A Hell of a Woman

by Jim Thompson

  I grinned. “I’ll bet that really did burn you, Stape. You right in the middle of all that cabbage, and not being able to latch onto it.”

  “Oh, I tried, Frank,” he nodded, seriously. “I tried, oh, so terribly hard. But I’m afraid I was a little green and callow in those days. A trifle clumsy. The only result of my efforts was a sudden transfer to another store.”

  I had another round of drinks while he was finishing his snack. Then he left for his hotel, and I started for home. I still hadn’t eaten anything, but I was feeling pretty good. The talk with Staples had warmed me back up on the deal.

  No, I didn’t really know anything. All I had to go on was the few things that Mona remembered, or thought she remembered, and the little that she’d picked up from the old woman’s remarks. But all in all, and taken with what Staples had told me, it seemed to add up.

  They’d lived down south at one time—Mona and the old woman and some other people she couldn’t remember: her own folks, I figured. It must have been the south or southwest, because it was warmer and things stayed green longer—she remembered, or thought she did. And there’d been towers—oilfield derricks—and…And that was about all, as much as she could tell me. Why they’d come up here to settle down, I didn’t know; so there was kind of a hole in the picture there. But I didn’t see that it was too important, and the rest was solid enough.

  Oil had been struck on their farm down south. The old woman had sold out for a hundred grand. Or maybe she’d got even more, and was just hoarding the hundred grand. Low down white trash. Too miserly to let go of a buck, and not knowing what the hell to buy with it if she did let go. Sitting on a hundred thousand, and hustling her own niece for bean money.

  Yeah, it figured.

  I wanted it to be that way, so that’s the way it was.

  9

  I picked up a few groceries the next morning, and had a real meal for a change. French toast with bacon, hashed brown potatoes, fruit cocktail and coffee. I ate and ate, grinning to myself, thinking by God they might think they could starve old Dolly to death but they had another goddamned think coming. To hell with those damned sloppy waitresses. To hell with that damned bitchy Joyce, and Doris, and Ellen and…and all those other tramps. Old Dolly could take care of himself until he got someone decent to do the job. And, brother, that happy hour was not far away.

  I refilled my coffee cup, and lighted a cigarette. I sat back in my chair, relaxing. Pete Hendrickson was the next step. I’d look him up today on the quiet—naturally it wouldn’t do to be seen with him—and…

  I choked, and banged down my cup.

  Pete.

  I didn’t know where the guy lived.

  The last address I’d had on him was the one he’d skipped from, you know, before he went to work at that greenhouse. And where the hell he might be living now, God only knew. He might not even have an address since he lost his job. He could be bunking in a boxcar somewhere or sleeping under a culvert.

  I jumped up cursing, paced back and forth across the living room. I thought, by God, I might have known it! I knock my brains out to shape up a sweet deal and someone screws it up for me!

  I don’t know how long I paced around, cursing and ranting, before I finally got a grip on myself. Then, I got out the phone book, looked up the number of the greenhouse and dialed it.

  I got the foreman on the wire.

  I said, “Please, sor, iss Olaf Hendrickson speaking. Iss very important dot I speak to my brudder, Pete.”

  “Not here any more,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Perhaps you vould tell me vere—”

  “Nope, nope,” he said, curtly, before I could ask him the question. “Don’t give out information like that. Not sure, anyway.”

  “Please, sor,” I said. “Iss—”

  “Sorry.” He banged up the receiver.

  Well, I’m a funny guy, though. People try to screw me up, to keep me from doing what I got to do, I go at it all the harder.

  I looked at the clock. I shaved and brushed my teeth, and gandered the clock again. Eleven-fifteen. Just about right. I got in my car, and headed for the other side of town.

  It was pretty close to noon when I got to this beer parlor, the one just down the street from the greenhouse. I picked up the name and address as I drove by, and stopped at a drugstore in the next block. I waited in my car until the noon whistles blew. Then, I got out and stood looking down the street.

  My hunch had been right. Workmen were coming out of the greenhouse and making a beeline for the beer parlor. I gave them a few minutes to get inside and get settled. I went into the drugstore, then, and called the place from a booth telephone.

  The phone rang and rang. Finally, someone snatched it off the hook, the proprietor or a bartender or maybe even a customer, and hollered hello.

  “There’s a fellow there named Pete Hendrickson,” I said. “One of the boys from the greenhouse. Will you call him to the phone, please?”

  He didn’t answer me; just turned away from the phone and shouted, “Pete—Pete Hendrickson! Any of you guys named Hendrickson?”

  Someone shouted something back, and someone else laughed; and this guy spoke into the phone again. “He ain’t here, mister. Ain’t at the greenhouse no longer, either.”

  “Gosh,” I said. “I’ve just got to talk to him. I wonder if there’s anyone around who could tell me where—”

  “Hang on,” he said, pretty short, like I was giving him a hard time. “ANY OF YOU GUYS KNOW WHERE…”

  They didn’t. Or if they did, they weren’t saying.

  “Sorry, mister,” this guy said. “Any other little thing I can do for you?”

  I told him yeah. “Go take a flying jump at yourself, you snotty bastard.” And I slammed up as he started to cuss.

  Well, that had been my best bet but it wasn’t my only one. Characters like Pete Hendrickson were my meat. I knew just what they’d do, just where they’d go. Sure, it’d taken me weeks to run him down before; and I could work out in the open then instead of slipping around like I had to now. But that had been different. I hadn’t been looking for him for myself. This time it was for me—for me and Mona and a hundred grand—and by God I’d find him.

  I drove into town, and parked at the foot of skid row. I got out and started walking.

  I must have walked fifteen miles that afternoon. Past the employment agencies with the bums hanging around in the front. Past the flop houses with their fly-specked windows and stinking lobbies. Past the greasy spoons. Past the pool halls and wine joints and cheap beer parlors.

  Hell, it was Saturday afternoon wasn’t it? And even if he had a home, a guy like Pete wouldn’t stay in on Saturday afternoon. He’d be down here where he could stretch a few dimes into a party. Where he could guzzle and scoff and have enough left over for a flop.

  So I walked and walked, just strolling from place to place, going around and around and around. And Saturday afternoon went away, and it was Saturday night.

  I was too jumpy to eat—not that I could have got anything to eat, anyhow. I found a bar that wasn’t too completely crummy looking, and threw down a few double shots. Then I started walking again.

  He had to be here, someplace. Son-of-a-bitch, he just had to! If he wasn’t around here, then he must have left town and—

  I gritted my teeth together. No! NO! He couldn’t do that to me. They couldn’t do that to me.

  Saturday night.

  Eight o’clock Saturday night. Still no Pete…and it was almost time to meet Mona.

  I bought a pint of whiz, and went back to my car. I yanked the cap with my teeth, making them ache to beat hell and liking the ache. I threw down a slug—two or three slugs. I dropped the jug down on the seat, and stepped on the starter.

  High? Man, I was higher than a kite; but not from the old gravy. It was the kind of high you get on when you got to do something and can’t. When you’ve got to have the answers and you don’t know any.

  What was I going to
do now? What was I going to tell Mona? I’d told her I was going to fix it, and I’d reached the point where I could almost feel that hundred grand…

  I fingered the cap off the bottle and took another long drink…Tell her? Tell her nothing. If I could dig up Pete tomorrow or the next day, fine. If not—and I’d better not hang around town much longer after that—well, she’d have a few days of hope before she found out the truth. And me, I wouldn’t have had anything more than I was entitled to.

  It was the only thing to do, as I saw it. Brush her off on the questions. Play it close to the vest. Make her happy and grateful, and then—You know. Nothing wrong with that, was there? I wasn’t taking anything that she wasn’t perfectly willing to give me.

  “Nothing wrong,” I said—and I said it out loud. “Dolly Dillon says there’s nothing wrong with it—the rotten son-of-a-bitch!”

  So, anyway, I admitted it; and I was mad enough at myself to bite nails. But I knew I was going to go right ahead, just the same.

  She was waiting in the shadows of a tree a few doors down from the super-market. She climbed into the car, laying a little sack of groceries up behind the seat, and I stepped on the gas. The jerk threw her against me. She moved away, looking a little frightened, her voice trembling.

  “W-where are we going, Dolly? I’ve been away from the house quite a while, and—”

  “I won’t keep you long,” I said. “What’s the matter? You act like you’re not glad to see me.”

  “Oh, no, Dolly! I mean, I am glad. But—Is everything all right? W-we…you’re still going to do it?”

  “Didn’t I say so?” I said.

  “Monday? N-no later than Monday, Dolly? I’m scared to death she’ll—”

  “I told you, didn’t I?” I said. “You want me to put it in writing?”

  I drove across a railroad spur, turned down a dirt road and parked. There weren’t any streetlights over that way, and there wasn’t any traffic. I put my arms around her, and pulled her against me.

  I kissed her, and ran a hand over her. And what happened then was so wild and wonderful that—well, I don’t know how to say it. I guess a hop-eater’s dream might be something like that.

  I’ve been around, see? I’m not one of these old country boys that can work up a boil around a lingerie counter. I’ve known the twenty-dollar gals and the nicey-nice babes who were just out for kicks. But I’d never known anything like that before.

  Then, it was all over—it was, as far as I was concerned. But that didn’t seem to mean nothing to her. I said, “Baby…” and then I said, “My God, honey…” and finally I said, “What the hell is this?”

  I shoved her away, and got back on my own side of the seat. That seemed to break the spell, as they say in story books.

  “I’m s-sorry.” She bit her lip, trying not to look at me, looking ashamed. “I j-just love you so much that—that—”

  But how about a babe like this? Maybe I had the wrong angle on things. Maybe the old woman was just selling something to keep it from going for free.

  That thought went in and out of my mind fast. It didn’t even have time to say hello before I’d booted it out in the cold and slammed the door. Because even a damned fool could see that this kid was a doll, just as sweet and innocent as they come. And naturally with everything I was doing for her—with everything she thought I was doing for her—she wanted to do something special for me.

  That was the way I wanted it, the way it should be. After all the tramps I’d been tied up with, it was about time I met someone who was grateful and loving and appreciative.

  I told her she was swell, and everything was swell. I just hadn’t wanted to hold her up tonight when she was already late. “About this gun your aunt has,” I said, starting the car. “Where does she keep it?”

  “Upstairs. In her room…Dolly—”

  “She keeps the key to the room with her? Swell. Now you get your clothes straightened out, and I’ll drive you back to the shopping center.”

  “Dolly”—she started brushing at her clothes—“What—how are you going to do it, Dolly? I mean, I ought to know if—”

  “Huh-uh,” I said. “You don’t need to know a thing. If you had it on your mind you might accidentally give it away, so just forget about it.”

  “B-but—”

  “You hear? Forget it,” I said. “All you have to do is be at home Monday night between eight-thirty and nine.”

  “Eight-thirty or nine?”

  “Or ten. Somewhere along there,” I said.

  “You asked—you started to ask about Pete Hendrickson last night. What does he—?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and it didn’t look like I was lying about that. Pete wasn’t going to have anything to do with it. I wasn’t going to. And I sure felt sorry for her, but what could I do? “Now leave it lay, will you?” I said. “You keep asking questions I’m liable to think you don’t trust me.”

  “I’m sorry. I just wondered what—”

  “Here’s where you get out,” I said, and I handed her the groceries. “Now, hurry on home and don’t worry about a thing. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  She opened the door of the car and started to get out. She turned back around worriedly, apologetically, her lips parted for another try.

  I leaned forward and kissed her, gave her a little punch. “Beat it,” I said. “You hear me, honey? I want to see you move.”

  She smiled. She beat it. I drove away.

  I made a few more tours of skid row, and it was still no soap. It looked like Pete must have jumped town. I got a bite to eat and bought another pint, and drove home, figuring, well, hell, maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

  I think I told you earlier that this shack of ours was on a railroad siding, that there was the tracks on one side and a wrecking yard on the other? Anyway, I meant to tell you. So I drove home that night, and there was a string of cars shuttled onto the siding: an empty box and a gondola and a couple of flats. And I thought, oh, oh, no damned sleep in the morning. They’ll be in here humping those cars at six a.m.; and—

  I gulped. I stood staring at the open door of the box car, and I sort of froze in my tracks.

  It was dark on that street. Ours was the only house in the block. I’d already locked up the car and I knew I’d never have time to get my hands on a wrench or something to slug with before this guy could get to me. Because he’d already started toward me. He’d swung down out of the door of the box, a hell of a big guy, and was coming across the yard. And I couldn’t see what he looked like, of course. But I reckoned he wasn’t up to any good or he wouldn’t have been…

  He stopped about six steps away from me.

  “Dillon?” he said. “Iss Dillon, yess?”

  And I sagged back against the car.

  “P-Pete,” I said weakly. “Pete Hendrickson.”

  10

  He’d taken the five I gave him the night before and jungled up with some ’boes down on Salt Creek. They’d all got on a hell of a wine binge and he hadn’t woke up until tonight, needing a drink like a baby needs its mother. A drink and some chow and an inside flop. And there was just one guy he could think of who might hold still for a bite. I had been “so nice” to him. The “fife dollars” I had given him, and I had spoken of a “chob,” so…

  He cleared his throat, uncomfortably, misunderstanding my silence. “I did not go to your door, Dillon. Your vife—you have a vife, yess?—I was afraid of alarming; so late at night to see a bum like me at the door. So I vait in the box until I hear your car, and—”

  His voice trailed away.

  I snapped out of the jolt he’d given me.

  “I’m glad you came by,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to see you. Come on inside and—”

  “Better I had not. Such a bum I look, and your vife vould not like. If you could chust—vell, a dollar or two—chust until I find vork…”

  “Huh-uh,” I said, and took him by the arm. “You need a lot more than that,
Pete. Come on in, and I’ll tell you about it, and, no, don’t worry about the wife. She’s away on a little trip.”

  I got him inside. I saw that the shades were drawn, and I turned on the light, and gave him the opened pint.

  He killed it at a gulp, shuddered, sighed. I passed him the fresh pint and gave him a cigarette.

  He took another drink, drew a long drag on the cigarette. He leaned back in his chair, sighing.

  “Ahhhhh,” he said, just like that. “Ahhhhh. My life you have safed, Dillon.”

  “Maybe not your life,” I said. “Just about forty years of it. I think that’s the stretch in this state for raping a minor.”

  It didn’t register on him for a moment. He’d been stuck in the basement, and now he was riding the express car up; and it wasn’t stopping for signals.

  He took another swig from the jug. He wiped his mouth, and said I was a nice man. He said I was a “chentleman” and a fine friend. And then he said, “Vot! Rape?” And leaned forward in his chair.

  “You heard me,” I said. “Old lady Farrell’s niece. Mona.”

  “B-b-but,” he said. “B-b-but—”

  “Yeah?”

  “A lie it iss! I—I—” He swallowed and his eyes shifted away from mine. “With the girl I was, yess. Vy not? I vork, and dot is some of my pay. She does not object, it iss agreeable with her and—”

  “It was, huh?” I said. “Maybe she took it away from you, huh?”

  And I thought, oh, you dirty bastard! You dirty lying bastard! You just wait.

  “Vell”—he started to smirk, then straightened his face when he saw the look I was giving him. “Vell, no. I haf told you how it vas. I vork, she iss the pay.”

  “And she’s a minor. A child in the eyes of the law.”