher salesman, even, on one occasion, bank examiner. All this histrionic activity had earned him the nickname of The Actor, and now he had no difficulty assuring the warden, in a voice that shook with apparent sincerity, that he never intended to commit another crime.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” he said, “and I’m going to keep the cleanest nose of anybody who ever graduated from this place. I’m going to get a legitimate job. The librarian let me cut some want-ads out to take with me.”
He took out the expensive pigskin wallet which had been waiting in an envelope all these years. Inside, in addition to his mustering-out payment of fifty dollars in cash, were several clippings from the Miami Daily News. A restaurant had advertised for a counterman. There were several openings for dish-washers, salary unspecified. Bram Clayton a dish-washer, he thought savagely. There was only one kind of dish he wanted to see—one that was small, blonde and willing.
The warden waved the clippings aside, not wanting to be forced to decide whether or not Clayton was sincere.
“I’ve been looking through your folder,” he said, “and I notice you put in three applications for parole, all of which were denied. You know the reason. You didn’t have a job waiting for you on the outside. There aren’t many decent citizens who will take a chance on a paroled convict. This is a hell of a situation, and I feel strongly about it, but under present law the board had no option. You’ve got a hard row to hoe, Clayton. It’ll be worse if you walk out with a chip on your shoulder about something you can’t change. One final thing. The board is ten times as tough on second offenders, so if you come back the odds are very heavy that you’ll serve your full term. Bear that in mind.”
Clayton said quickly, “I will, Warden. Believe me, you don’t have to convince me that it’s going to be rough. I know I’ll have to start on common labor until I accumulate a few references. I don’t have any hard feelings against you or the parole board, or against the cops or the Dade County D. A. I really mean that.”
The warden still seemed skeptical, as though he would have liked to believe it if long experience hadn’t told him otherwise. They shook hands. Clayton took care to get his pressure in first, to show by his grip that he was as good a man as anybody.
The warden wished him good luck. So did three of the four guards who spoke to him on the way out. The fourth, unlocking the small door by the front gate, sneered, “We’ll save a bed for you, Actor.”
Clayton was unperturbed. “I’m going out, you’re staying in. I could be wrong, but it seems to me you’re worse off than I am. So good luck, screw.”
When the guard started to speak, Clayton held up his hand. “Some other time. I’ve got a date.”
He waited until he heard the bolt go home, locking him out and the guard in. He took a deep breath, finding the air much the same as it had been inside.
He passed up a waiting bus and started across the street toward a lunchroom for a cup of coffee. He didn’t particularly want a cup of coffee, but he wanted to prove to himself that he could drink coffee whenever he felt like it, so long as he had the dime. This close to the state prison, he knew he would be recognized at once as a discharged con. The cheap going-away suit would give him away, if nothing else did. The skimpy jacket, made in the prison factory from reject material, was too tight across his shoulders, which were broad and powerful. That was all right. He could put up with the embarrassment and discomfort until he could afford something better. He would replenish his wardrobe as soon as he had money. He would have the money as soon as he got a gun.
He had been lying to the guard. No one was waiting to meet him. He had no girl. That was something else that would have to wait till he had some money. His parents had died in a car-crash when he was two months old, and he had spent his childhood in foster homes. Several times, when the prison loneliness had been very bad, he had almost written one of his foster mothers, in hopes of getting a letter now and then. In the end he had decided not to do anything so childish. He had always done fine by himself, and it was too late to start depending on other people. During his stay in prison he hadn’t received more than a half-dozen letters, all of which he carried in his wallet, including one that had been delivered to him by mistake.
“Clayton!” a girl’s voice called. “Bram Clayton!”
He was so startled that he forgot to watch his expression. For an instant he looked almost frightened.
The voice had come from a Dodge four-door sedan, parked outside the lunchroom. A woman leaned over from the driver’s side, one gloved hand resting on the door. So far as Clayton knew, he had never seen her in his life. She was in her early thirties, possibly younger. Blonde hair peeped out from beneath a small black hat. Her face was carefully made up. Clayton couldn’t see much of her figure, but his first impression was that she could have posed for the calendars the prisoners thumb-tacked to the walls of their cells, though it was true that those models usually wore fewer clothes.
She laughed. “Relax,” she said in a low, throaty voice. “I’m not going to send you back.”
Recovering his self-possession, he came over to the car. “Please excuse that double-take, will you? I didn’t expect a welcoming committee.”
“I guess you don’t recognize me,” she said.
“Why, sure I do,” Clayton said. “I can’t say your name right off, but give me a minute.”
“I’ll give you more than that,” she said. “I’d like to see how long it takes. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“Can you—? Oh, sure,” he said. “I’d appreciate it, if you’re going into town.”
He touched the side of the car lightly. It was a recent model, having come off the assembly line at about the same time they were denying his third request for parole. He opened the door. By studying the popular magazines, he had kept up with the fashions in cars and women’s clothes. She was wearing a loose black dress, and it fitted her as poorly as Clayton’s prison suit fitted him. In her case, it was undoubtedly intentional. Her skirt had ridden back from her knees. He tried to keep from looking at her legs, but that was too much to ask of a man who was seeing his first flesh-and-blood woman in thirteen years.
She gave a pleasant, intimate laugh. “Maybe you’d remember me if you saw me standing up.”
“No,
no,” he said hastily. “I remember you, as far as that goes. Your name’s right on the tip of my tongue.”
“I insist,” she said. “I want to be fair.”
She got out and walked deliberately to the opposite curb, turned and came back. She was smiling unselfconsciously. The dress struck her body at only two or three points, but there she filled it out very well. Clayton’s mouth was dry and burning when she got back in the car. “Any luck?” she said.
“Not yet,” he said hoarsely.
“Then I’ll give you a hint.”
She touched the back of his neck lightly, drew him down and kissed him on the mouth. Her lips opened against his. There was a thunderous roaring in his ears, like surf. She pushed against him and broke away.
“Thirteen years is a long time,” she said. “And I have a big edge on you, Clayt, so don’t feel bad about not remembering me. I knew you were getting out today. I’ve been waiting all morning. First a bunch of guards came off shift, but none of them looked like the Bram Clayton I used to know. Then there were two prisoners. One was too young, the other was too old. Then you came along, and you were just right.”
She thought for a moment, the tip of her tongue appearing between her lips. “I still remember a few words of Spanish I learned that time. Would you like me to say them for you?”
“Mexico City!” he exclaimed.
“Absolutely,” she said, delighted. “You’d just made the First National Bank in Orlando for—how much was it, Clayt?”
“Don’t remind me. I’ve paid my debt to society, so let’s change the subject. Mary? No, Miriam. Miriam Moore.”
“Clayt, you’re wonderful. Have I changed?”
“Baby,” he said fervently, “you’ve improved. In every direction.”
He still had no clear recollection of her, except as a young girl he had taken to Mexico. Some of it would probably come back. He had a strong impression that the girl in Mexico City had had dark hair. He decided to risk it.
“I like your hair better this color,” he said.
“Clayt, you do remember! God, I was young. It really broke me up when they arrested you. I was full of fuzzy romantic ideas. I thought—well, never mind. It was a long time ago.”
“You never wrote me.”
She frowned. “I wanted to. I debated with myself. I knew I didn’t mean anything to you, really, and I decided it would only make things harder for you, if I reminded you of that marvelous time we had.”
Here she struck a wrong note for the first time, Clayton thought. But the luck seemed to be running in his direction for a change, and only a fool would expect a woman to tell the truth every minute. Why look a gift horse in the mouth, when there were so many equally pleasant places to look? Even Clayton’s great obsession, which had filled his days in prison and had sometimes been the only thing that kept him from assaulting the guards in impotent fury, began to take on more reasonable dimensions. There was plenty of time for everything.
“Was I wrong about not writing, Clayt?” she said anxiously. “I kept telling myself I was only an incident in your life, and not even a very important incident. I was nobody. And I don’t pretend I’ve been staying home nights all this time, because that wouldn’t make sense, would it? I’m going to stop apologizing right now. I brought you a few things.”
She came up on her knees and reaching over into the back seat, unlatched a suitcase. He put one hand at the small of her back, paying no attention to the suitcase.
“No, look, Clayt. Slow down. I knew they’d give you a terrible fit in clothes, and they certainly did, didn’t they? I doubt if you could give that suit to the Salvation Army. I wasn’t sure about your size, so I got both large and medium.”
She pulled several sports shirts out of the suitcase and spread them across the back seat. The colors were dazzling, quite a change from the drabness of prison clothing.
“Like?” she said as he selected one. “No, I think that’s the medium. The other two are bigger.”
“You’re a real eighteen-carat doll,” he said admiringly.
Curious to know what else she had brought, he went deeper into the suitcase, and turned up a pair of pajamas, in equally gaudy colors.
She smiled at him, a little shyly, as he gave her a questioning look.
“I know, Clayt, I’m awful. And if you’ve got other commitments, all right. It’s not as though we’re absolute strangers, after all. Even if you did have a hard time remembering my name.”
Really interested now, he moved the pajamas to see what other surprises she had for him. There were several. There was an unopened fifth of bourbon, a carton of cigarettes and a half dozen delicatessen sandwiches, wrapped in wax paper. She had guessed, correctly, that he wouldn’t want to take time for a formal meal. And there was one other object, inside a folded newspaper. He touched it, and felt a tingling in his fingertips, like an electric shock.
It was a gun.
He laughed happily. “Miriam, baby, you’re a mind-reader. You must have wire-tapped my dreams.”
The first thing he wanted to do was sample that bourbon. Miriam offered him a nail-file and he slit the seal. Remembering his manners just in time, he offered her the bottle. She shook her head.
“You first.”
He raised the bottle. The fiery liquor poured down his throat and set off an explosion in his stomach. He sputtered some of it back up.
Miriam was laughing. “No need to be greedy. There may be other bottles just like that in the liquor store.”
“Yeah,” he said, somewhat embarrassed.
He gave her the bottle to hold and shrugged out of his tight jacket, then tore at the buttons of the prison-made shirt, a last gift from the grateful people of Florida. Miriam corked the bottle and set it on the floor, and held one of the sports shirts so he could slip it on.
“I didn’t get you any pants,” she said. “We can stop in town.”
“No hurry,” he said.
She slid nearer. “Let me.” She moved her hand lightly across his bare chest, but before he could reach for her she began buttoning the bright shirt.
“All in due time,” she said.
“Sure,” he answered, trying to keep his voice light. “Where are we going?”
She hesitated. “There’s a motel down the road. When a married man gets out of jail and his wife meets him, I don’t suppose they get much farther than that. I didn’t register, though. I didn’t know if I’d be the only one meeting you.”
He gave a relieved hoot of laughter. “Won’t take long to register. After thinking it over, I believe I need another drink. Pass the bottle.”
Again he offered it to her at the last moment. Again, smiling, she shook her head. This time he took it more slowly, letting the eight-year-old bourbon warm him and dissolve some of the tensions that had been piling up within him in recent months.
A voice demanded roughly from the sidewalk, “What do you think you’re doing in there, Mac?”
Clayton lowered the bottle slowly. He replaced the cork before he turned his head.
It was a state cop, in uniform. Clayton’s first impulse was to demand to know what state law he was breaking by drinking in a car instead of a tavern. Then the pleasant warmth given him by the liquor faded abruptly. None of the ordinary rules applied to an ex-con. The girl had brought him some sandwiches and a bottle. She had also brought him a gun. Unless he could be completely charming, his new liberty might not last long.
He got out of the car, so the cop wouldn’t be tempted to glance in at the open suitcase. “I realize this looks rather wild, Officer,” he said disarmingly. “Appearances are deceiving. I just made the street after a long, long time. I’m discharged, not out on parole, and I can show you my papers. My wonderful wife brought me a bottle to celebrate. What you just witnessed was a man’s first shot of drinking liquor in thirteen long dry years.”
He held up the bottle, to show how little was gone. “I’m full of good feeling today, and I’d like to offer you a
drink. But I don’t suppose—?”
“No, thanks,” the cop said shortly. He stopped to look in at Miriam, who smiled at him nicely. “The both of you, get out of this neighborhood before you do any more celebrating.” He straightened. “And button your shirt, for Christ’s sake. You look like a beach-bum.”
“Sure,” Clayton said agreeably. “I just made a quick change.”
The cop moved his head curtly, and Clayton got back into the Dodge.
Miriam started the motor and they drove off, with Clayton cursing steadily in a low, savage voice. He told her what he would like to do to that cop, to all cops. She put a hand on his knee.
“Don’t let a jerk like that get you down. How much do you suppose he makes a week? He wouldn’t take the job if it didn’t give him some pleasure, so he must get it out of stepping on people. I thought you handled him very well.”
“They teach us to be polite to cops,” Clayton said.
“As soon as you get a civilized haircut and a civilized pair of pants, you won’t look like somebody who can be stepped on. Maybe he’s right, though. Maybe we ought to put on some mileage, and get out of the county before we stop for another drink.”
His mood changed abruptly, and he caressed her shoulder.
“Honey, be reasonable. It’s been a long time between drinks.”
“Well, wait till I stop the car. That trooper wouldn’t like it if we ended up in a ditch.”
“He’s a man,” Clayton said. “He might understand.”
They went around a bend in the highway, and she braked for the motel.
2
Clayton reached out for a cigarette. Occasional cars whooshed past on the highway, the air-conditioner purred contentedly. The tilted slats of the Venetian blind let in very little light. Miriam, covered only with a sheet, appeared to be asleep.
He tilted the bourbon bottle. He estimated that it had a good hour’s drinking left in it, and then this girl, who had proved to be more than obliging so far, would undoubtedly be willing to drive into town for another. As for Clayton, unless something happened to make him change his plans, he didn’t intend to leave this room for another twenty-four hours.
Target_Mike Shayne Page 1
