On our last night at Paradise Palms we threw a party that the staff of the hotel still talk about. Hoskiss brought with him six of his hard-drinking G-men. He announced at the beginning of dinner that Clairbold had entered the Federal Service. Clairbold finished up under the table. I guess he was getting beyond his Ohio School of Detection course by now.
After our guests had gone, we went up to our bedroom. It was around two o’clock in the morning. We were undressing in the bedroom when the telephone rang.
I told Clair—she wasn’t Miss Wonderly any more—I’d answer it.
I went into the sitting-room, took off the receiver.
The line crackled, hummed. A woman’s voice said, “Chester Cain?”
I said it was, wondering where I had heard the voice before.
“This is Lois Spence,” the woman said.
“Hello,” I said, wondering what she wanted. I had forgotten about her.
There was a lot of noise on the line. It crackled, popped and buzzed.
“Listen, you heel,” she said, her voice indistinct, far away. “You tricked Juan, and it was through you he was killed. Don’t think you’re going to get away with it. I pay off old debts, so does Bat. Remember him? He’s right by my side. We’re coming after you, Cain. We’ll find you wherever you are. You and your floozie, and we’ll fix you both.”
The line went dead. I replaced the receiver, frowned. Spiders’ legs ran down my neck.
“Who was it?” Clair called.
“A wrong number,” I said, and went back to the bedroom.
Chapter Six
PAY OFF
1
A PACKARD sedan swished to a standstill before one of the air towers. I glanced through the office window to satisfy myself that Bones, the negro help, was on the job. He was there all right. I watched him fussing around the car, gave him full marks for his enthusiasm, returned to work.
I still got a big bang out of seeing a customer arrive although I had now been running the service station for three months. It was a good buy, and after spending money on it, I had already doubled the business the previous owner had got out of it.
Clair had been startled when I had told her I intended to buy a service station. She thought I was planning to get a job with a big company in New York. So I was, but after that ’phone call from Lois Spence I had changed my mind.
I guessed Lois had found out that I had reservations for an air passage to New York, and would follow me there. I decided to duck out of sight. If I had been on my own I’d have waited for them, but Clair complicated things. I couldn’t be with her every minute of the day, and they wouldn’t have had much difficulty in handling her if they ever caught up with her.
So I cancelled the air passage, told Clair I wanted to go into the motor business, and pulled out of Paradise Palms in the Buick for a long haul to California.
I found what I was looking for on the Carmel-San Simeon Highway, within easy reach of San Francisco and Los Angeles. It was a small, bright well-kept station, and the owner was only giving up through ill-health.
It had four pumps, ten thousand gallons of storage, oil lube tanks, two air and water towers, and a good bit of waste land for extra buildings. The thing that really decided us was the house that went with the business. It was only a few yards from the service station, and it had a nice little garden. The house itself was cute, and Clair fell for it the moment she saw it. I fell for it too because she would be close to me all the time, and until I was sure we had lost Lois and Bat that was the way I wanted it.
I began to make alterations to the service station as soon as we moved in. I had it painted red and white. Even the pavements of the driveways were divided into red and white squares. I had a big sign hoisted on the roof which read: THE SQUARE SERVICE STATION.
Clair nearly died laughing when she saw the sign, but I knew it was the kind of thing that pulled in suckers.
I added two more air and water towers. Mechanics put in a new type of hydraulic hoist and a complete high-pressure greasing outfit. Near the rest-room building, startling under its new coat of paint and shining inside with added luxuries, was erected a steel shed to house car-washing and polishing equipment.
I hired Bones and a couple of youths to help, and business went ahead with a bang.
One of the youths, Bradley, was a pretty smart mechanic, and I knew most things about the inside of a car. We didn’t reckon to take on any big repair jobs, but we could handle the day-today adjustments that came in; but once we did handle three cars that got involved in a smash.
All day long cars kept coming in, and I was on the jump from six in the morning to seven at night. I fixed up a night shift as I found I was turning away business by closing down at seven. I got an old man and a youth to handle the night trade, which wasn’t heavy, but kept coming, three or four cars an hour.
I had just finished checking the accounts and I found I’d cleared nine hundred dollars after three months’ work. I ran over to the house to let Clair know we weren’t broke yet.
I found her in the kitchen, a cook-book in her hand, a puzzled expression in her eyes.
She found the job of being a housewife tougher than I found my new job. She had started off with little or no knowledge of how to run a house, how to cook, but she wouldn’t hire a help. She said she wanted to learn to be useful, and it was time she knew how to cook anyway. I didn’t dissuade her, reckoning that after a while she’d get tired of it and throw in her hand. But she didn’t. For the first two or three weeks we ate some pretty awful meals. I have a cast-iron stomach so I didn’t complain, and after a while the meals got better; now they were pretty good, and improving all the time.
She kept the house like a new pin, and I finally persuaded her to let one of the youths do the rough work, but the rest of it she continued to do herself.
Hi, honey,” I said, breezing into the kitchen. “I’ve just audited the books. We’re nine hundred
bucks to the good: that’s clear profit, and we don’t owe a cent.”
She turned, laid down the cook-book, laughed at me.
“I believe you’re really crazy about your old gas station,” she said. “And after all those threats about not settling down.”
I put my arm round her. “I’ve been too busy to realize that this is settling down. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. I had the idea that when a guy settled down, he parked his fanny, and let moss grow over him. I guess I was wrong.”
“Don’t say fanny,” she reproved. “It’s vulgar.”
I grinned at her. “Let’s run into San Francisco tonight, and paint the town red,” I said. “It’s time you and I stepped out. We’ve been working now three months without a break. How about it?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, let’s do that,” she said, throwing her arms round my neck. “Can you get off early?”
“If we leave just before seven it’ll be time enough. Going to put on your glad rags?”
“Of course, and so are you. It’s time I saw you in something better than those awful old overalls.”
The station buzzer sounded. That told me Bones had someone out front whom he couldn’t handle.
“A little trouble,” I said, kissing Clair. “See how important I am? The moment I turn my back—”
She pushed me out of the kitchen.
“Run away,” she said, “or you won’t have any lunch.”
I beat it back to the station.
There was trouble all right. A big Cadillac had hit the concrete wall of the driveway. Its fender had been pushed in and the bumper was buckled. It was a swell-looking car, and it hurt me to see the damage.
Bones was standing by. His usually smiling face was shiny and dismayed. He rolled his eyes at me as I came up.
“It wasn’t my fault, boss,” he said hurriedly. “The lady got into the wrong gear.”
“Don’t tell such bloody lies, you rotten nigger,” a shrill, hard voice exploded from inside the car. “You waved me on. I thought I h
ad plenty of room.”
I signalled to Bones to scram, then walked up to the car, looked in.
A typical lovely young product of Hollywood sat at the wheel. She was dark, expensively dressed, pretty according to the standard hardness of the Movie colony. She was also very angry, and under her rouge her skin was white as marble.
“See what your blasted nigger’s done to my car,” she stormed as soon as she saw me. “Fetch the manager. I’m going to raise holy hell about this!”
“Start raising it now,” I said quietly. “I’m the owner, manager and office boy all rolled into one. I’m sorry to see such a grand car busted like this.”
She eyed me up and down. “So you’re sorry, are you? What am I supposed to do? Smile and drive away? Let me tell you that you haven’t started to be sorry yet!”
I would have liked to have slapped her, but remembering that customers are always right, I said I’d have the fender fixed for her immediately.
“What?” she snapped. “I wouldn’t let you touch it.” She drummed on the steering wheel. “I must have been crazy to have turned into a hick joint like this. Well, it’ll certainly “be a lesson to me. No more hick joints for me.”
I felt my temper rising, so I walked to the front of the car, inspected the damage. It certainly was pretty bad, and it seemed to me she must have rammed the wall with considerable force.
“Just to get the record straight,” I said, coming back, “just how did this happen?”
“I was reversing … I mean I was coming forward—”
“You were reversing, you mean,” I said. “You couldn’t have come forward from this angle. But you made a mistake in the gears and your car jumped forward.” I glanced inside the car. “If you look, you’ll see your gear is still in bottom.”
She opened the car door, her eyes flashing.
“Are you suggesting I can’t drive a car?” she asked, getting out of the car, facing me.
“It looks that way,” I said, sick of her.
Her mouth tightened, and she swung a slap at my face. I picked it off in mid-air, held her wrist, grinned at her. We were close, and I caught the smell of gin on her breath. I looked at her sharply. She was drunk all right. I wondered I hadn’t noticed it before.
“What goes on?” a flat voice demanded.
I looked around, saw a State Highway cop frowning at me. I let go of the girl’s wrist.
“Arrest that man!” the girl stormed. “He was trying to assault me.”
“Bad for business,” the cop said, eyeing me over.
“Very,” I said.
Clair appeared from nowhere.
I winked at her.
“The lady’s charging me with assault,” I said, and laughed.
Clair took my arm, said nothing. We looked at the cop. The ball seemed to be in his court.
“Why did you try to hit him?” the cop asked the girl. “I saw you do that.”
“Look what he’s done to my car,” she stormed. “Call this a Service Station! My God! I’ll sue this crummy bastard out of business.”
The cop eyed her disapprovingly, walked to the Cadillac, looked at it.
“Tsk, tsk.” He clicked with his tongue, glanced inside the car, spotted the gear lever, gave me an old-fashioned look. “What have you gotta say about this, pal?” he asked.
“My man saw what happened,” I said. “I just tried to smooth things over.” I turned, waved to Bones, who was watching with enormous eyes in the background. “Tell the officer what happended,” I said as he shuffled up.
“If you’re going to take that lousy nigger’s word against mine, I’ll have the coat off your back!” the girl stormed.
“Will you?” the cop said, raising his eyebrows. “You and who else? Come on,” he went on to Bones, “spill it.”
Bones told how the Cadillac had driven into the driveway very fast, and had pulled up dead, narrowly missing the air tower. He had asked the girl to reverse back to the gas pump as she had wanted gas, and she had promptly driven slap into the wall.
“Yeah, I guess that’s about how it did happen,” the cop said. He eyed the girl over. “What’s your name, sister?”
I thought she was going to explode.
“My good man,” she said, after a tense pause. “I am Lydia Hamilton, the Goldfield Production star.”
I had never heard of her, but then I seldom went to the movies. Bones apparently had, because he sucked his teeth and goggled at her.
“I don’t care if you’re George Washington’s grandmother or even Abe Lincoln’s aunt, you’re pinched,” the cop said. “The charge, if it interests you, is being drunk while in charge of a car. Now come on, we’ll all take a trip to the station.”
I thought the girl was going to strike the cop; so did he, because he took a quick step back. But she controlled herself, said, “You’ll be sorry you started this,” walked to the Cadillac.
“Hey, you ain’t fit to drive,” the cop said. He looked at me. “Take her over to the station, pal. You’ll be wanted as a witness, anyway. Better send the dinge over too.”
I didn’t want to go, but there was nothing else I could do. I told Clair I’d be right back, asked Bradley to keep an eye on the station, and went over to the Cadillac.
“I’m not having that rat drive me,” the girl said.
“Look, sister,” the cop said in a bored voice, “I’ll send for the waggon if you like. You’re under arrest, and you can come to the station any way you like, but you’ll come.”
She hesitated, then got into the Cadillac. She threw the ignition keys at me, hitting me in the face. I picked them off the floor, got in beside her, shifted the gear lever from bottom to neutral, trod on the starter.
She began cursing me as soon as we had driven out into the highway. She kept on without a pause for a mile or so, then I got tired of it, told her to shut up.
“I’m not shutting up, you cheap grease monkey,” she said. “I’ll ruin you for this. You and your prissy mouth floozie. When I’m through with you, you’ll be sorry you were born.”
“Someone who doesn’t mind touching you ought to apply a hairbrush to your tail,” I said.
She gave a squeal of fury, flung herself at me and wrenched the wheel to the right. The car, travelling at forty miles an hour, slewed across the road. I stamped on the foot brake, lugged back the parking brake. The car stopped dead, and she was thrown forward. Her head slammed against the dash-board. She passed out.
The cop had skidded to a standstill. He got off his motorcycle, walked over to me.
“For the love of Mike,” he said crossly. “Can’t you drive, either?”
I told him what had happened, and be looked at the unconscious girl.
“Crazy as a bug,” he said. “I’ve heard tales about her. These movie stars give me a pain. This dame is always in a jam, but she buys her way out. This little outing’s going to cost her something. Well, come on, I ain’t got all day.”
We continued on our way to the station.
2
It was our first visit to San Francisco, and neither of us knew where to find the kind of place we were looking for. We took a traffic cop into our confidence and told him we wanted a good meal and some fun. Where did he suggest ?
He put his foot on the running board, pushed his hat to the back of his head, and regarded us with a kindly eye. At least, he regarded Clair with a kindly eye I don’t think he even noticed me.
“Well, miss, if you want a night out you couldn’t do better than Joe’s. It’s the nicest joint in town, and that’s saying a lot.”
“Listen, brother,” I said, leaning over Clair so he could see my tuxedo. “We want class with our fun tonight. Nothing’s too good for us. I’m burning to spend dough, and low dives are off the agenda.”
He gave me a fishy look. “I still say Joe’s,” he said. “It has plenty of class, and you have a good time as well. If you don’t want Joe’s, you can go drive into the harbour Why should I worry my head?”
/> It seemed as if it had to be Joe’s. We thanked him, asked him the way.
He told us. In fact, he did everything except draw a map.
“Tell Joe I sent you,” he said, winking. “Patrolman O’Brien. Tell him, and you’ll get special treatment.”
After we had driven a block, I said: “Now, we’ll ask someone else. I bet that flatfoot is just a talent scout for Joe’s.”
Clair said she would like to go to Joe’s.
“If it’s no good, we can always go somewhere else,” she argued.
We found Joe’s down a side street. There was nothing gaudy nor deluxe about the place; no doorman to help you out of your car, no one to tell you where to park, no awning, no carpet. It was just a door in the wall with a neon sign: JOE’S.
“Well, here we are, sweetheart,” I said “Do I leave the car here or do we take it inside?”
“You knock on the door and ask,” Clair said severely. “The way you behave you’d imagine you’d never been to a joint before.”
“Not in a tuxedo I haven’t,” I said, getting out of the car. “It makes me kind of shy.” I rapped on the door, waited.
The door was opened by a thickset man with a tin ear, and a broken nose. He had squashed himself into a boiled shirt, and he looked no more comfortable in it than if he’d been wearing a hair shirt.
“Good evening,” I said. “We have come to eat. Patrolman O’Brien recommended this place. How about it?”
“That jerk always recommends us,” the thickset man said, spat past me into the street. “As if we want his lousy recommendations. Well, now you’re here, you’d better come in.”
“What do I do with the car?” I asked, a little startled.
He stared at the Buick, shrugged.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Maybe you can trade it in for a fur coat, if you want a fur coat.”
I tapped him on his chest. “Listen, my fine friend,” I said, “I’ve taken bigger guys than you and made tomato juice out of them.”
I'll Get You for This Page 20
