by Jim Thompson
And then Mitch was glancing into his wallet, grinning ruefully, as casual as though he had dropped a book of matches instead of what was practically the last cent he had in the world.
“I guess that’s going to have to be the end of our game,” he said pleasantly. “Next time I’ll come a little better prepared.”
“Now, you don’t need cash with me,” Zearsdale said. “Just write a check for whatever you like.”
“No, that’s not fair to you.” Mitch shook his head. “I think it jinxes a man to bet paper against cash.”
“Well, borrow some cash from me then. Come on now,” Zearsdale urged jovially. “The game’s just getting interesting.”
Mitch strongly demurred, but not nearly so strongly as he had in the matter of the check. At last, at the oil man’s insistence, he accepted a loan of ten thousand dollars. With it, his confidence surged back into him.
He firmly believed, as any gambler would have, that Zearsdale had given away his luck with the loan. He would now be betting against his own money, and the good fortune it had brought him.
Just as he shook the dice, there was a sudden clatter from the room above them. Mitch started, surprised at the noise in what must be a well-built house, and Zearsdale looked upward with dark disgust. He muttered something to the effect that if the help wanted to romp around all night, they could stay up and work.
“Let’s see,” he said. “Coming out for thirty-two hundred, right?”
“You’re covered,” Mitch nodded.
Zearsdale rolled. The dice bounced and spun, and laughed at him with a little three. He passed them back to Mitch, and Mitch settled down to work.
He was confident, but very careful. The goof-of-the-year was out of his system now, and the magic was back in his hands. But he was taking no chances. He could only control the dice while he had them, and he could not hold onto them indefinitely.
His first move was to lower the bet to five hundred dollars—after all, why make work out of fun? Thus bulwarked against a lucky run by Zearsdale, he won thirty-five hundred dollars before deliberately crapping out.
The oil man passed, pointed, and fell off.
Mitch went to work again, allowing himself only two passes, beating all around a point before he made it; finally going “unlucky” after another thirty-five-hundred-dollar run.
He kept it looking good all the way—something much harder to do than winning.
It was drudgery but it paid off. Some ninety minutes after he had landed in the swamp he was up on the mountain top. He was square on the loan and his original stake was back in his pocket, and with it was eighteen thousand of Zearsdale’s money.
He lost the dice at this point. The oil man let them lay, politely stifling a yawn.
“Getting a little tired, aren’t you? What do you say we have a drink?”
“Maybe I’d just better run along,” Mitch said. “Unless you’d rather keep the game going. I don’t want to quit winner on you if you do.”
Zearsdale said, oh, what the hell? There’d be another night. “We’ll be seeing each other again. You can depend on it, Corley. Now, if you’re sure you won’t have a drink…”
He saw Mitch to the door. They shook hands and said good night, and Zearsdale gently closed the door behind him. Then, he went up the stairs, his square, heavy-set body moving as lightly as a cat’s, and opened the door of a small room.
It was directly above the recreation room. Part of its flooring had been taken up, creating a gape in its approximate center. Poised to look down through this—and through the two-way mirror above the crap table—was a motion picture camera.
As Zearsdale entered the room, a thin middle-aged Negro was closing the lid on a round film can. He began an immediate apology, fear shining out of his liquid eyes.
“Mr. Zearsdale, I’m sure sorry, sir. Terribly, terribly sorry, sir. I just happened to step backwards, an’ I kicked that can—”
“It could have spoiled everything,” Zearsdale said mildly. “Might have tipped him off, and left me looking like a fool. Do you think I’m a fool, Albert?”
“M-Mister Zearsdale,”—the Negro paled under his yellowish skin. “Please, sir, M-Mister Zearsdale…”
“I’ve never let you down, have I, Albert?” Zearsdale went on, his voice harshly musical. “Treat you like a white man, don’t I, instead of a jig? Treat you a lot better than a lot of white men. You live just as good as I do, and you get a thousand a month for screwing around. That’s all it amounts to, you know. You aren’t worth a thousand cents a month. I just give it to you so that you can send your kids to school.”
The Negro’s head bowed on his thin neck. He stood trembling and helpless, biting his lip. Blinking back the tears of fear and shame.
“Well, all right, then,” Zearsdale said in a gentler tone. “I don’t let my people down. I don’t let my people let me down. Is that the film there?”
“Yessir, yessir, that’s it.” The Negro snatched up the can and humbly tendered it to his employer. “Think you got him, Mr. Zearsdale, sir. Can’t be sure, but I thinks so.”
Zearsdale said that he would make sure; he never guessed about anything. “How are your children getting along, Albert? Not quite ready to graduate, are they?”
“Jacob is, sir. Only got one more year of law school. Amanda, she still got two years lef’ in teachers’ college.”
“Amanda,” Zearsdale murmured. “My mother would have appreciated having a child named after her.”
“Yessir, an’ Jacob, he named after you, Mr. Zearsdale. Real proud of it, too, Mr. Zearsdale. Yessir, real proud.”
“I’m glad to hear it, very glad,” the oil man nodded. “I’d hate to think that anyone with my name didn’t have pride. A man without pride is no good, did you know that, Albert? If he doesn’t have pride he doesn’t have anything, not a damned thing to build on. I don’t like a man like that. I may put up with him, but I don’t like him. If he won’t stand up for himself, if he’d rather have a brown nose than a bruised one, I don’t and can’t like him. How long have you been kissing my ass, Albert?”
“M-Mister—Mister Z-Zearsdale…”
“Twenty-three years, right? Well, that’s long enough. You’re fired.”
17
The bedroom shades were drawn, and the dimness of night still prevailed. Mitch rolled over in the bed, his eyes closed in sleep, his hands automatically seeking Red. It had been a very big night. A very big, very wonderful, very wild-wild night, and even in sleep the wonder and the wildness of it remained with him. He relived it, again smelling the faint perfume of her flesh, again hearing the passionate struggling of her breath, again feeling the savage sweetness of her body as it fitted itself to his.
“Red…” he mumbled, his hands probing the bedclothes. “Let’s…let’s…Red?” A frown spread over his face, and the movements of his hands quickened, became desperate. “Red?…Red! Where are—” And then his eyes flew open and he sat up with a yell.
“RED!”
There was a clatter from the bathroon. The door banged open and Red ran out. She had her shoes and stockings on, her skimpy panties and her equally skimpy bra. The way Red was built, small but richly full, her bras and panties had to be skimpy.
She had her arms around him in a split second, cradling his head against her breast, whispering endearments as she begged him to tell her what was wrong. Mitch explained sheepishly that he had been having a bad dream. Red kissed him again, murmuring an apology for not having been there.
She started to stand up. Mitch caught a hand in the waistband of her panties.
“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s even better.”
“But—but I—” She broke off, forcing a bright smile. “Okay, honey. Just let me get a hairnet on, will you?”
“No. No, wait,” he said quickly. “You were going out this morning, weren’t you?”
“Well, I was but it can wait. After all—”
Mitch said firmly that it shouldn�
�t and wouldn’t wait. She was all fixed up to go out, and he wasn’t going to muss her up at the last minute. “I was just teasing you,” he lied. “Now, you run on and I’ll go back to sleep.”
She did so, but he didn’t. He lay with his eyes closed, a little restless perhaps, but glad that he had done as he had. He thought back to the beginning of their intimacy, and the viewpoint she had revealed to him.
She was a woman, she pointed out (quite unnecessarily) and he was a man. And a man and a woman needed something from each other that they could get from no other source. She had known that long ago, having grown up with a large family in a one-room shack. There would be times when she would be angry, and then he had better keep away from her. But otherwise he had only to ask or hint, and what he wanted would be freely given.
Why, my goodness, how else could it be? What if she didn’t feel like it just then?
Most of the time she probably would, because she had never had anyone but him and there was a lot of catching up to do. But even if she didn’t, there would be no problem. Why should there be, for pity’s sake? It only took a few minutes—not nearly long enough, sometimes!—and if a woman couldn’t give herself to a man for a few minutes, she just didn’t love him!
The bed sank gently. Mitch started, and turned. And Red’s arms went around him.
“Ah, Mitch. Darling, darling, darling! I couldn’t leave with my darling needing me…!”
“But baby—Your clothes…”
“Tear ’em off of me! Tear ’em off and muss me up! I can dress again, and I can get unmussed and…and…and…Mitch!”
…An hour later she left on her delayed shopping trip—a peculiar kind of shopping trip, or one that would have been peculiar for anyone but Red. Every now and then, when they had some free time, she would go on such an excursion. Spending the day at it, limiting herself to a total expenditure of five dollars, and shopping only in dime stores.
It was a thing she had always dreamed about doing as a child, and unlike any adult Mitch had ever known, she seemed to be able to satisfactorily fulfill her child’s dream: Moving cautiously from counter to counter; spending a dime at one and fifteen cents at another and a quarter at another; pausing to refresh herself with a frozen lollipop on a stick. She would even eat lunch in a dime store—a prospect which made Mitch’s stomach turn! Then, having gorged on some hideous concoction such as wilted lettuce and creamed frankfurters (served by a pimply-faced girl with red fingernails) she would return to the attack, so timing herself as to have the expenditure of her last dime coincide with the closing of the store.
She would be very touchy about the armload of “bargains” she brought home (they would disappear in a day or so, just where he never knew). Once he had teased her, asking if she had left anything in the store, and the color had risen in her cheeks and she had called him a mean stupid darned old fool. And then, heartbrokenly, she had begun to cry. He had held her, cuddled her small body in his arms, rocked gently to and fro with her as the great sobs tore through her breast. And there were tears in his own eyes, as at last he understood the cause of her sorrow; for it was his also, and perhaps everyone’s. The loss of innocence before it had ever endured. The cruel shearing away of all but the utterly practical, as pastoral man was caught up in an industrial society.
She was an extreme case, yes, as was he. But the tenant farmer’s shack and the hotel room were merely the outer limits of a world which inevitably shaped everyone. He did not need to wonder about her thoughts when her schoolbooks had related the adventures of Mary Jane and her Magic Pony. He suspected that in a different way they had been akin to his as he had read of the joyous conspiracy between Bunny Rabbit and Mr. Stork (while the couple overhead were damned near pounding the bed apart).
So she wept, and he wept a little with her. Not for the idealized dream of things past, but for the immutable realities of the present. Not for what had been lost but for what had never been. Not for what might have been but for what could never be.
Then, having wept, she sniffed, straightened, and smiled. And she declared that she was going right out dime store shopping again. For everything else might be gone, but hope was not. And everywhere there was evidence that what could be dreamed could be realized.
This morning, as she always did, she had planned an early start. And despite the delay on his account, it was only a little after nine when she departed.
Some thirty minutes later, bathed, shaved, and dressed, Mitch was seated on the terrace, reading the morning paper while he ate a leisurely breakfast.
He could not remember when he had felt so content with himself, so sure that the world was an oyster on which he had an irrefutable claim. Houston was a hell of a town—hadn’t he always said so? He had known it was going to be a good trip, and it was proving better than good. Thirty-three big ones from Stinker Lord, and another eighteen from Zearsdale. Fifty-one grand in the kitty and the month was still young!
Of course, the outgo had been terrific, too. But—
Turkelson stepped out on the terrace.
He hadn’t knocked or rung the buzzer. He had simply opened the door with his pass key, and walked in, and taking one look at his face, Mitch could only thank God that Red was absent. For the manager was clutching something in his hand, a something that could only be one thing.
Mitch got up quickly, guided him back into the living room. He pushed him down on the lounge, and poured a stiff drink for him.
“It’s all right, Turk.” It goddamned well wasn’t all right! “Just get that inside of you, and calm down.”
Turkelson grasped the drink greedily. Mitch gently relieved his other hand of its burden.
Checks. Thirty-three thousand dollars’ worth. All red-ink stamped with the words, PAYMENT REFUSED.
He had known what they were, but seeing them was another matter. He suddenly felt very empty; yet there was a cold and growing lump in his stomach. He could have yelled with the frustration of it, the damnable jinx that seemed determined to turn his best efforts against him.
And instead he laughed easily, and gave Turkelson a reassuring wink.
“Some fun, hey, keed? Is that all they kicked back on you?”
“All!” the manager said. “My God, isn’t that enough?”
“I mean, his legitimate expenses. His hotel bill. He paid that by check too, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, that one cleared, Mitch. Twelve hundred dollars and something.”
“And of course you gave him an itemized bill for it,” Mitch nodded. “Well…”
So there it was. The Lords might not be able to prove the thirty-three grand had gone for gambling—they could not prove that Winnie hadn’t simply kept the money. But proof was not an issue here.
They should have paid the checks. It had been unthinkable that they wouldn’t pay them. But since they hadn’t—
Turkelson dumped more whiskey into his glass, took a face-reddening swig of it and ripped out a curse. “Goddammit, Mitch, they can’t get away with that! They can’t now, can they?”
“We’ll have to see. Or rather I will. For the present, it looks like they have done it.”
“But—but it’s not legal! They haven’t got a leg to stand on!”
“Turk”—Mitch gestured with a trace of impatience. “What would you like to do? Turn it over to the hotel’s attorneys? Have it dragged through every court in the country and us along with it? The Lords would do it you know. They’ve got lawyers up to the ying-yang, and they like to keep ’em busy.”
“B-But Mitch…if you knew it was that way…”
Mitch snapped that they had both known it was that way. What they hadn’t known was that it was going to be this way. “So all right, it is this way, and let’s stop kidding ourselves that it isn’t and that they can’t do it to us. That’s like telling a cop that he can’t arrest you. Maybe he’s got no right to, but he can sure as hell do it!”
Turkelson gave him a stricken look. Mitch immediately softened his
voice.
“Now, it’s going to be all right,” he said. “I’ll guarantee that it will. As things stand now, you’re thirty-three grand short in your cash. How soon do you have to cover it?”
“Right away. The tariff and cash transcripts go to the home office every day. Of course, I could put the checks through for payment again, and still show ’em as a credit. But…”
Mitch told him he had better not. The checks were certain to bounce again, and an amount that large might arouse inquiries.
“We’ve crapped out, Turk. There’s nothing to do now but pay off.”
He took out his wallet and counted thirty-three thousand dollars onto the table, his mouth tightening unconsciously as he saw how little was left.
Turkelson looked embarrassed. “Mitch—I, uh, I’m afraid I don’t have—”
“Forget it,” Mitch said. “Just endorse the checks over to me.” He hadn’t expected Turkelson to return his ten percent cut of the deal. Turkelson had a mother whom he doted on; a hypochondriacal old battle-axe who had been wasting hospital space and her son’s money as far back as Mitch could remember.
Troubled, but obviously relieved, the manager exchanged the checks for the cash. “This is a hell of a lick for you, Mitch. I know you pull down heavy, but are you sure you can take it?”
“I don’t plan on taking it,” Mitch said.
“Oh? What are—”
“See how fast you can get me a plane out to Dallas, will you? I’ve got to pack a bag.”
He cut off any further questions by leaving the room. An hour later, having left a briefly explanatory note for Red, he was on his way.
18
Dallas.
Big D.
The New York of the Southwest.
This is where you find it, mister. Whatever you’re looking for, it’s right here.
Fashions? They come all the way from Paris to copy ours. Food? You’ve never lived until you’ve tried our restaurants. Financing? We’ll take a flier on almost anything.
