A Hell of a Woman

by Jim Thompson

  “Well,” I said, “I won’t say I couldn’t use a little extra money.”

  “I’ll give it to you in the morning,” she said. “Be sure and remind me of it.”

  “Those deadbeats have really been giving me a time,” I said. “The rotten bastards, you’d think they were trying to see how hard—Well, skip it. I must be beginning to sound like one long gripe.”

  “It’s all right, darling. Don’t ever be afraid to talk to me.”

  “Well, anyway,” I said. “I caught up with a flock of ’em tonight. Pulled in a nice little wad of dough. Ought to make Staples act half way decent toward me for a change.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I’m so glad for you, honey.” And it seemed to me that her smile became a lot more real; the watchfulness went out of her.

  She turned down another drink. I poured one for myself, and sat sipping it, thinking; and then I happened to look at her out of the corner of my eyes. And she was looking at me the same way, her head cocked to one side.

  I laughed and she laughed. I set down my drink, and pulled her over on my lap.

  I kissed her. Or, I guess you could say, she kissed me. She put her hands back of my head, and pulled my face down to hers. And I thought we weren’t ever coming up for air, but you don’t hear me kicking. She was a lot of woman, that Joyce. She had the face and she had the build. It wasn’t hard to forget, for a little while, that she was just plain no-good and never would be.

  She pulled away at last and lay back, smiling up at me, wiggling and breathing pretty hard as I made with the hands.

  “Mmmm,” she said, half closing her eyes. “Oh, Dolly, we are going to be happy, aren’t we?”

  “Hell,” I said. “I’m happy right now.”

  “Do you really like my nightgown, honey? Tell me the truth, now.”

  “Huh-uh,” I said. “I don’t like it.”

  “Oh? Why, honey, I spent almost one whole afternoon picking it out, and I was just sure—”

  “It covers you up,” I said. “I don’t like anything that covers you up.”

  She laughed and said, “Oh, you!” and gave me a little pinch. She pulled my head down again, and whispered in my ear. “I’ll tell you something, honey. It’s a new kind of gown. It…comes off…”

  Well.

  Well, afterwards—after she’d gone to sleep—I got up to get a drink of water. And on the way back to the bedroom, I locked the sample case and put the key in my pocket.

  I got back into bed. I turned on my side, and closed my eyes. And it was as though a guard had been taken away from a gate, or a door suddenly thrown open, letting in a hundred images that I hadn’t looked at until then—that I hadn’t really looked at. Letting them all rush in at me at once. The old woman and Pete. The way she’d looked, the way he’d looked. Her head swinging like a pumpkin, her body sprawled on the stairs. His face—his face and neck, the way he’d chuckled when he asked me…

  I screamed. I flung myself up in bed, rocking and screaming. Because, Jesus, I hadn’t wanted to do it, and I wouldn’t ever have done it again. But now it was done, and there wasn’t any way I could undo it. And, God, I’d be caught sure as hell. I’d just blundered my way through, and probably I’d done a hundred things that the cops could trace me on. Or if they weren’t bright enough to catch up with me, Mona would probably do the job for them. She’d get scared and talk to save her own neck, and—

  “Jesus!” I rocked back and forth, screaming and crying. “Oh, God Almighty. My God, God, God…”

  And then there was someone else saying, “My God. Oh, my God, darling…” And Joyce was holding onto me, her body rocking with mine.

  “I’m s-sorry,” I said. “I—I—God, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I’m—”

  “Lie down,” she said. “Lie down, and mother will hold her boy. Mother’s never going to go away and leave her boy again. She’s going to stay right here and hold him close like this, and nothing can hurt him then; there’s nothing to be afraid of. He’s with mother, and he’s safe, and mother will understand whatever…w-whatever…”

  I got hold of myself, partly. I said, “I must have been having a nightmare. I—”

  “There, there,” she said. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right, darling. He’s going to lie down now, and…there. There, there.”

  She pulled me back down. She moved her pillow up a little bit and moved mine down a little.

  “There,” she said. “No, baby; around this way. Tha-at’s my boy! Now, down a little, just a little more…and then closer, darling. Very close to mother…”

  And she drew me close.

  And slid the gown down off her shoulders.

  14

  Well, even a punching bag gets a rest once in a while. And now and then, usually right after I’ve been torn all to pieces, I get a little relief. Things will actually begin to look pretty good to me. I’ve been down as far as I can go, you see, so I start going back up again—kind of soaring. And man, when you catch me that way I’m a hard guy to stop.

  …Joyce was up ahead of me the next morning. By the time I’d dressed she had breakfast waiting—and a good one, no kidding. And she didn’t say a word about the night before. I’d been sort of worried about that; worried and kind of ashamed. But she didn’t let out a peep about it, or let on like there’d been a thing out of the way. So that day was started off right, right from the beginning.

  She kept a little of the money from her trip for groceries, and gave me the rest. She gave me a love pat now and then while she was waiting on me; and I got a big hug and a kiss when I was ready to leave.

  “Notice anything?” she said, smiling up at me. “I’ve got a house dress on and my hair is combed and my face is made up, and…Did you notice?”

  I started to say, so what: you want me to shoot off some skyrockets? But it just wasn’t that kind of morning, so I said, “You’re darned right I noticed. You look swell, baby.”

  “You’ll be right home tonight?”

  “Well, sure,” I said. “Why not? Why wouldn’t I come right home?”

  “I just wanted to know. So that I could have dinner ready.”

  “Something on your mind?” I said. “Anything bothering you?”

  Her face fell a little: at the tone of my voice, I figured. Then, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me again; and she said, laughing, “Yes. You. I’ve got you on my mind. Now, run along so I can get some work done.”

  I started for town. On the way in, I stopped and bought a newspaper. And I had a hard moment or two before I found the story, and made myself read it.

  It was okay. It was swell. The case was so open-and-shut that it hadn’t even made the front pages. It was back on page three, and there was only about half a column of it:

  Mona had been in bed asleep, and had been awakened “by the sounds of struggle.” At first “too terrified to investigate,” she had finally forced herself to “when the sound of several shots was followed by a prolonged silence…Mrs. Farrell’s niece identified Hendrickson as a one-time odd-jobs man in her aunt’s employ. He had quit, swearing vengeance, she said, after a dispute over his wages. As police reconstructed the case, Hendrickson returned to the house last night—drinking and surly—and demanded payment of the disputed sum. Angered by the elderly woman’s refusal, he gave her a near-fatal beating, robbed her and started to flee. Mrs. Farrell managed to follow him to the head of the stairs and shoot him. She then fell and broke her neck, although, it is believed, she would have died anyway as a result of the beating…

  “Police revealed that Hendrickson had a record of several arrests for drunkenness, disorderly conduct and battery. He recently completed a six months’ jail sentence for assaulting an officer who was taking him into custody.”

  That was just about it, all that’s important. Mona had recited her story just as I’d given it to her. And thank God, there weren’t any pictures. If they’d gotten her picture and she hadn’t kept her face covered—like she was cry
ing, you know, like I’d told her to—I’d’ve had some questions to answer. Staples would have recognized her as the same girl who bailed me out of jail, and he’d’ve been mighty curious about it. He’d’ve wanted to know what I was to her and she to me, and just where was I last night at the time of the killings. And if I couldn’t answer his questions—

  But there weren’t any pictures. The case was too open-and-shut. The people involved just weren’t important enough.

  I stopped at the store, and checked in and out. I went to work, trying to figure out some place where I might stash that dough. It was pretty awkward to lug around with me; heavy, and the samples didn’t cover it too well. Lift up a few and there it was. Someone might accidentally spot it before I could stop ’em. Joyce might want some panties or stockings out of the case, and—well, any way you looked at it, it wasn’t good to have it with me.

  I thought about it all morning as I drove around. I fretted and fumed, trying to think of something, getting pretty sore at myself because I couldn’t. But I couldn’t, and that was that. I thought of a couple places, but they weren’t any good. They were worse—or they seemed worse—than keeping the dough with me.

  Check it at the railroad station? Well, you know how that is. Those guys are always banging stuff around, breaking stuff open accidentally-on-purpose. Or they give your baggage out to someone else. Or they get screwed up on the claim check, and you have to identify the contents…You know. You read about it all the time.

  A safety deposit box? Well, that would be just as bad, or more so. I’d have to give references to rent one—and maybe I could give Staples, huh? And, anyway, characters like me, we aren’t supposed to have anything worth locking up.

  I had to keep it with me. It was the only thing I knew to do. I’d just have to take the stuff out of the case that I was going to show people (and I wasn’t going to show very damned much; I wasn’t going to do very damned much work at all). As for Joyce, well, I could handle her. She was on her good behavior now, afraid of getting me sore, and I wouldn’t need to give her any explanations or act apologetic. I’d just tell her to go down to the store if she wanted anything: I was tired of getting my samples screwed up. I’d keep the sample case locked, and tell her to keep the hell away from it. And if she didn’t like it, she could lump it.

  I framed the words in my mind, just how I’d tell her off if she started nosing around. And, then, I got to thinking about last night…and I decided it wouldn’t be necessary to talk to her that way. I’d say—well—I’d say, “Now, honey. I’m not even going to let your pretty fingers touch that junk. You just tell old Dolly what you want, and he’ll bring you home something good.”

  It would be better to say something like that. It was just good sense, you know. Hell, you can still be polite to people even if you don’t give a damn about ’em.

  I knocked off work about one o’clock, and checked over my take. I had twenty-eight dollars—pretty good for a morning, but nothing at all for a day, of course. But with that other thirty, the six fives I’d taken from the hundred grand, it would make me a plenty good day.

  I stopped in a bar. I ordered a pre-wrapped sandwich—those bastards could eat their own slop!—and a bottle of ale; and took it over to the booth. I ate and drank. I got another ale, and spread out my collection cards.

  They were really honeys, these accounts we had. They made the first payment, and then you fought ’em for the rest. Catch those characters coming in or sending in the dough. You either fought ’em for it, or you didn’t get it. And you didn’t always get it then.

  I picked out six past-dues, six accounts that owed us five bucks each. I marked them up on the cards, shifted the thirty from my wallet to the company cash bag, and, well, that was it.

  It was about two o’clock by now. I moved on to another bar, buying a late paper on the way.

  They’d cut the story down to about three paragraphs in this one. There was nothing new in it, or, rather nothing that mattered. The house and the furniture were just about the sum total of the old woman’s estate. And it seemed like she was so far behind in her taxes that the property would just about cover ’em. She hadn’t left any will. Mona was her only known survivor. And so on. Nothing that mattered. Everything was still okay.

  I ordered my second double shot, and another ale for a chaser.

  It was kind of funny about those taxes, the old woman not paying ’em. All that dough, and she’d let the taxes pile up until the county was on the point of taking over. But—well, maybe it wasn’t so funny either. So strange, I mean. A lot of people don’t pay taxes until the gun’s right on them. And she’d been just as stingy and tight-fisted about everything else. Living on beans and junk. Making Mona lay for everyone that came along. She was just a miser, and there’s no accounting for misers. The only money she’d spent that she could have got out of was that little bit of yard work she’d hired Pete to do. And—I guessed—she probably hadn’t laid out much cash then. If any. Pete had taken it out in trade…got his pay from Mona.

  Mona. She was a plenty sweet child, and I was in love with her. But I’d fallen in love before, thinking I was getting something special; and how had it turned out? How did I know it wouldn’t turn out the same way with her?

  I hadn’t thought much about it until last night; hadn’t had any real doubts about her. I’d been just a little bothered the way she’d cut loose with me. But except for last night I’d’ve been ready to skip it.

  When you put the two together, the way she’d acted with me and the way she’d blown her top over Pete, and when you got to thinking about all those other guys…

  Well, I wasn’t putting up with any more tramps. I mean, I’d had enough goddamned tramps to last me a lifetime! I was sure that she wasn’t one—pretty sure—but if I ever got the notion that she was, brother, look out!

  What the hell could she do about it, anyway? What if I told her right now that she’d been on a buggy ride, and this was where she got off? Why she couldn’t do anything, that’s what. I could keep the money and tell her to go to hell—well, maybe I’d give her a few bills—and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

  And it wouldn’t bother me that much.

  If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s a goddamned tramp.

  Joyce, now. Well, I’ve talked pretty rough about Joyce, and she was as lazy and sloppy and ornery as they come. But there was always one thing I was sure of—pretty sure—damned sure—regardless of what I said. She didn’t play around. She never had, and she wouldn’t know how to begin. It just wasn’t in her, see?

  If she’d been as square about other things as she’d been about that; if she kept up this act she’d been putting on since she’d been back…

  If it was an act. I figured it just about had to be, because a leopard don’t change her spots. But it was a damned good one, as good as the real thing, so what the hell was the difference?

  Joyce. Yeah, Joyce had her points all right. And now that I wouldn’t have to knock myself out to make a living, now that I could feel like I amounted to something and we could have nice things, and—But that was the trouble. The money. How could I explain to her about the money? What kind of story could I hand her?

  I guessed I couldn’t explain; anyway, I couldn’t think of a good story offhand. And there wasn’t any hurry about it. I wasn’t supposed to see Mona for a couple of weeks, and I could probably think of a lot of things between now and then.

  Well…I drank another round and left the place. I got some black coffee, and started driving again. Just around, just killing time. It was four o’clock. More than two hours before I could check in at the store, and get home to Joyce.

  Joyce. Mona. Joyce? Mona?

  What the hell? I thought, and I tried to push it out of my mind. Mona was a good kid. Anyone could see that she was; and she’d carried through on this deal like a little brick. Doing what she was told. Helping to murder her own aunt for her dough—

  Well. Well
, she was on the square, all right. She’d damned well better be. Because I knew Joyce was, and if I could just think up the right kind of story to account for that hundred grand…

  I drove around until after six, making myself look good. Then I checked in at the store, bustling in like I’d been on the run all day; and Staples’ eyebrows went up a little when he saw what I had for him.

  “Not bad, Frank,” he said, counting the money. “Oh, not half bad. Perhaps by the end of the week you’ll be doing a decent day’s work again.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said. “You better watch that, Stape. You keep patting me on the back like that and you’re liable to break your wrist.”

  He grinned down his nose. We said goodnight and I started to leave, and he called me back. “By the way, I see that a couple of your customers came to a violent end last night. One of your customers, I should say, and the relative of one.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I read about that. Too damned bad they don’t all get bumped off.”

  “Oh, now, Frank. What would we do for customers?”

  “I mean it,” I said. “If every one of the rotten bastards dropped dead of the bleeding piles, it would tickle me pink.”

  “It really would, wouldn’t it?” he nodded. “But this Farrell case. There’s an angle of it which struck me as being rather curious.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “I mean, it did?”

  “Mmm. Uh-hah. Mrs. Farrell was apparently a virtual pauper, yet her niece—her dependent—spends thirty-three dollars for a chest of silverware.”

  He stood looking at me, eyebrows cocked, waiting for me to say something.

  I swallowed, and it sounded, by God, like Niagara Falls.

  “Well?” I said. “What about it?”

  “Frank! Honestly! And I’ve always looked upon you as my best man—in a hideous sort of way, of course…You actually don’t see anything contradictory in the situation?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” I said.

  “Yes? Yes, Frank?”

  “I’ll tell you the way I feel, Stape. These bastards we got on our books, I don’t try to figure them out. It’s no use, know what I mean? You can’t expect ’em to make any sense. If they weren’t nutty as a pecan orchard they wouldn’t be trading with us.”