by Jim Thompson
So I knew what I was doing. What of it? Was I supposed to make myself look like a heel?
She whispered, “Bill…” and he went back. She stretched out her arms, and he went down on his knees at her bedside, and the arms locked around him. “Bill, my darling Bill…” Her lips moved over his face. “How could I ever have—what would I ever do without you? You’ve been so good, so wonderful!”
“You’re pretty wonderful yourself,” he said. “And now you’re going to sleep. Right now, young lady, understand?”
With superhuman effort, he forced himself to disengage her arms, to stand up and walk out of the room. It left him unnerved, sleepless throughout the night, but it proved worthwhile. The last shred of her caution was struck away. Carrying her to her room became an almost nightly happening, even when she did not fall asleep. She would demand it, playfully, moving drowsily into his embrace. “S-oo tired, Bill. Help the old sleepy-head upstairs, hmm…?”
Her weariness was not pretended, he knew. She had worried herself into exhaustion, and the long years of sexual starvation, or near-starvation, had robbed her of vitality. Now, at last, she had someone to lean upon, someone who loved as unselfishly as she. So she leaned willingly, anxiously.
The Free Speech petition…well, the old man had reacted exactly as he thought he would about that. He wasn’t sure that he hadn’t signed. In any event, he would not deny that he had and thus indirectly damn a cause he had believed in. He had stood pat, and, of course, the school board had promptly booted him out of his job. And with his failing health, the blow was almost fatal.
But, no. NO—Dusty almost shouted the word. That wasn’t the way it was. It had worked out that way, but he hadn’t planned it. A street-corner solicitor had offered him the petition, and he had signed it…without even thinking of the consequences. He had signed it simply William Bryant Rhodes, because there had not been enough space to add the Jr. (That was the only reason.) And he definitely had not faked his father’s signature. Dad had taught him how to write. It was only natural that their signatures should be very similar.
She had been almost hysterical that night. She had been denied so much, real motherhood, real wifehood; she had had so little, and now that little—the modest security—had been lost. She was frightened; she was bewildered. In the dimly lit living-room, she lay sobbing in Dusty’s arms, weeping and clinging to him like a lost child. Slowly drawing strength from his strength, reassurance from his softly whispered words.
She sniffled, and began to smile. He held a handkerchief to her nose and she blew obediently.
“J-just look at me,” she smiled tremulously. “What a big cry-baby!”
“My baby,” he said. “My little baby. And you just cry all you want to.”
“Oh, B-Bill! Darling! W-what would I ever do without—”
“Nothing. Because I’ll always be with you. Now. Hold still a minute and…”
He took the handkerchief and tapped the tears from her face. Very business-like, he tapped them from her neck…From her half-exposed breasts.
“My,” he said, “a little bit more and you’d have been soaking.” And he cupped one of his hands over the bare flesh. “You just ought to feel yourself.”
He looked up, then, forced himself to, and he saw the shadows in her eyes. Then, his eyes narrowed, lazily, and she buried her face against his chest. And she whispered, “You shouldn’t do that, Bill. You know you shouldn’t. Never ever.”
“Why not?” he said. “If you knew how much I loved you…”
“I know. I love you, too, darling. You’ve been so wonderful, so good to me that—Oh, Bill, sweet”—she tightened her arms desperately—“I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me.”
Her body stiffened and went limp. He withdrew his hand, shifted her gently from his lap to the lounge. She lay there, motionless, hardly seeming to breathe, one arm flung across her face.
He hesitated. Then, kneeling, he turned back her robe, and pulled up her nightgown, and…
Her open palm exploded against his face.
It rocked him back on his heels, and he sat down on the floor. She sat up, readjusting her nightclothes.
“I had to be sure,” she said, quietly. “I couldn’t believe that you meant what you seemed to—I hated to believe it. But I had to be sure…”
…Then, she had begun to scream at him…bastard…filth…monster…pouring out her hatred and disgust.
Fortunately, Mr. Rhodes had taken a heavy sedative before retiring.
…The fan hummed drowsily. Stretched out before its warm, narcotic breeze, Dusty relived that terrible scene with his foster mother and found it not so terrible after all. He was glad that he had done this, forced himself to honestly re-examine the past. Taken bit by bit, looked at in the light of background happenings, he had only reacted normally to an abnormal situation. It was her fault, not his. She had been the aggressor, not he. Probably, if he had been a little more adroit, a little less clumsy, she would have done what he wanted her to. And what she undoubtedly wanted him to do to her.
No, it wasn’t so bad, and he wasn’t so bad. On the whole, he had behaved, and was behaving, a lot more decently than most guys.
He didn’t hate Dad. He got a little annoyed with him, depressed when he thought of being saddled with him for years to come—but who wouldn’t? He didn’t hate him, certainly, and most certainly he didn’t wish him dead.
And Bascom. He didn’t hate Bascom, nor wish him dead…even if it was possible to bring his death about. Bascom had rubbed his nose into the dirt for months. Now, the old guy was scared out of his wits, and it was his, Dusty’s, turn to do some rubbing. And why should he have been disturbed about doing it?
Tug Trowbridge. He felt no admiration for Tug, no identification with him. It had been up to Tug to rescue him from a trap. Naturally, since the matter was vital to him, he had been keenly interested in its success. That was all there was to it.
Marcia Hillis…
Well, his attitude toward her was harder to analyze. First, he had been sick with concern for her. Then, the concern had shifted to something that was almost hate. She had been the prey, and they the hunters, and when it seemed that she might escape—as he had hoped she would a moment before—he had almost hated her.
Well. But was that so odd, after all? He had much the same mixed feelings about that other her, his foster mother. And there had been a parallel situation in that case. He had been afraid that she might tell Dad—dreadfully, sickeningly afraid. So loving her, unable to keep from loving her, he had also hated her. He had wanted her punished for the terror she had caused him.
Now, well, now, of course, he only loved her; he would have loved her if she had still been alive. And now that the danger to himself was past, he felt only love—he could think of no other way to describe his feelings—for Marcia Hillis. He would talk to Tug tonight. Find out where she had gone. Then, when Dad died…if he died…or sometime, somehow, he would get in touch with her. Go to her or have her come back here. She liked him. He was sure of that, despite this thing she had tried to do for financial gain. So…so they would be together, and this time it would be different The scene would be the same but this time…
…no sudden, terrifying blow in the face. No icy voice, no hatefully screamed reproaches. Only the yielding ivory body, the warm welcoming arms, the mass of hair tumbling silkily over his face…And, at last, fulfillment.
Dusty stirred restlessly. His eyes dragged open, and after a minute’s more tossing, he sat up. He lighted a cigarette, blew the smoke out in nervous, excited puffs.
It would be like that. It had to be, he realized now. Through the years, he had been so formed that he could accept only one woman. And without her there could be nothing—no rest, no peace, no completion. Only an aching void where strange fears dwelled and multiplied, and gnawed unceasingly.
He had to have her, and he would. She liked him. He made good money—and there were ways of making more—and if she’d been
desperate enough to attempt…
Dimly, he heard the phone ring. Then, his father’s voice answering it, and his footsteps shuffling back from the living room. He stood up, just as the old man opened the door.
“Hate to call you, Bill, but someone from the hotel…”
Dusty muttered a curse. “You’ve already told them I was here? Well, okay.”
He thrust his way past Mr. Rhodes, and snatched up the phone. Then, forcing his voice to a semblance of politeness, he said, “Yes, sir. This is Bill Rhodes.”
“How are you, fellow?”—it was Tug Trowbridge. “Sorry to wake you up, but I figured you and me had better have a little talk…Now, yeah.”
9
Ten miles out of the city, the broad new highway was paralleled for perhaps a mile by an abandoned strip of blacktop pavement. It lay on the other side of the railroad tracks, gradually curving off through the hills and becoming lost in a wasteland of deserted farms. It was there, just over the crest of the first hill, that Dusty met Tug Trowbridge.
He parked his coupe behind the gangster’s big black Cadillac. Tug beamed and extended a bottle of beer as Dusty slid into the seat next to him.
“Ain’t this a scorcher, kid? Here, get a load of this inside of you and you’ll feel better.”
Dusty jerked his head nervously. “I don’t drink, thanks. W-what did you—”
“Not even beer? Well”—Tug elevated the bottle and swallowed, gurglingly—“you could do a lot worse, kid. A guy’s got to let off a little steam some way, and beer’s about the safest thing I know of.”
He belched, and tossed the bottle through the window. Reaching over the seat, he reached another bottle from a pail of ice. He pulled the cap with his teeth, took a long, thoughtful drink. He stared through the windshield absently, belching again.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “A man can do a lot worse than drink beer.”
“About last night,” said Dusty. “Was that what—”
“Yeah,” Tug said. “Last night, now there’s an example. You stick to beer after this, fellow, and leave the babes alone. It’ll save you a lot of trouble. Save everyone a lot of trouble.”
Dusty’s face flushed. “But it wasn’t like that! It was like I told you! She called for some stationery, and then when I went in she—”
“So who cares,” Tug shrugged, indifferently, “but that wasn’t her story. And, kid, she seemed plenty legit to me. She talked it and she had the stuff to back it up. Newspaper clippings and letters and so on. It looked like she was just what she claimed to be—a high-class nightclub dancer. Came to town early figuring she might pick up an engagement during the races.”
“But that doesn’t mean—”
“Sure, I know. Maybe she’d just started on the make. Or maybe she just used the legit as a cover-up for the other. Maybe. But that little maybe could cause a hell of a lot of trouble. You put that maybe in there, and it’s an entirely different deal from the one I figured on. Give some shakedown baby the heave-ho, that’s nothing. She can’t squawk or if she does squawk it don’t do her no good. But a woman like this one—someone who can prove she’s legitimate, or maybe make it impossible for you to prove that she ain’t—well…”
He raised the bottle to his lips. Covertly, out of the corners of his shrewd animal’s eyes, he studied Dusty’s pale face. He grinned to himself, forcing his features into a thoughtful scowl.
“Not nice, huh, kid? I saw we’d caught a hot one right away, but of course it was too late to let go then. We had to go ahead, me and three of my boys, and I’m telling you, they don’t like it much either. They got their necks stuck out to here—they have and you have and I have. And that little lady says just a few words, and all five are going to pop.”
“P-pop?”
“Pop,” Tug nodded solemnly. “Attempted rape. Kidnaping. They ain’t the same thing as running through a traffic signal, kid, or spitting on the sidewalk. They particularly ain’t the same thing down here in the south.”
“But it’s just her word—”
“Huh-uh. Not that her word wouldn’t be plenty against us, a bellboy and three heavies, but there’s a lot more than that. Think it over, Dusty. Probably a dozen people saw that little frammis this morning. It didn’t mean anything to them at the time, but they saw it. And they’ll talk just as soon as she does.”
Think it over? Dusty’s eyes were glazing. God, he didn’t need to think it over. “Isn’t there some way t-to to—?”
“Yes,” said Tug, slowly. “There’s a way. I’d sure hate to do it, and the boys don’t like it either, but…”
His voice trailed off into silence. Dusty stared at him, not immediately understanding, and then his face went a shade paler.
“No!” he gasped. “No! You can’t do that!”
“We-el”—Tug gave him another covert glance. “Like I say, I’d sure hate to. With some babes, it would almost be a pleasure, but a dame like her—real class and all kinds of looks and a shape that’s out of this world, why…”
“You w-won’t do it, will you? Promise you won’t!”
“We-el…You know where you can lay your hands on ten thousand dollars?”
“Ten thous—Of course not!”
“Neither do I. But that’s what it’s got to be, Dusty. That or the other. For ten grand she keeps quiet. She puts it down in black and white that none of us laid a finger on her, and she left the hotel of her own free will.”
He paused, again studying the bellboy, smiling again secretly. He went on, frowning earnestly. “When I say I ain’t got it, I mean it, kid. It’s strictly under your hat, see, but I’m broke. I’m a hell of a lot worse than broke.”
“But”—Dusty his head, incredulously—“but how—”
“I can still flash a roll? Drive a big car? Pay heavy rent? Yeah, I can do it—for a couple more weeks. I’ve been slipping for a long time, Dusty, and now I’m right down at the bottom of the sack. I’m broke. I’ve got a hell of a big income-tax rap hanging over me. I’ve been stalling it for years, and now I can’t stall any longer. I either pay up or else.” He sighed, flung the emptied bottle out the window. “Of course, it makes it easy for me in a way. The spot I’m in, this dame could yell her head off and she couldn’t make it much worse.”
“B-but—”
“Sure,” Tug nodded. “There’s you and the boys to think about. And of course I don’t like to just sit still and wait for old Uncle Whiskers to sock it to me. If I can’t do anything better, I’d like to get a big enough roll to skip the country.”
He lapsed into another silence, his big good-natured face long with concern. His big face that looked good-natured turned toward the window. There was a small mirror there, attached to the windscreen. It gave him a full view of Dusty’s tortured features.
He sighed heavily, shifted the sound into an absently amused laugh. “Y’know it’s a funny thing, kid—about this Hillis woman, I mean. You might think she’d be sore as hell at you, but she don’t seem to be at all. In fact, I kind of got the idea that she liked you a lot. She’s been pushed around and she figures she ought to be paid for it. But there’s nothing personal in it, see? Why, I’ll bet if you were in the chips—you’d have to be, of course, with a babe like that—I’ll bet she’d come a running to you like—”
“I’ve got to know,” said Dusty. “I’ve got to know the truth, Mr. Trowbridge. Is she—”
“Yeah? And why don’t you just make it Tug, kid?”
“I’ve got to know, Tug. Is she—you haven’t already killed her?”
“Huh!” Tug exclaimed. “Why, of course, we ain’t, and we ain’t going to if there’s another way out. We got her hid nice and comfortable, a lot more comfortable than you and me are right now.”
“Could I—could I see her?”
“Sure you can,” Tug said evenly. “If you think I’m lying, just say so and I’ll take you to her.”
Dusty hesitated. Then, the implications of Tug’s statement hit him full force, and he shoo
k his head firmly. He had to believe the gangster. At least, he couldn’t appear to doubt him. For if Tug had ordered her death to keep her quiet, and if he was forced to admit the fact…well, he, Dusty, would also be quieted. Similarly. Permanently.
Tug would feel compelled to do it, and not merely to protect himself. The big man was desperate. He wanted something from Dusty and he intended to get it, and the woman was vital to his getting—a means of enforcing his demands. She had to be alive, then. He could not openly doubt that she was alive. To do so would be to make himself useless to Tug—a man with dangerous knowledge who refused to cooperate—and he would not live long.
Dusty thought it was that way, but he wasn’t positive. He spoke cautiously, testing his theory:
“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Tug. You figure on jumping the country, anyway? Well, then, why not just let this woman go when you’re ready to jump? Let her talk all she wants to. You won’t be around to face the music.”
“Well”—Tug shifted in the seat—“I, uh, couldn’t hardly do that, kid. An income-tax rap is one thing. Kidnaping and abetting a rape is somethin’ else.”
“But you wouldn’t be around. You don’t intend to come back.”
“Well, uh, like I said a moment ago, there’s you and the boys to think about. We’re all in this together, and you’d still be here, and—” He broke off, eyes glinting. “I say something funny, kid?”
“No”—Dusty shook his head. “I just wanted to know how things stood.”
“Okay!” Tug snapped harshly. “Now you know. Now you got the picture. I got some plans and I ain’t letting ’em be screwed up. I didn’t figure you in ’em originally, but that’s the way it’s worked out. You’re in and you’re going to play. Or else!”
