A Hell of a Woman

by Jim Thompson

  Wait? Put it off a night or two until I got a chance to talk to her? I couldn’t do that. There was that story I’d given Pete; and then the old woman might discover that the till had been tapped.

  So there it was, like I say. I was fumbling before I even got started. I hadn’t really made a move yet, and I’d already bollixed the frammis. Anyway, I hadn’t done what I should have.

  I got to thinking about that while I was whipping the dead-beats. Or trying to whip ’em, I should say. I thought, well, Dolly, you ain’t changed a bit, have you? You haven’t learned a goddamned thing, you stupid bastard. You couldn’t learn a prayer at a revival meeting. You see something you want, and that’s all you got eyes for. You ain’t watching the road at all, and the first thing you know you’re up to your tail in mud…

  Well, though, that wasn’t so. It maybe looked that way, but it wasn’t the way it really was. There’s just some guys that get the breaks, and some that don’t. And me, I guess you know the kind I am.

  I got through the day somehow, and along toward quitting time my mind began to clear. I began to figure I hadn’t done so badly after all. The money was there—wasn’t it?—and I had Pete sold—didn’t I?—and Mona would do what I told her to—wouldn’t she? Everything important I’d taken care of fine; and all that was left was just a few little details. Of course, it would have been better if I could have explained things to Mona. But it didn’t really matter. I’d done all right, and everything was going to be all right. It had to be, know what I mean? Take the most hard luck guy in the world, and he’s bound to get a break once in a while.

  I worked until after six, trying to make a showing. The other guys had already checked in and left when I went in; and Staples was back behind the cash wicket, fidgeting and waiting for me.

  He looked through my sales contracts—the new ones and the ad-buys. He checked through my collection cards, and counted my cash.

  “A little light, Frank,” he purred, looking up at me at last. “Quite-some-much light. I trust you can bulk it out with a good story?”

  “What the hell?” I said. “I’ve been off work for almost a week. It takes a few days to get back into the swing of things.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, it doesn’t, Frank. It takes exactly one day. Today. Do I make myself clear?”

  “So all right,” I said. “I’ll do much better tomorrow.”

  “You will indeed. Much better. Otherwise, I am very much afraid that—”

  I shrugged and told him to stop making a production out of it. If I didn’t do okay tomorrow, he could beef then. So he let it go at that and we said goodnight, and I started for home.

  I would do all right the next day. If I couldn’t do it legit, I’d feed a little of that hundred grand into the accounts. Just a few bills, enough to make myself look good. I could afford it, with that much dough, and it would save me knocking myself out.

  I got home. Pete was pretty uneasy from being cooped up all day; all set for another quiz program, it looked like. So I told him I had to take a bath and he was to fix the grub I’d brought home. And that got him off my neck for an hour.

  We ate around seven-thirty. By eight, we were finished. I told him I had a little work on my accounts to do, and he was to wash the dishes. So that took care of him until eight-thirty.

  He came out into the living room, then, and I folded up the collection cards I’d been playing with. I told him to get his hat and coat on, and he did—looking like he was about ready to pop. Then I gave him one of the two big drinks I had poured. And as soon as he got it down, I poured us another.

  “Dillon, good friend. Dere is somet’ing—”

  “Drink your drink,” I said. “Hurry! We’re running late.”

  “But—”

  But he drank his drink, and I drank mine. I switched off the lights, took his elbow and started him toward the door in the darkness.

  “It iss only a small t’ing, Dillon. Unimportant but it hass been running through my mind. Since last night, ven ve vere—”

  “You hear me?” I said. “I said we were late. Now, come on.”

  He came along, but that question, whatever it was, was still bothering him. And all the way across town he was kind of mumbling and muttering to himself. I guess I told you that the house was out beyond the university, the only one in that block? Well, it was, anyway; sitting off by itself. But I still didn’t take any chances. I speeded up a little at the end of the adjoining block, then cut my lights and motor and coasted the rest of the way.

  I opened the door. I told Pete to stay in the car until I called him.

  “Oh?” He turned and looked at me. “But I t’ought—”

  “I know,” I said, “but she might hear you come up on the porch. Figure that something screwy was going on, and it would blow the whole deal.”

  I left him sitting in the car, mumbling and muttering. I was about half way up the walk when I thought, what if someone should come by, a prowl car, and ask him what the hell he was doing. But…well, I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t good to have him come up on the porch either like I’d told him to last night. That wasn’t good and this wasn’t—and maybe nothing could be that I would dream up. But goddammit, I just hadn’t had much time to think, and I was a hard luck bastard to begin with, and…

  I knocked on the door, and, man, it just sounded like an echo from my heart. The old pump was beating that hard. After a long time—a dozen years, it seemed like—the old woman tipped the shade back and peered out at me.

  There was only a dim light on in the hall where she was standing. But it was apparently enough for her to recognize me. She opened the door and unlatched the screen, and I went inside.

  Her face fell a little when she saw I wasn’t carrying anything. Then she jerked her head toward the door, and started grinning again. Rubbing her hands together.

  “You bring my coat? You got it in your car, hah?”

  I didn’t say anything, do anything. I was like a mechanical man with the batteries run down. I wanted to boff hell out of the old bitch, and I just couldn’t move.

  “You bring it in, mister. That’s why you came, ain’t it? You bring in the coat, and then…” She winked and jerked her head toward the rear of the house. “She’s already in bed, mister, and you just br—”

  She just shouldn’t have said that. Honest to God, I’d planned it and I’d already come three-fourths of the way. But if she hadn’t’ve said that, I don’t think I could have gone any further.

  She brought it on herself when she said that. She asked for it.

  And she got it.

  I left-hooked her, I right-crossed her. I gave her just the two haymakers, left and right. Fast. Batting her one way, then the other. Batting her back before she could fall. And then I let her go down, back against the foot of the stairs; and her neck looked about four inches longer. And her head was swinging on it like a pumpkin on a vine.

  Kill her? What the hell do you think it did?

  Mona had been standing behind the living room drapes. Now, she came out, and she took just one look at the old woman and then she looked away again. And she threw her arms around me, shivering.

  I kissed her on top of the head, gave her a little squeeze. I pushed her out of the hall, into the living room.

  “D-Dolly. What are we g-going to—”

  “I’ll tell you,” I said. “I’ll tell you exactly what to do. Now, which room is your aunt’s?”

  “A-at the head of the stairs. On the right. Oh, D-Dolly, I’m—”

  “Save it,” I said. “For God’s sake save it! Where’ll she have her key? Where’s her key?”

  “I d-don’t—maybe in h-her—”

  I ran out in the hall, and frisked the old woman. I found a key in her pocket and took it back into the living room.

  “Is this it? Now, what about the gun? In her room? Goddammit, answer me!”

  She nodded, stammered that the gun was in the old gal’s room. She g
ulped and tried to smile, tried to get ahold of herself.

  “I’m s-sorry, Dolly. I’ll do whatever—”

  “Swell,” I said. “Sure, you will, and everything’s going to be fine.” I smiled back at her—did the best I could at smiling, anyway. “You go get the money, now—how long will it take you? Can you get it in five minutes?”

  She said she could, she thought she could. She’d do it just as fast as she could. “But what are you—”

  “Never mind, goddammit!” I said. “Just go get it, and leave the rest to me. Move, for God’s sake!”

  She moved. She turned and went off at a run.

  I went back out into the hall, slung the old woman over my shoulder and carried her up the stairs.

  I got to the top, and dropped her on the landing. I unlocked the door to her room, and went inside.

  There was a chair, a bed, an old dropleaf writing desk. Nothing else. No books. No pictures. And with an old house like this, an old woman like that, there should have been pictures…

  I opened the dropleaf of the desk, scared sick that there wouldn’t be any gun or that it wouldn’t be loaded. And I thought, man, oh man, how stupid can you get? You could have checked on that, anyway. You’ve gone too far to back out, and if that gun isn’t…But it was there; a big old forty-five, of all things. Just about the last gun you’d expect an old woman to have. And it was loaded.

  And there was some money, too; a little roll of bills in one of the desk drawers.

  I took the money and shoved the gun into my belt. I jerked the drawers out and dropped them on the floor, and I knocked over the chair as I went back into the hall.

  I walked down the stairs a few steps. I reached back up and got the old woman by an arm, and pulled her down head first.

  I left her lying about half way down. I went on down the rest of the way, scattering the bills on the steps. I switched off the light, opened the door and called to Pete. Then, I went back up the stairs a little way and waited.

  I was sweating like a chippie in church. It wouldn’t work; it couldn’t work. It was like some of those stupid jobs you read about in the newspapers. Guys tackling some big deal and doing everything bassackwards, tripping over their own feet in a hundred places until it’s almost like a comedy. I’d read some of those stories, laughing out loud and shaking my head, thinking, what a jerk! The damned fool ought to have known, he ought to have seen: if he’d done any thinking at all, he’d—

  The door opened. Closed. I heard him breathing heavily, nervously; and then his whisper in the darkness:

  “Dillon? Vot—”

  “Everything’s swell.” I spoke softly. “She’s up in her room now writing the statement. I’m going up to check it over.”

  “Oh?” I could almost see the frown on his face: “Den vy am I—”

  “I want you to look at it before we leave. It’s okay. She won’t know you’re here until I get my hands on it.”

  “Vell,” he said, hesitating, trying to unravel things. And then he gave it up and chuckled. I was his pal, I was the brain man. I was taking care of him, just like I’d been taking care of him. And he was a simple guy; and there was this other thing on his mind:

  “…all day I haf been trying to remember, Dillon. Soch a crazy thing. How does it go, dot song ve vere singing: der vun about der bastard king of England?”

  “Song!” I gasped. “Song!” Is that what—” I brought my voice down. “Turn on the light, Pete. I accidentally brushed the switch with my sleeve when—when—” When what? “You’ll have to turn around. It’s there on your right, back near the door.”

  I saw the black shadow that was his body revolve in the darkness. I heard his fingers tracing their way along the wallpaper. Then, the chuckle again, almost childish:

  “…soch a foolish t’ing at a time like dis. No attention you should pay me. Later, perhaps, ven—”

  “No,” I said. “This is a good time. Here’s the way it goes, Pete:

  ‘Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles,

  ‘Cats with their bottoms wreathed in smiles…’”

  The light went on. His back was to me like it had to be.

  I got him six times through the head and neck. He pitched forward, and that was the end of him.

  I made sure of it. I checked him before I left. His face was pretty much of a mess, but it looked like he’d died happy. It looked like he was grinning.

  12

  THROUGH THICK AND THIN: THE TRUE STORY OF A MAN’S FIGHT AGAINST HIGH ODDS AND LOW WOMEN…by Knarf Nollid

  I was born in New York City one score and ten years ago, of poor but honest parents, and from my earliest recollections I was out working and trying to make something of myself and be somebody. But from my earliest recollections someone was always trying to give me a hard time. Like this time when I was running errands for a delicatessen and, hell, I wouldn’t have stolen a damned dime from anyone: I was only about eight years old and just wasn’t smart enough. So this old bag shortchanges me on an order, and the delly owner says I took the dough myself. Well, anyone could have seen she was a goddamned bag, dirty dishes and clothes strung all over her apartment, living like a hog. And later on she pulls the same stunt on some other delivery boys around there, and everyone gets wise to her and they know I didn’t take the money. Meanwhile, though, this delly owner has canned me and told my old man I was a thief, and the old man beats me black and blue.

  So a hell of a lot of good it does me.

  That is one thing I can’t figure out. Why your own parents will take some outsider’s word for something before they will yours. But I realize that this incident is of no importance, so I will get on with my tale. I simply wished to demonstrate how right from the beginning people were giving me a bad time.

  Well, it went on and on, and I will not trouble you with a full recital of it all. Because all the crap I caught, it’s pretty hard to believe, and you’d probably think I was a damned liar.

  So finally I’m in my second year of high school, and people have been giving me trouble all the way, trying to hold me back, and I’m pretty big not to be any further along. Anyway, there’s this English teacher, and she’s pretty young; not a hell of a lot older than I was, I guess. And she keeps giving me the eye and putting her hand on my shoulder when she shows me how to do something. And I figure, well, you know. So one day when she keeps me after class—it’s the last class of the day and we’re all alone—one day when she’s leaning over me and kind of rubbing up against me, why I give her a feel. I thought she wanted it, you know, so I did it. But dear reader it was a trap.

  Well, I suppose it was an invaluable lesson, and one that profited me greatly in the future. That little bitch taught me something I never forgot, viz: the prettier and the sweeter they act toward you, the less you can trust ’em. They’re just leading you on, see, to get you in trouble. And maybe you don’t see it right at the time, but, brother, you will.

  But it was sure a lesson purchased at great cost. I get the chilly drizzles right now when I think about it.

  She yells and slaps my face, and some of the men teachers come running in, and I try to explain how it was, what I thought, and that just makes it worse. They call the principal, and they all start knocking me at once. It’s their fault, see, that I’m not any further along. But they claim it’s me. They give out with a lot of craperoo about how I won’t study, I haven’t really got my mind on school, and I’m uncooperative and antagonistic toward the other kids. And they make it sound like I’m public enemy number one or something; and it all started because this babe gave me a play, and I foolishly picked her up on it.

  Well, to make a long story short, I got expelled and thus through no fault of my own, my formal education was terminated at a tender age. But to hell with ’em all, I say. People that act as dirty as that, they’re not worth soiling my mind thinking about, and I don’t.

  You are aware by now that I am one hard working bastard with plenty of experience in many fields. But
incredible as it seems, my earnest efforts and ability were never appreciated. The rookings I got right from the time I left home and took to the road are something to challenge the imagination. You’d have to see it to believe it, by God!

  There was the manager of this circulation crew I first went out with. A crook from way back, and, man, what a crap artist. He gives me the old bull about traveling to California and back in new cars and making seventy-five bucks a week. And me, I’m just an innocent kid, unwise in the ways of the world, so I swallow it like candy. I sign on with the crew, there’s about eight of us in this ten-year-old Dodge, and it seems like our first stop on our way to California is Newark, N.J. and—

  You ever do the door-to-door in Newark? Well, don’t do it. They get all the crews coming out of New York, see. These circulation outfits and so on, they shake the crews down in Jersey, and it’s not really a fair test because the goddamned place is worked to death, but that’s the way it is.

  They shook out two of the guys in Newark, and another one before we’re out of the state. Then, the rest of us go on westward, the crew manager and us four men. Well, I really knocked myself out. I made the doors and I made the sales. But it don’t do me no good. It’s like it’s always been with me: working hard and being honest, and getting nothing for it. The crew manager, this bull artist, would do the call-backs on my orders, and on about two-thirds of ’em he’d give me a can’t-confirm. He’d look me right in the eye and say the lady had changed her mind or her husband wouldn’t let her go through with the buy. And then he’d write the orders up as his own and take the commission.