The Cocktail Waitress

by James M. Cain

  “Thank you, that wouldn’t please me.”

  He had a way of smiling, a way of holding his head cocked slightly, that defied you to dislike him. “It might. You never know.”

  I struggled not to show any response. It was more of a struggle than it should have been. My heart had been warring with my head since the first moment I’d seen him, or perhaps it was something lower down inside me than my heart, and the battle wasn’t over yet. “Will there be anything else?”

  He put up his hands in surrender. “What do I owe you?”

  “I’ll get you your check for the seltzer.”

  Taking me home that night, it was Liz who began talking about him. “Not to be nosey,” she said, “but did Tom Barclay settle that check? The one he walked out on last night?”

  “The young man I slapped, you mean?”

  “I’d say you more or less beat him up, but yes he’s the one I mean.”

  “Yes, he paid it.”

  “I saw him, drinking seltzer for a change.”

  “And quite an improvement, I would say.”

  “He really is O.K.,” Liz said, and drove along a while further. “Look, I saw what he did. And I’d have been hot, too. I hate that kind of stuff, always have, always will. It’s one thing if they pay for the privilege, but …” She smiled over at me. I had a hard time smiling back. “But, boys will be boys, way I look at it—they got hands, and what God gave them to use, they’re going to use come hell and high water—nothing’s going to stop them, let’s face it. But, if they apologize, if they show they got some respect, then O.K., life can go on—no use being sore. What I’m trying to say is, now he’s been in, now he’s apologized, you could think that guy over, Joan. I mean, for kind of a steady, go out with him after work, maybe ask him up to the house, you might like it, just for a change. And who knows? It might really lead you somewhere. Things like that happen, occasionally. I wouldn’t smack him out.”

  “You trying to sell me this guy?”

  “He’s hardly unpleasant to look at, and he’s got prospects. You could do worse, Joanie.”

  “And who says he’s sold on me?”

  “He could have done some talking. His talk could have got to me. O.K., then, I spill it: He told one of the guys last night he’d met you before—and that you made quite an impression on him. Supposedly he didn’t realize it was you in the Garden, first off, but then from your legs he knew you. I don’t get it, Joanie, why your legs, not your face—”

  “He escorted me to Ron’s funeral.”

  “And why wouldn’t he know your face? It’s pretty enough, I’d say. If I was a guy, I wouldn’t forget it, I don’t think.”

  “I was wearing a veil.”

  “Oh? Then it checks out, Joanie!”

  “Yes, he was telling the truth. He took me.”

  “O.K., then, I’d think him over if I was you.”

  “Why? Is he anybody special? Or just because you and Bianca have known him since he was a pup?”

  “He’s nobody special—not yet. But he’s one of those you just know will be. Tom Barclay’s got an ambition that means something. He’s got all sorts of big ideas.”

  “Like what?’

  “I don’t remember them all. There was one about clearing all the nettles out of Chesapeake Bay using the hot-water overflow from one of those atomic energy plants.”

  “That’s his idea? We’d all be irradiated in no time.”

  “Well, he’s had others.”

  “Any that succeeded?”

  “Some he said have come close.”

  “He said.”

  “Don’t count him out,” Liz said. “He’s a thinker, our Tom, and one of these days he’ll think up something that’ll turn the world on its ear.”

  “I’ll wait till he does.”

  “Oh, then it’ll be too late! He’ll be in such demand!”

  “I’ll stand my chances.”

  “You don’t like him at all?”

  “… I could stand to look at him.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “But Liz, he put his hand—”

  “—where you’ve put it many a time yourself, let’s not kid ourselves. There are worse things than a handsome man with his hand down there.”

  I lay there in bed that night, thinking him over. If he really did have prospects, that might put things in a different light, though of course ‘prospects’ was only a way of saying he might someday have some fraction of what Mr. White already had for sure today. At the same time, he did have, in spades, what Mr. White did not, what we might term a physical appeal, not just being good looking and young but having a presence to him, a scent almost, that took something loose inside a woman and coiled it up tight. And I thought, perhaps it does make sense, what Liz said on the way home, that if they apologize, then life can go on, and no use being sore. I began feeling less bitter towards him. But then all of a sudden I thought: When did he apologize? I thought over the whole conversation, and remembered his apologizing for not knowing me until he looked at my legs, but for what he did he never apologized at all, and fact of the matter, never even brought the subject up. And then I wondered: Why? Why, if he did something like that, that calls for an apology if anything ever did, didn’t he come out and say it? It seemed there had to be a reason. Matching it in with the fact that he made me a pitch, tried to date me up for the night after I got through work, it had to mean something, it couldn’t be accident, something he didn’t have manners to do, or forgot about, or would have said if something else hadn’t come up. I mean, it was deliberate, had to be. I slept all right, didn’t lie awake over it, and yet it was there, whenever he crossed my mind.

  11

  He was in several times, always alone, always ordering seltzer, and always taking the same table, the one Mr. White had sat at a few hours before. And always he pitched some more, that we should go somewhere, after the Garden closed, and as he said, “get better acquainted.” I waited and waited and waited, that he should bring up the subject, of what he had done to me, and say he was sorry for it, but he never did, not once. And, naturally, it wasn’t something that I would bring up myself. But on going out with him, I kept putting him off. I would say, “Give me a raincheck, please. There’s things in my life that hurt, and I’m not quite over them yet. Little later on, I may like to go out with you. Just right now, I’m not going out with anybody.” Something like that—just what, I’m not really quite sure. Because something happened at that time that stood my life on its head, and kind of mixed things up in my mind, as to just what happened, and how.

  It was an afternoon like any other, so far as I knew at the time. I’d just got done filling the bowls on all the tables when here came Mr. White, so prompt you could set your watch by when he’d come in. And I brought him his usual order, then stood keeping company with him, expecting the conversation to be his usual, what louses his children were, and my usual, the thing I had on my hands, with Ethel— which I didn’t like myself for, but kept banging at just the same. But today he just sat there sipping his drink, looking out toward the foyer, and not saying much, about his children or anything. And then, all of a sudden: “Joan, could you be dressed and ready, eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, if my driver calls for you? To take you on an errand that will be to your advantage?”

  “… What kind of an errand?”

  “You’ll see. I have a reason for not telling you in advance—a very compelling reason, one I’d rather not discuss, but that I think you’d accept if you knew what it was.”

  “Well you’re certainly mysterious about it.”

  “If you knew why, I’m sure you’d not be offended.”

  “Be ready to go at eleven?”

  “That’s it. Jasper will call for you.”

  “I’m flying blind, but—”

  “You’ll not regret it, I promise you.”

  “Then if you say so, O.K.”

  “Fine. Fine. Fine. And, Joan, if you’ll have a deposit slip w
ith you? Your personal deposit slip, from your bank. One of those things in the back of your checkbook?”

  “… What is this, Mr. White?”

  “You’ll find out in due time.”

  It sounded as though he was giving me money, and yet I was annoyed in spite of myself. Why all this mystery about it? He said he had a good reason, that I wouldn’t mind if I knew it, and yet I wanted to know it before getting into that car. Still, though I pressed him about it quite hard, I’d have been a fool to tell him no, mystery or no mystery. So, I said I’d be dressed and ready, when Jasper showed up in the car—and spent the night wondering what he was up to, and why he acted that way. Turned out that from his point of view, he did have a reason, a real one, not unfriendly to me, but I didn’t find out till next day what it was.

  I put on a suit I’d bought, a dark green one that went with my hair, and was out on the porch waiting when Jasper showed up, right on the stroke of eleven. He drove me up to the Estates, and presently turned into one that took my breath, it was so beautiful, like a fairy castle, almost. It was in the colonial style, the Maryland colonial style, with a pair of “hyphens” between the center section and the wings—one-story passages, connecting things up so the line is broken, and better proportion gained than is possible with wings jammed up tight to the center. The whole house was of brick, painted light yellow, with dark olive-green shutters and white trim. Four low chimneys rose from the center section, and two each from the wings, making eight in all, and matching the white trim was the drive, which was dead white, but luminous somehow, with a sparkle to it. Later, when we left and I commented on it, Jasper said the reason was that it was made of oyster shells.

  There were no pillars or gewgaws in front, just a plain entrance with portico and a brick platform one step up, in front of which we pulled to a stop. But before I could get out, Mr. White was there, bareheaded, tapping the window of the car. When I put it down, he greeted me, then dropped an envelope into my lap, marked “Mrs. Medford,” and stepped away. I felt distinctly rebuffed at not being asked inside, but he said: “Jasper’ll take you to the bank, whichever one you want—and you can make out your deposit slip. You brought one, I hope?”

  I said I did, and he waved Jasper on. I waved to him as we rolled off, I’m afraid a bit coolly, as I had never had such a thing happen in all my life. However, it was time I found out what was going on, and I got the flap of the envelope open by running my finger inside it, and took out what was inside. On top, attached by a clip, was a check drawn to Joan Medford, for $50,000.

  To say I was stunned would be the understatement of the century. I actually pinched myself, to make sure it wasn’t a dream. When I made my head stop spinning around, Jasper had slowed down, and was asking me where to: “Mr. Earl, he said you wanted a bank. Like in College Park? Hyattsville? Say where, Mrs. Medford. I ain’t headed nowhere right now.”

  I looked at the check again. What it said was unchanged. Under it were four duplicate copies, each marked COPY TO ACCOMPANY TAX RETURN. In the lower left-hand space of the check was typed the word GIFT.

  “College Park, please. Suburban Trust.”

  “Drive-in window?”

  “No, I’ll be going inside.”

  “O.K., Mrs. Medford. Now I got it.”

  I chose College Park as I wasn’t known at that branch. I wanted to avoid the whistles and surprise and excitement it might have caused in Hyattsville, at my regular branch I mean, to bring in such a check for deposit. When we arrived, I made out the slip I had brought, put it in the window under the glass barrier, and watched while the teller stamped it and gave me my receipt, as though it was just one other deposit—which to him no doubt it was. Then I went out and asked Jasper to take me home.

  I sat in the living room, looking out at the street and trying to get used to what had happened to me. I was still numb, though. When the doorbell rang, I was sure it was Jasper again, come to say there had been a mistake, that we had to go and retrieve the money somehow.

  But it wasn’t Jasper. It was Private Church, standing on my doorstep, a brown cardboard folder of papers in one hand and the cap to his uniform in the other. The expression in his eyes was purely neutral, impossible to read, but I felt my heart leap as though he were holding a pair of handcuffs out toward me. For weeks I’d been anticipating this visit and it hadn’t come; now it was here, and it was impossible not to link it in my mind with the money I’d received, even though of course there was no way they could be connected, no way anyone could know about that other than Mr. White and me. Unless the police had asked the bank to notify them if I made any large deposits …? But what would it mean if they had? There wasn’t anything improper in what Mr. White had done for me—I hadn’t asked for it, and he was free to spend his money as he saw fit. But how could I explain that to the police, if they got suspicious? What could I say the money was for? Some sympathetic conversation each night over tonic water?

  “Mrs. Medford, may I come in?”

  I wanted to shut the door on him, keep him outside, perhaps telephone his partner to ask what I should do—but what I had to do, and did, was stand to one side and let him come in.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Medford—”

  “No trouble. None whatsoever.”

  “—but I’m afraid we need your signature on a document, so that we can complete the investigation into your husband’s death. Finalize it, as they’re saying these days.”

  Having set down his cap on the back of the sofa, he fished a single sheet out of the folder and laid it on top, handing me a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket.

  I took it from him, consumed with relief that it wasn’t about the bank or the money after all. But the feeling was short-lived. Looking at the paper, my vision blurred so that all the words on the page ran together, except for one that stood out near the top: EXHUMATION.

  It was Liz’s week at doing Jake’s set-ups, so she didn’t stop by for me. I walked instead, my light coat thrown over my uniform. All the way down to the Garden, my thoughts kept racing from the money to the paper Private Church had made me sign and back again. He hadn’t known about the money—yet. But he might find out at any time, and if I didn’t have a good explanation when he did, it could go badly for me. But there weren’t any good explanations, not as long as Mr. White and I were strangers to one another. Of course, if that could be changed … But did he want it changed, or could he be persuaded to? It would mean a new life if so, not just an answer to Private Church but a new start for me, and a way to get Tad out of Ethel’s hands. It could solve all my problems quite neatly. But there was a world of doubt in those two words, if so. And in the meantime the police would be digging up Ron’s body, and subjecting it to tests—of what sort, Private Church hadn’t said, but I knew what the purpose was. It was to show that I’d had something to do with Ron’s death, that it hadn’t just been an accident.

  As best I could, I forced Private Church and his papers and his tests from my mind. There was nothing I could do about any of that. I just had to trust that the police couldn’t possibly discover anything that wasn’t there—though I knew as well as anyone that tests aren’t perfect and sometimes do show things they shouldn’t. All this I shoved to a corner of my mind and made a point of thinking about other things. But of course that only meant I was free to return to Mr. White and his extraordinary, confounding gift.

  When I got to the Garden it seemed odd that things looked exactly the same. It also seemed odd that though I usually told Liz a lot, about what went on in my life, to the extent that anything did, I had no intention of telling her this. I was conscious she’d draw wrong conclusions, as I certainly would have, in her place. Well? Were such conclusions wrong? And what was the right conclusion? Mr. White would surely expect something for his money, wouldn’t he?

  I found out soon enough. Right on the stroke of five, here came Mr. White, and there was Jake, with his tonic, and there was I, pouring it for him at his table, quite as thou
gh nothing had happened. He sipped it, leaned back, wiped his lips with the napkin. “Well!” I said. “I’m still reeling, Mr. White. And I’m still not too terribly sure it isn’t a dream. How can I possibly thank you?”

  “… The thanks I prefer that we skip.”

  “But I have to thank you.”

  “Please! … Please.”

  He was very quiet, and held up a hand as though to cut me off. I said: “Very well, then—I can’t help it, though, if I feel deep gratitude.”

  “O.K., but let’s change the subject.”

  “… That’s a beautiful place you have.”

  “You like it? I built it myself.” He warmed to the topic, and even more to the change of topic. “I had the architect model it after the Harbor House in Annapolis—except, of course, for the octagonal wings. They strike me as wrong, but the rest of it, the proportions, the general layout, and the size, I had him follow quite close. I think it comes off pretty well.”

  I didn’t care about any octagonal wings, but it wouldn’t have been polite to say so. I let him go on in this vein for a while. When he paused, a response from me seemed called for, so I said: “It almost seems to float, rather than stand.”

  “I think the white door casing and window sills are the reason for that—they match the oyster shell drive. That glittering dead white effect comes from the lime. It lightens the whole prospect, and gives that impression you speak of, of floating, rather than standing. You’re quite observant, Joan, to notice it.”

  “I notice all sorts of things.”

  I sounded waspish in spite of myself, and knew that my chronic weakness, a temper that wouldn’t stay put, was going to make me trouble, as usual. I heard myself say, not wanting to: “If invited to look, of course. Of course, today, I wasn’t. Wasn’t allowed to get out of the car.”