A Hell of a Woman

by Jim Thompson

“Well, she won’t do it any more,” I said. “No, I won’t give you away. So far as she’ll know everything went off per schedule. That’s the angle, see? I’ll be coming back with plenty of other nice things, and I don’t want you bothered.”

  She raised her head again, and her eyes searched my face. “Will you, Dolly? W-will you come back?”

  “Didn’t I say so?” I said. “I’ll be back, and I’ll get you away from here just as soon as I do. It’s going to take a little working out, know what I mean? It’s kind of complicated the way I’m set up. You see—well, I’m a married man.”

  She nodded. I was married. So what? It didn’t mean anything to her. I guess it wouldn’t mean anything, after what she’d been through.

  “Yeah,” I went on. “Been married for years. And this job I got, it keeps me humping to make a living.”

  That didn’t register, either. All she knew was that I had a hell of a lot more than she had.

  It made me a little sore, the way she was acting, but yet I kind of liked it. She was so damned trusting, so sure that I’d work things out no matter how tough they were. I hadn’t had many people believe in me like that. Many? Hell, any.

  She smiled at me, shyly, the first time she’d really smiled since I’d met her. She took my hand and moved it over her breast.

  “Do you…want to, Dolly? I wouldn’t mind with you.”

  “Maybe next time,” I said. “Right now, I think I’d better be shoving off.”

  The smile faded. She started to ask me if I minded about the others. I said why would I mind for God’s sake, and I gave her a kiss that made her gasp.

  Because I did want her, and I wasn’t coming back. And when a girl offers you that—all that she has to offer—you ought to be damned careful how you turn it down.

  I took the silver chest out of my case, and put it on the dresser. I gave her another kiss, told her not to worry about a thing, and left.

  The old hag, her aunt, was in the hallway, grinning and rubbing her hands together. I wanted to bat her in her goddamned rotten puss, but of course I didn’t.

  “You got something there, lady,” I told her. “Take good care of it, because I’m going to be back for more.”

  She cackled and smirked. “Bring me a nice coat, huh, mister? You got some nice winter coats?”

  “I got more coats than you can stack in a barn,” I said. “Nothing second-hand, get me, and I’m not trading for anything second-hand. I come by here and find someone else in the sack, it’s no deal.”

  “You leave it to me, mister,” she said eagerly. “When’ll you be back?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “Or maybe the next day. I’m liable to drop by any old time, so don’t try any doubling-up on me if you want that coat.”

  She promised she wouldn’t.

  I opened the door, and ran back down the walk to my car.

  It was still pouring down rain. It looked like it was going to rain forever. And I owed the company another thirty-three dollars. Thirty-two ninty-five to be exact.

  “You’re doing swell, Dolly,” I told myself. “Yes, sir, Dillon, you’re doing all right…You think this Staples character is stupid? You think that’s how he got the job of checking on characters like you? You think he ain’t the meanest, toughest son-of-a-bitch in the Pay-E-Zee chain?”

  Goddamn, I thought. Double goddamn and a carton of hells.

  Then, I shoved my car into gear and got going. It was only four-thirty. I had plenty of time to get out to the greenhouse and see Pete Hendrickson before he knocked off for the day.

  And if Pete wasn’t a real good boy…

  Suddenly, I grinned to myself. Grinned and scowled at the same time…He’d gotten to that poor damned girl, Mona; I’d have bet money on it. The old woman would have tried to pay him off that way, and Pete wouldn’t have turned it down. He’d let his bills go to hell—let me chase all over town hunting for him—and do that to her. And even if he hadn’t he was still no good.

  And I needed every nickel of what he owed us.

  I parked in front of the greenhouse, in front of the office, that is. I reached into the pocket of the car, took out a sheaf of papers and thumbed through them rapidly.

  I found his sales contract—a contract that was also an assignment of wages. You had to look for it a little because of the fine print, but it was there all right. All legal and air-tight.

  I took it into the office, and presented it to Pete’s boss. He paid off like a slot machine. Thirty-eight bucks and not a word of argument. He counted it out to me, and then I recounted it, and while I was still standing there he told a clerk to go and get Pete.

  I finished the count fast, and beat it.

  Wage assignments and garnishees—employers just naturally don’t like the things. They don’t like to be bothered with them, and they don’t like employees who cause them to be bothered. Pete was going to get the gate. I figured I’d better be some place else when he did.

  I drove down the street a few blocks to a beer joint. I ordered a pitcher of beer, carried it back to a rear booth and took down half of it at a gulp. Then, I spread a blank contract out on the table, and made out a cash sale to Mona Farrell for thirty-two ninety-five.

  That was one thing off my mind. That took care of the silver, with five bucks left over. Now, if this rain would only stop and I could get in a few good weeks in a row…

  I began to feel a little better. Not quite so damned blue and hopeless. I ordered another pitcher of beer, sipping it slowly this time. I thought what a sweet kid that Mona was, and I wondered why I couldn’t have married her instead of a goddamned bag like Joyce.

  That Joyce. Now, there was a number for you. Kid Sloppybutt, Princess Lead-in-the-Tail, Queen of the Cigarette Girls and a free pinch with every pack. I’d thought she was hot stuff, but it hadn’t been recently, brother. I may have been stupid to begin with, but I wised up fast. Joyce—a lazy, selfish dirty slob like Joyce for a wife.

  Why couldn’t it have been Mona?

  Why was it that every time I thought I was getting a break it went sour on me?

  I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes of six. I stepped to the telephone, and dialed the store.

  Staples sounded just the same as usual. Smooth, oily, soft-voiced. I told him I was chasing a skip through the sticks, and I thought I’d wait until morning to check in.

  “Quite all right, Frank,” he said. “How’s it going, anyway? Any lead yet on Hendrickson?”

  “Nothing yet,” I lied, “but I’ve had a fairly good day. I made a cash sale on that silver special.”

  “Good boy,” he said. “Now, if you can just get a line on Hendrickson.”

  His voice lingered over the name. Underlined it. He was more than five miles away, but I felt like he was right there. Grinning at me, watching me, waiting for me to trap myself.

  “What about it, Frank?” he said. “What about that thirty-eight dollars Hendrickson owes us?”

  3

  What the hell you think I’ve been doing?” I said. “I haven’t been sitting around on my can in some nice dry office all day. Give me a little time, for God’s sake.”

  The phone was silent for a moment. Then he laughed softly.

  “Not too much time, Frank,” he said. “Why not put in a little extra effort, eh, as long as you’re working over? Use that shrewd brain of yours. I can’t tell you how delighted I’d be if you could bring that Hendrickson money in the morning.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” I said. “I’ll do the best I can.”

  I said goodnight, and hung up the receiver. I drank the rest of my beer, not enjoying it very much.

  Had he been giving me a hint, a warning? Why was he bearing down so hard on this one account? Hendrickson was a dead beat, sure, but practically all of our customers were. They seldom paid unless they were made to. They traded with us because they couldn’t get credit anywhere else. Why, with at least a hundred other skips and no-pays to pick on, had Staples jumped me about this one?
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  I didn’t like it. It might be the beginning of the end, the first step toward the jailhouse. Because if he caught me tapping one account, he’d figure I’d tapped the others. He’d check on all the others.

  Of course, he’d done things like this before. Kind of like this. You’d knock yourself out and have a pretty good day maybe, and instead of a pat on the head you’d get what I’d got tonight. You know. Maybe you’ve worked for guys like that. They just slide over what you’ve done, and needle you about something else. The first damned thing that pops into their minds. That has to be done, too, and what the hell are you waiting on?

  So…so that must be it, I decided. I hoped that was it. You couldn’t satisfy Staples. The more you did the more you had to do.

  I went up to the bar and paid my check. I walked to the door and looked out into the rain. Turning up my coat collar. Getting ready to make a run for my car.

  Night was setting in early, but it wasn’t quite dark yet. I could see pretty good, and I saw him down near the end of the building. A big husky guy in work clothes, standing back under the eaves of the building.

  I couldn’t get to my car without passing him.

  I guessed I’d stopped a little too close to that greenhouse.

  I went back to the bar, and ordered a quart of beer to take out. Gripping it by the neck, I sauntered out the door.

  Maybe he didn’t see me right away. Or maybe he was just trying to work his nerve up. Anyway, I was almost parallel with him before he moved out from under the eaves and placed himself in front of me.

  I stopped and backed up a step or two.

  “Why, Pete,” I said. “How’s it going, boy?”

  “You sonabitch, Dillon,” he said. “You get my chob, hah? You get chob, now I get you!”

  “Oh, now, Pete,” I said. “You brought it on yourself, fellow. We trust you and try to treat you nice, and you—”

  “You lie! Chunk you sell me. Suit no good—like paper it vears! In chail you should be, chunk seller, t’ief, robber! A fine chob I get, and because I no pay for chunk, you—you—I fix you, Dillon!”

  He lowered his head, clubbed his big hands into fists. I moved back another step, tightened my grip on the bottle. I was carrying it back behind my thigh. He hadn’t seen it yet.

  “Jail, huh?” I said. “You’ve hit a few jails yourself, haven’t you, Pete? You keep on fooling around with me and you’ll land in another one.”

  It was just a guess, but it stopped him for a moment. You couldn’t go very far wrong in guessing that a Pay-E-Zee customer had made the clink.

  “So!” he sputtered. “In chail I haf been, and my time I serve. Dot has nodding to do mit dis. You—”

  “What about a sentence for rape?” I said. “Spit it out, goddamn you! Tell me you didn’t do it! Tell me you didn’t have that poor, sick, starved-to-death kid!”

  I moved in on him, not giving him a chance to deny it. I knew damned well that he had and it made me half-crazy to think about it. “Come on, you ugly, overgrown son-of-a-bitch,” I said. “Come on and get it!”

  And he came on with a rush.

  I sidestepped, swinging the bottle like a bat. My feet slipped in the mud. I caught him squarely across the bridge of the nose, and he went down sprawling. But his right fist got me as he went by. It landed, skidding, just below my heart. And if I hadn’t bounced back against the building I’d have gone down with him.

  I was doubled up for a moment, feeling like I’d never breathe again. Then, I got pulled together a little, and I staggered over to where he was.

  He wasn’t completely out, but there wasn’t any more fight in him. There was no sense in socking him again or giving him a kick in the head. I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over against the side of the building. I propped him up so that he was kind of out of the rain and wouldn’t get run over. And then I knocked the beer open on a rock and pushed it into his hand.

  It wasn’t the kind of treatment he’d expected. Or was used to. He looked up at me like a beaten dog. On an impulse—or maybe it was a hunch—I took five ones from my pocket and dropped them into his lap.

  “I’m sorry about the job,” I said. “Maybe I can turn up another one for you…Like to have me do that? Let you know if I hear of anything?”

  He nodded slowly, brushing the blood away from his nose. “I like, yess. B-but—but vy, Dillon? Mis-ter Dillon. Vy you do dis an’ den you do—”

  “No choice,” I shrugged. “The company says get the money, I have to get it. You say you want to fight, I fight. When I have my own way, well, you can see for yourself. I treat you like a long-lost brother. Give you dough out of my own pocket, try to find another job for you.”

  He took a drink of the beer; took another one. He belched and shook his head.

  “Iss badt,” he said. “Vy you do it. Mis-ter Dillon? Soch a nice man, vy you vork for bad peoples?”

  I told him he had me there: I guessed I was just such a nice guy that people took advantage of me. Then, I told him to take it easy, and headed for home.

  My ribs ached like hell, and I couldn’t get Staples off my mind. But in spite of the pain and the worry, I laughed out loud…What a character! If people kept on telling me I was a nice guy, I might start believing them. And yet—well, what was so damned funny about that? What the hell was there to laugh about?

  I’d never hurt anyone if I could get out of it. I’d given plenty of people breaks when I didn’t have to. Like today for example; just take today, now. Pretty good, huh? You’re damn well right it was! How many other guys would have passed up Mona, and given a hand to a guy who’d tried to murder ’em?

  Pete had the right dope. It wasn’t me, but the job. And I didn’t know how to get out of it, any more than I knew how I’d got into it. I—

  Did you ever think much about jobs? I mean, some of the jobs people land in? You see a guy giving haircuts to dogs, or maybe going along the curb with a shovel, scooping up horse manure. And you think, now why is the silly bastard doing that? He looks fairly bright, about as bright as anyone else. Why the hell does he do that for a living?

  You kind of grin and look down your nose at him. You think he’s nuts, know what I mean, or he doesn’t have any ambition. And then you take a good look at yourself, and you stop wondering about the other guy…You’ve got all your hands and feet. Your health is okay, and you make a nice appearance, and ambition—man! you’ve got it. You’re young, I guess you’d call thirty young, and you’re strong. You don’t have much education, but you’ve got more than plenty of other people who go to the top. And yet with all that—with all you’ve had to do with—this is as far as you’ve got. And something tells you, you’re not going much farther if any.

  And there’s nothing to be done about it now, of course, but you can’t stop hoping. You can’t stop wondering…

  …Maybe you had too much ambition. Maybe that was the trouble. You couldn’t see yourself spending forty years moving up from office boy to president. So you signed on with a circulation crew; you worked the magazines from one coast to another. And then you ran across a nice little brush deal—it sounded nice, anyway. And you worked that until you found something better, something that looked better. And you moved from that something to another something. Coffee-and-tea premiums, dinnerware, penny-a-day insurance, photo coupons, cemetery lots, hosiery, extract, and God knows what all. You begged for the charities. You bought the old gold. You went back to the magazines and the brushes and the coffee and tea. You made good money, a couple of hundred a week sometimes. But when you averaged it up, the good weeks with the bad, it wasn’t so good. Fifty or sixty a week, well, maybe seventy. More than you could make, probably, behind a gas pump or a soda fountain. But you had to knock yourself out to do it, and you were just standing still. You were still there at the starting place. And you weren’t a kid any more.

  So you come to this town, and you see this ad. Man for outside sales and collections. Good deal for hard worker. And you think mayb
e this is it. This sounds like a right job; this looks like a right town. So you take the job, and you settle down in the town. And, of course, neither one of ’em is right, they’re just like all the others. The job stinks. The town stinks. You stink. And there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it.

  All you can do is go on like those other guys go on. The guy giving haircuts to dogs, and the guy sweeping up horse manure. Hating it. Hating yourself.

  And hoping.

  4

  We lived in a little four-room dump on the edge of the business district. It wasn’t any choice neighborhood, know what I mean? We had a wrecking yard on one side of us and a railroad spur on the other. But it was choice enough for us. We were as well off there as we would be anywhere. A palace or a shack, it always worked out to the same difference. If it wasn’t a dump to begin with, it damned soon got to be.

  All it took was for us to move in.

  I went inside, taking off my coat and hat. I laid them down on my sample case—at least it was clean—and took a look around. The floor hadn’t been swept. The ash trays were loaded with butts. Last night’s newspapers were scattered all over. The…hell, nothing was as it should be. Nothing but dirt and disorder wherever you looked.

  The kitchen sink was filled with dirty dishes; there were soiled sticky pans all over the stove. She’d just got through eating, it looked like, and of course she’d left the butter and everything else sitting out. So now the roaches were having themselves a meal. Those roaches really had a happy home with us. They got a hell of a lot more to eat than I did.

  I looked in the bedroom. It looked like a cyclone had struck it. A cyclone and a dust storm.

  I kicked the bathroom door open, and went in.

  It was one of her good days, I guess. Here it was only seven o’clock at night and she’d actually got some clothes on. Not many; just a garter belt and some shoes and stockings. But that was damned good for her.

  She drew a lipstick over her mouth, squinting at me in the medicine cabinet mirror.