Table of Contents
chapter one
I
II
III
IV
chapter two
I
II
III
IV
chapter three
I
II
III
IV
chapter four
I
II
III
IV
V
chapter five
I
II
III
IV
chapter six
I
II
III
chapter seven
I
II
III
IV
chapter eight
I
II
III
You’ve Got It Coming
James Hadley Chase
1955
chapter one
I
The moment he came into the room she knew something was wrong.
He said in a flat, cold voice, “Hello, baby,” and without looking at her, he took off his hat and his topcoat, tossed them on to the settee and walked over to the fire and sat down. His face was hard and pallid and the sullen expression in his eyes made him a stranger.
During the six months they had been going around together, she had never seen him like this, and she could only think of one explanation: he was set to give her the brush off.
For weeks she had been wondering how much longer it would last. Not that he had shown any signs of growing tired of her, but he was now the ninth man in her life and she had come to expect a brush off sooner or later.
She had long ceased to kid herself about her relations with men. She was thirty-two, and the life she had led had taken most of the gloss off her beauty. At one time, and it seemed to her a long way back into the past, she had w o n the second prize for the Miss America competition of 1947, and if she had known what she knew now, she was sure that if she had played her cards right with two of the judges as the winner had done, she wouldn’t have been second, but first. She had been given the inevitable screen test and had played bit parts in B pictures under the direction of Solly Lowenstien. Maybe she had been too free and easy with Solly. She had hoped he would have pushed her ahead in the movie business if she accommodated him, but it hadn't worked out that way. After a few months he had lost interest in her, and as if he had given the signal, the C.C.A. had lost interest in her too. After Hollywood, she had done a little modelling, then she had become a nightclub hostess. It was at the Eldorado club that she had met Ben Delaney.
The following fourteen months were the highspots of her life. She had travelled with Ben around Europe. She had gone to all the big parties with him in New York, swum with him in Miami's blue sea, had gone winter sporting with him in Switzerland. Their association had gone on for so long she had begun to think it was the real thing, but finally he had cooled, and then the brush off had come swiftly.
She hadn't seen Ben for two years, but she often thought of him, following his career in the newspapers, and dreaming of hooking up with him again. There had been other men after Ben, but they were just shadowy figures who had left no impression on her memory. Then just when she was at her lowest ebb, when she had hocked most of the jewellery and furs Ben had given to her, Harry Griffin had come blustering into her life.
Harry, a crew captain, flying Moonbeams for the Californian Air Transport Corporation on the Los Angeles-San Francisco route, was four years younger than she was. He had a reckless, swashbuckling manner that made people look back over their shoulders after him: an infectious ifI-don't-give-a-damn-why-should-you? air that she found exciting and fascinating. He was tall and big and built like a heavyweight champion. His drinking and reckless extravagances, his good looks and his violent, short-lived temper were essential male qualities that appealed to her.
She had gone to a nightclub in the hope of getting a job, and they had met in the lobby after she had had a curt brush off from the nightclub manager. Thinking about it afterwards she had decided the nightclub lighting must have been pretty kind for she was sure she had looked as she had felt: washed up, tired and ready to flop.
Harry had stood squarely in her path, his handsome, dark face lit up with a grin and there was the hunting look in his eyes she hadn't expected to see again in any man's eyes.
“Keep me company,” he had said. “You're just the kind of girl I have been looking for ever since I left college.”
He had given her dinner and somehow she had managed to be gay and sparkling and cute. He had taken her back to her apartment and they had paused at the front door. She expected him to ask her if he could come in and suspected his, “Want to eat with me the night after next? I'll be in town then,” as a polite good-bye. She was so anxious that he wouldn't go out of her life that she had said, “Aren't you coming in for a drink?” And he had grinned, shaking his head. “I wish I could, but I'm on duty tonight. Keep that date open the night after next. I'll take you up on it.”
She hadn't expected to see him again, but he turned up around eight o'clock two nights later, and they had gone out to dinner. They had become lovers that night, and from then on, regularly on alternate nights, he had come to her apartment to take her out or to sit before the fire and talk and make love: every other night for six months until this night when, the moment he walked into the room, she knew something was wrong.
Here it comes, she thought, as she hung up his topcoat. I knew it was too good to last. Well, at least he has the decency to come and tell me. She walked over to the table and took a cigarette from the box and lit it, noticing her hand was shaking.
“You're early, aren't you, Harry?” she asked and looked across at him as he lounged in the armchair, frowning at the fire, his heavy dark eyebrows drawn down and sweat beads making his face glisten.
“Yeah,” he said, not looking at her.
She waited a moment, then she said quietly, “What's wrong?”
“Who said anything was wrong?” he said. “Give me a drink, will you? I'm going to get good and plastered tonight.”
She went over to the cupboard where she kept a bottle of whisky. The bottle was three-quarters empty. After she had made two stiff drinks she found there was only an inch of liquor left in the bottle and she tipped it into her glass. She would need a bracer, she told herself, when he finally got around to breaking the news. She came back to the fire, handing him the glass.
“That's all there is. I'm right out of liquor,” she said, sitting down. “I'm sorry.”
“We'll go out. We'll do a bar crawl.” He drank the whisky at one long swallow and set down the glass. “But you'll have to lend me some money, Glorie. I'm broke. I spent my last buck on a taxi getting here. Have you any?”
She reached for her handbag, opened it and took out her purse. Her hands were shaking so badly she could scarcely open the purse. She took out two dollars and a few cents and held them out to him.
“That's all I have.”
He stared at her.
“You can cash a cheque, can't you? Won’t someone around here cash it for you?”
“I haven't had a bank account for months,” she said, forcing a smile. “You're not the only one who is broke, Harry.”
He grimaced, then took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped out a cigarette and lit it.
“Well, don't look so tragic about it,” he said, suddenly grinning. “So we're both broke. So what?”
She looked quickly at him. If this was the beginning of a brush off it was a new technique in her experience.
“What is it, Harry? Why haven't y
ou any money? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“That's an understatement,” he said, his smile fading. “Come on. I'll hock my watch. I'm going to get tight tonight if it's the last thing I do.”
“Please tell me. I want to know. What's wrong?”
He hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I've lost my job. That's what's wrong. I've been slung out.
Okay, I admit I asked for it, but that doesn't make it any better. The trouble is its pay day tomorrow and I'm not getting paid.”
“You've lost your job?” she said, feeling a little chill crawl up her spine. “But, Harry . . .”
“Yeah, I know.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I know; don't tell me. It's one of those things. How was I to know the old man was travelling on the kite? I've never met him; never even seen him before. No one knew. Imagine taking a sneak ride to check up on us. That shows you the kind of rat he is.”
“What old man?”
“The boss: the President of the Californian Air Transport Corporation,” he said impatiently. “How was I to know he'd sneak out the back just when I . . .” He broke off and looked thoughtfully at her. “Well, I guess you'd better know the sordid details, Glorie. You and I have got on pretty well these past months. If I can't tell you the truth, then I guess I can't tell anyone.”
“I hope you really mean that,” she said, wanting to cry.
He leaned forward and put one large hand over both of hers.
“Of course I mean it. I don't know what it is about you, Glorie, but you're a good scout. We've had fun; you've been good to me. I could kick myself for being such a dim-brain. I was a little high. You know how a guy feels when he's carrying a load. That's what I like about you. You've been around. You know how it is.”
Yes, she had been around, she thought bitterly, and she knew how a guy felt when he was carrying a load. Sometimes she wished she didn't.
“Well, Harry?”
“Yeah.” He patted her hands and drew back, frowning again.
“Well, the air hostess . . . she had been giving me the come-on these past three trips. She's a pretty kid; bright as a diamond. It suddenly occurred to me it might be an idea . . . well, I don't have to draw you a map. I was crazy enough to bring a pint on board with me and I'd been hitting it. I got Tom to handle the kite and I went back stage. Right at the psychological moment, the old buzzard appeared like Hamlet's ghost. Boy! I thought he'd blow his top. He could scarcely wait for the touch down before he booted me out.”
The airhostess . . . a pretty kid . . . as bright as a diamond.
Those were the only words she really heard.
Somehow she managed to force a sympathetic smile.
“That was bad luck. I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry.” She tried to stop herself from going on, but she had to know. “And the girl? She and you . . .”
Harry shook his head.
“For heaven's sake! She's just a kid. She means nothing to me.
I don't know what I was thinking of. It was just one of those things: the come-on and too much liquor . . . you know how it is.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I could strangle her! If she hadn't made eyes at me, I wouldn’t be out of a job now.”
Glorie drew in a long, slow breath. She suddenly felt light headed.
“Well, you can get another job, Harry. This isn't the end of the world.”
He got abruptly to his feet and began to move around the room, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets.
“It's the end of my world,” he said. “My world's in an aircraft. That's the only thing I care about: the only thing I'm any good at. The old man will see I don't get employment in the air again: he told me so. He has plenty of influence and he'll spread the good word. I can get some sort of job, but, let's face it, as a career man, I'm washed up for good and all.”
“Oh no, Harry. You'll get something good. You're smart. After all, being a crew captain was all right, but it wouldn't have led anywhere. You must know that. They don't want you when you get old.” Listen to who's talking about getting old, she thought bitterly.
“This may be a good thing for all you know. You're still young. You can start . . .”
Her voice died away as she saw him staring at her.
“Oh, skip it, Glorie. What do you know about it?” he said curtly.
She saw at once that she had made a mistake. She was intruding into part of a world he considered entirely his own.
“You're right,” she said. “I can't even look after my own life, let alone tell you how to look after yours. I'm sorry.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.
“Forget it.” He came over to sit by her side on the settee. “I had it coming. I can't blame the old buzzard really. What else could he have done? I was nuts to have fallen for that dizzy blonde. But it's tough on you Glorie. There won’t be any more dinners and movies for some time. I guess you'd better give me the gate. I'm not much use to you now.”
Her heart contracted. Perhaps after all this was a subtle brush off. Perhaps this story of losing his job was a lie: his idea of letting her down lightly.
“Of course it's not tough on me,” she said. “It's you I want: not your dinners and movies.”
He laughed, but she could see he was pleased.
“When you look like that I'm almost ready to believe you.”
“You must believe me.” She got up and lit a cigarette in sudden panic that her feelings might betray her and scare him away. She had a sudden idea and without pausing to think, she went on, “They say two can live cheaper than one. Do you want to move in here, Harry?” She waited, her heart pounding, waiting for him to refuse, sure he would refuse.
“Move in here? Do you mean it?” he asked, looking blankly at her. “I was wondering where I was going to find a cheaper place. I can't afford to keep on my apartment now. Anyway, the rent's due at the end of the week and I haven't got it. You really mean I can move in here?”
“Of course. Why not?” She turned away so he couldn't see the tears that blinded her. Even without money, without a career, she wanted him more than she wanted anything else in the world.
“Well, I don't know,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “People will think I'm living on you. Anyway, we'll probably get on each other's nerves. I'm pretty tough to live with. You're sure you're not kidding?”
“No.”
He stared at her back, puzzled by the unsteadiness of her voice. Then he moved to her and turned her around and stared at her.
“Why, Glorie! You're crying. What's there to cry about?”
“I wish I knew,” she said, pulled away from him and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I guess I just hate things going wrong for you, Harry.” She pulled herself together and smiled at him. “Are you going to move in?”
“I'd like to. It's good of you, Glorie. I'll get a job. I'll get something to carry us over; any damn thing. Look, suppose I go back to the apartment and pack right now? Okay for me to move in tonight?”
“Of course.” She slid her arms around his neck. “I'm so glad, Harry. I'll come with you. I'm good at packing, and then let's hock something and celebrate. Shall we?”
“You bet,” he said, grinning. “I'm looking forward to living here with you. We're going to have fun, baby.”
II
A week later, a few minutes after eight o'clock, Glorie came from the bathroom into her bedroom where Harry lay sleeping. She moved quietly so as not to disturb him, and sitting before the triple mirrors on her dressing table, she began to brush her hair.
It was only when you lived with people that you really got to know them, she thought looking at Harry in the reflection of the mirrors. The experiment had worked out better than she had hoped, but she was worried about him.
He had said he would get work to carry them over, but he hadn't. It was she who had managed to get a job as a manicurist at the Star hotel, a couple of blocks from her apartment. She wasn't makin
g more than fifteen to twenty dollars a week, but it was better than nothing.
She wished Harry would take job-hunting more seriously. He seldom got up before eleven, then he would spend the rest of the morning studying the situations vacant ads in the paper. He would mark two or three of them and then wander out in the afternoon to see what was being offered.
He would come back soon after six, depressed and surly tempered, saying that he wasn't going to work for thirty bucks a week.
“Take a job like that, Glorie,” he told her, “and you're sunk. You get a thirty-buck mentality. I've got to stick out for something better.”
But she knew this was an excuse to refuse the jobs he was offered. She realized now that his world was in the air, and he couldn't bring himself to accept a job that would kill for good any chance of getting back into the air.
The thing about him that really alarmed her was his methods of getting credit from the local shopkeepers. It was almost as if he were dishonest, she thought uneasily. Although he wasn't earning a cent, every Friday when she returned from the hotel, she found a sack of groceries on the kitchen table and enough meat to last the week, as well as two bottles of Scotch.
“But, Harry, you can't go on running up bills like this!” she had protested. “We'll have to pay some time.”
He had laughed.
“Forget it! I may be a dud at finding a job but I've got a lot of talent for getting credit. If these suckers let me have the stuff why should we worry? They think I'm waiting for a rich uncle to die. I told them he's worth forty grand and I'm going to inherit the lot. If they're suckers enough to believe a yarn like that, why should I care? Besides, I'm not going to live on you. You pay the rent and I'll supply the food. That's the least I can do.”
It worried her too that there were times when he was moody and sullen, and she was quick to realize these moods of depression coincided with the time when he used to be on duty, taking his aircraft off the runway on the flight to San Francisco. Although he didn't talk about it, she knew how much he missed his aircraft and the company of the men he used to fly with.
She tried to persuade him to go out to the airfield and see his old crew.
1955 - You've Got It Coming Page 1
