by Jim Thompson
It shortly pleased them to spread-eagle four of the Lords on their backs, prop open their mouths with sticks and pour water down them until they were drowned.
The experience apparently had a wholesome effect on the remaining members of the clan. Fleeing into West Texas, they seem to have committed no outrages for almost a generation. Then, the Civil War broke out, and the Lords reverted to type.
While every able-bodied neighbor galloped away to support the cause of the Stars and Bars, the Lords moved in on their virtually defenseless holdings, inevitably finding other renegades to help them, then killing them off as soon as their work was done. At the war’s end, they controlled whole counties. There was no law to appeal to. They were the law.
Gradually, success and its whilom companion, excess, had done what nothing else could do. One by one, the Lords had indulged themselves into early deaths, the exceptions being those who had rubbed the right people the wrong way.
Now, Winfield Lord, tall, dark, handsome, and a first-class son-of-a-bitch, was the last of the male line.
It was, Mitch believed, the one good thing that could be said about him.
He and Lord were in the smaller of the penthouse’s two bedrooms. The spread had been pulled back, and the blankets drawn tight on the bed. On the back of it, out of the way of the dice which Lord was about to roll, was a total of two thousand dollars.
He hurled the dice. They bounced against the wall, and came down on the blanket with a craps three. Immediately, he snatched them up, glaring defiantly at Mitch.
“No dice! They slipped out of my hand!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Winnie!” It was so ridiculous that Mitch laughed. “Are you really that bad off?”
“I told you they slipped, goddammit! It was no dice!”
“Go ahead,” Mitch said wearily. “Have yourself a free roll.”
Lord shook the dice vigorously. He breathed on them and kissed them and threw them. Again the dice showed one-two for craps. Mitch picked up the money, and nodded to the cattle heir.
This was it, he knew. Lord was broke again, and Turkelson would cash no more checks for him. All that remained now was to bust him out of the apartment—Red’s end, of course—but pretenses had to be kept up.
“Still your dice, Winnie. You haven’t had a point yet.”
Lord recovered the dice, declaring that he was shooting five thousand dollars. Mitch told him to go right ahead, as soon as he showed the money.
“And don’t pull that check routine on me again. I’m not having any.”
“Whassa matter?” Lord belched, spewing the sour aroma of whiskey from his finely chiseled mouth. “You saying my check’s no good or somethin’?”
“Skip it. I told you we play for cash or not at all. So if you don’t have any more…”
Lord cursed and snatched up the phone. He got Turkelson on the line, and told him to drag his fat ass up there with five thousand dollars. Met with refusal, he unleashed an obscene tirade upon the manager, ending it with a threat to come down and kick his balls off.
“A fine frigging joint!” He slammed up the phone. “Might as well stay in a goddamned shithouse!”
“Well, there’s always another night,” Mitch said carelessly. “Let me fix you a drink, Win.”
He turned toward the living room. Lord pushed past him, declaring that he’d fix his own drinks and he didn’t need any half-assed help to do it.
“ ’M’n expert, know what I mean?” He grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the bar and began pouring into a beer mug. “Been fixin’ drinks since I was tit-high to a tumblebug. First you gotta—”
The sound of the door-chimes interrupted him.
Mitch crossed the room and opened the door, and Red walked in. She was wearing a black strapless evening gown, so form-fitting that it seemed to be painted on her. Lord’s glass dropped to the floor with a gurgling crash, and Red gave him a dazzling smile, then looked accusingly at Mitch.
“Why, Mitch! You’re not even ready yet!”
“Oh, my God!” Mitch groaned. “Don’t tell me this was the night!”
“It most certainly was. And you were supposed to have Harvey here, too. Alice is down in the car waiting for him.”
Mitch apologized. He introduced her to Lord as Helen Harcourt and explained the seeming mix-up. “A friend of mine and I had a date with Helen and her sister tonight. But it completely slipped my mind.”
“And aren’t you ashamed!” Red pouted. “I’ll bet Mr. Lord wouldn’t have forgotten, would you, Mr. Lord?”
“You just bet your sweet little ass—ankles, I wouldn’t!” Lord declared gallantly. “Your sister anything like you, baby?”
“Oh, no,” Red simpered. “Alice is the pretty member of the family.”
Lord was completely carried away by the reply. “Couldn’t be any prettier than you are, tutz! You’re the prettiest little package of tail I’ve ever seen in my life!”
“Now you’re just being polite.” Red gave him an icy smile. “You’re just saying that to be gentlemanly.”
“I mean it!” Lord insisted. “The prettiest tail I ever saw in my life! And I’m a guy that’s seen plenty of tail!”
Mitch decided that was about enough. More than enough. Regardless of the need to get Lord out of here, he wasn’t going to have Red put up with this.
“Maybe you’d better run along now,” he told her. “We’ll have that date some other night.”
“Well…” Her eyes told him it was all right. “I was just thinking that Mr. Lord might like to come along. To keep Alice company.”
“Oh, he probably wouldn’t want to bother. After all, it’s getting late, and we were having a little game—”
Lord said to screw the game and how goddamned late it was, then bowed wobblingly in Red’s direction. “Have to excuse the language, honey. Be perfectly all right as soon as I have a drink.”
“I understand,” Red murmured. “I hope you don’t mind putting on a dinner jacket.”
“Don’t mind a bit, baby. What kind you like—plaid, white, black—?”
“Black will be fine. Alice and I will be waiting down in the car, Mitch.”
She swept out of the room, with another brilliant smile at Lord. He promptly returned to the bar, took a long drink direct from the bottle, and slammed it down with a shuddery hiccup. Then, turning slowly, he treated Mitch to a long, thoughtful and seemingly sober stare.
“Seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?” he said.
“Have you?” Mitch said.
“Seen that redheaded broad, too. Seen the two of you together.”
“We’ve been together before,” Mitch nodded. “Now that I think of it, I believe I’ve seen you somewhere, too.”
“So who cares? Everybody’s seen me. Known far and wide.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Hadn’t you better be getting dressed if we’re going to meet the girls?”
“Don’t be so goddamned rude,” Lord scowled. “Can’tcha see I’m havin’ a drink?”
“You can take the bottle along with you if you like.”
“Now you’re tryin’ to patronize me,” Lord declared. “Actin’ like I don’t have any whiskey of my own.”
Mitch sighed, wondering vaguely if there wasn’t an easier way to make a living. Lord would have to be carried to his suite if he didn’t leave very soon. His appearance to the contrary, he must be very near the point of collapse. And yet, well, he just might not be. With Winfield Lord, Jr., one could never be sure.
His behavior was always erratic. His speech was invariably obscene. He had been sodden with alcohol for so long that drunkenness was the norm for him. Now, he was apt to be sober when he appeared to be drunkest.
“Tell you where I saw you,” he was saying. “In a cage at the zoo. You were trying to slip it to another ape.”
“Imagine that,” Mitch yawned. “I didn’t know anyone was watching.”
“Just testing,” Lord said wisely. “Always test people like th
at. Keeps ’em worried, know what I mean? Think I remember ’em they don’t try to pull anything.”
“That’s very shrewd of you,” Mitch nodded. “Then you haven’t seen me before tonight?”
Lord said hell no, he hadn’t, and that was one thing he had to be grateful for, “But I got to keep testing, see? I run into someone like you or that redheaded broad, I test ’em. And you know why I do it?”
“To keep them worried?”
“Well, shut up and I’ll tell you, then!” Lord said. “Here’s my ass, see?” He slapped his rump. “And here’s the whole goddamned world”—he held up the stiffened forefinger of his right hand. “That’s the world, just waitin’ the chance to jab poor ol’ Winnie Lord in the t-tail…”
His voice broke, and he sobbed. Then, getting control of himself, he glowered ferociously at his upheld finger.
“So what do I do about it? What does Winnie Lord do when the whole world’s a big screwin’ finger? Huh? Hah? Well, I’ll tell you what! He bites the goddamned thing off!”
Mitch grabbed him. Frantically, he tried to force Lord’s mouth open, to pull the finger out of his mouth. But Lord was slippery and strong. They struggled about the room, stumbling over furniture, almost going through a window. At last Lord opened his mouth, and burst into jeering laughter.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. “Are you ever a jerk!”
The finger had been doubled over. There wasn’t a mark on it. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, Mitch was almost grateful to him.
That took care of any twinge of conscience he had felt at beating Lord for thirty-three thousand dollars. His feeling now was that he had earned the money, and then some.
The feeling increased as Lord suddenly remembered “Helen and Alice.” Mitch suggested that he go to his own suite, so that they could be dressing simultaneously. But Lord wouldn’t have it that way. No, sir! No, by God! Mitch should get dressed, and then accompany him, while he was dressing.
“Gonna keep an eye on you, get me? Y’aren’t gettin’ away from me for a mother-lovin’ minute!”
“Suit yourself,” Mitch shrugged. “You can have another drink while I’m changing.”
“Stop ordering me around,” Lord said. “Who the hell you think you are, anyway?”
At last they were on their way, Lord holding himself very erect, looking like a matinee idol as they descended in the elevator. Mitch guided him to his own suite, sat him down inside, and wheeled the portable bar close to him. He sat down across from him, and Lord resumed his drinking and his endless and pointless obscenities. And Mitch could not feel sorry for him—how could you feel sorry for someone who had everything and flatly refused to do anything with it? But still he was subtly perturbed; naggingly puzzled by the riddle, this particularization of the universal, which Lord represented.
You could say he was a bastard by choice. And that was true. You could say that he could hardly be anything else, in view of his heritage. And that was true. But still there had to be more to it than that; some hideous note that only he could hear in the Leitmotif to which he marched through life.
Why did he choose to be as he was? Why had his ancestors chosen to be as they were? Why did a person—a people—who were fortunate beyond their wildest dreams use their all to crap up the only world they had to live in?
Where was the answer? Did it exist in them, or in oneself?
Once, finding himself on the campus of a large university, Mitch had chosen to stroll through the main engineering building. A building whose main corridor was a hundred yards long. At its beginning, the beginning of the corridor, that is, the mathematical equivalent of pi was engraved upon the wall—3.14159. But that, the accepted workaday definition, was not true pi, of course. So there had been more decimals behind the customarily final one; on and on and still on, until the end of the corridor was reached. But that still was not the end of pi, as was indicated by the plus sign behind the final decimal.
Somewhere, possibly, within the limitless infinity of mathematics, a period could be correctly put to the equation. Or, possibly, it could never be. Perhaps what was missing was not intrinsic to the formula itself, but in the eye that beheld it. Some new dimension which would illuminate the darkest corners of human knowledge, including the perverse minds of men like Winnie Lord.
However it was, Mitch decided, as he waited wearily for Lord to pass out, the answer to such imponderables as true pi and man’s meanness was not his to provide.
However it was, he decided, he was damned glad that he was Mitch Corley, with all of Mitch Corley’s problems, instead of Winfield Lord, Jr.
Lord at last drew a blank. Mitch felt his pulse, making sure that he was suffering from nothing worse than he ever suffered from. Then, having checked the apartment for any burning cigarettes, he covered Lord with a blanket and returned to the penthouse.
14
Turkelson and Red were seated cozily on the lounge, sipping tall drinks and nibbling from a huge tray of hot hors d’oeuvres. Mitch saw that Red was just a little bit high, and he looked at them with mock severity.
“Curse this bitter day!” he said, flinging a hand to his forehead. “So this is what goes on while I’m out sweating over a hot pair of dice!”
“It’s all Turk’s fault,” Red declared. “He’s simply been pouring the drinks down me, Mitch!”
“Mmm-hmm. And I suppose he put you in that negligee and robe, too, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did,” Red said. “That’s exactly what he did. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come in.”
Turkelson chucked and chortled, his belly quivering with delight. Mitch sat down, counted off three thousand, three hundred dollars, and handed it to him.
“Ten percent of thirty-three. Okay, Turk?”
“My God, yes!” the manager breathed. “It’s really too much, Mitch. I didn’t do anything to deserve a cut like this.”
“You did plenty. How did the paper look, anyway? No illegible signatures or funny stuff?”
“See for yourself,” Turkelson said, and he handed Mitch the checks which Lord had written that night. They were all made out to the hotel company, rather than to cash or an individual. Thus, they became a legitimate obligation for value received. It would be obvious, of course, that Lord’s bill could not have amounted to so much. But that changed nothing. As a means of building good will, a large hotel may cash checks for a person who is not even a patron.
Mitch handed the checks back, began to relax for the first time in days. He could pay off Agate now, and still have more than enough left to take care of his other immediate needs. After that…
Well, after that was after that. For the present he was sitting sweet.
Red brought him a drink and a few delicacies from the tray. He frowned slightly as she fixed herself another drink, then grinned and winked at her. She had been a little awkward with him since she had forced him to take her to the bank. It was good to see her loosened up and having fun again.
Red would never be a drunk. She enjoyed life too much. She was too honest with herself, too clear of conscience.
“All worn out, honey?” She looked at him archly over the rim of her glass. “Completely worn out?”
Mitch laughed and shook his head. “How about you? Winnie was giving you a pretty hard time.”
“Him? Oh, pooh! You know, he’s such a complete stinker that I almost felt sorry for him.”
“Don’t!” Mitch said firmly. “The last woman who felt sorry for Winnie Lord almost got her nose bitten off. I’m not kidding”—he glanced at Turkelson. “You remember it, don’t you, Turk? Some poor damned waitress in a Galveston beer joint.”
“I remember,” the manager nodded. “The Lords fought the case all the way to the Supreme Court. She didn’t even get her doctor bills out of it.”
Red said that that might be all well and good, but Lord had really paid her quite a compliment. “You heard him yourself, Mitch. He said I was the prettiest little package o
f you-know he’d ever seen.”
“He was probably exaggerating,” Mitch told her. “You know how these Texans are.”
“Well, what about you? Do you think I am or not?”
“How would I know?” Mitch spread his hands helplessly. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever known.”
“Mmm,” Red said. “Mmmm-mmm-mmm! Am I going to kiss you for that when I get you alone!” Then she turned and gave Turkelson a speculative look. “Now, I just wonder,” she said. “I wonder if you’d know.”
“What about?” Turkelson grinned expectantly. “Why not ask me?”
“Well, okay, but you’ve got to promise to tell the truth.” She cocked her head to one side. “You promise, you big fat man?”
“Promise.” He held up a hand, chuckling.
Red turned on the lounge on her knees and whispered in his ear. The ear suddenly turned sunset red, as did his face and neck.
“Well?” she demanded pertly. “What do you think?”
“Uh, I, uh, think I’d better go,” Turkelson said desperately, running a plump finger around his collar. “I—I—”
He struggled to his feet. Red grabbed him by the coattail and dragged him down again.
“Now, you’ve got to tell the truth,” she insisted. “If you don’t tell the truth, you’ll have to pay the penalty. You know what the penalty is?”
She whispered to him again, leaned back with a solemn nod. Turkelson appeared to be on the point of strangling.
“That’s it,” she declared. “If you don’t tell the truth right this minute, I’m going to make you—Mitch! Mitch, you let me go, darn you!”
Mitch held her sackwise, tucked under one arm. As she kicked and squealed, he shook hands with Turkelson.
“Good going, my friend. We’ll see you tomorrow, huh?”
“Uh, yes. You bet, Mitch.” The manager edged nervously toward the door.
“And we’ve checked out as far as Lord is concerned, understand? No telephone calls. He doesn’t get up here on the elevator.”
“Right! Oh, absolutely!” Turkelson bobbed his head. “I—I’ll let myself out, Mitch!”
He did so, just as Red tugged herself free, pirouetted, and paused with an arm theatrically upflung. “A little music, Professor.”
