A Swell-Looking Babe

by Jim Thompson

  And then she stretched out at his side. And waited.

  He was too startled to move for a moment; it had all happened so swiftly. Then, his senses responded to the wonderful reality of her, and he moaned and…

  She lay supine, docile, under his hungrily groping hands. They roamed over her body unhindered, nothing forbidden nor withheld. And her mouth received his in long, breathtaking kisses. It was almost too much, more ecstasy than he could bear. To have her at last, after all these years of hunger and hopelessness, to have this—the impossible dream come true—his for the taking.

  He moaned again. He turned, pulling her body under his and then he opened his eyes. Looked into hers.

  “What—what’s the matter?” he said.

  “You mean,” she said, “you’re not enjoying yourself?”

  “Look. If you didn’t want to, why—?”

  “I thought I explained. To see how important this was to you—how much value or little value you placed on it.”

  “But that—that’s crazy! What does it prove? For God’s sake, Marcia, you can’t—”

  “To me, it proves a great deal. To you—well, I’m waiting to find out.”

  “B-but—” But it was impossible, unbearable! He couldn’t stop now. Jesus, he couldn’t! He couldn’t! But if he didn’t…

  He bit his lip. Suddenly, he thrust himself up, dropped down panting at her side. And he lay there, eyes clenched, trembling from the terrible effort. It was all right now. He was exhausted, now, drained dry of strength—weak as he was disappointed.

  Her arm went around his neck, pulling his head against her breast. She held it there, gently, stroking his hair.

  “You’ll be glad, darling,” she whispered. “You’ll see. You’ll be so glad you waited.”

  “All right,” he said. “I…all right.”

  “You don’t hate me, do you, darling? Please don’t. No matter what I—how I act. Because I won’t be doing it to hurt you. I love you and I want you to love me, to keep on loving me, and if we don’t get started off right…”

  “All right,” he repeated. “I said it was all right, didn’t I?”

  “And I said you’d be glad,” she whispered. “And you will…”

  16

  Although there was still some soreness in his shoulder, he went back to work two days later. He wanted to get the pay-off made and over with. He wanted to—had to—get away from his father. For, that first day excepted, the old man had hardly left the house. And when he did leave on some errand, he was back within minutes.

  He was always hovering around Marcia, offering to do things for her, inquiring about her comfort. He was always underfoot, butting into their conversations, making a thoroughgoing pest of himself. He stayed up at night until they retired. If they went to the kitchen to fix coffee, or out the porch for a breath of air, he tagged along. They couldn’t get rid of him. Marcia, for her part, showed no desire to.

  Once Dusty did manage to get her alone for a few minutes, and he made some sarcastic remark about the old man. She looked at him sharply.

  “Why Dusty,” she laughed, half-frowning. “What a thing to say about your own father! He’s just been very lonely, that’s all. Surely, you don’t begrudge—”

  “Oh, hell,” he snapped. “I’ve been here right along, haven’t I? Why would he be lonely?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Why would he be?”

  He smoothed over the incident, told her laughingly that he guessed he was just jealous. And after that he went out of his way to be pleasant to Mr. Rhodes. But the effort told on his nerves. If he had to keep it up one more day, he felt—just one more day—he’d crack up.

  She came out to his car with him the night he returned to work. It was dark, moonless. There was a threat of storm in the heavy, overheated air. She kissed him, remained within the circle of his arms for a moment.

  “A little after twelve, then, darling?”

  “Or later. Whenever Dad goes to sleep.”

  “I come to the side entrance in a taxi,” she recited. “I have the taxi wait and come inside. If you’re not there, I speak to the clerk and he’ll have me wait until you return. I—He will, won’t he, Dusty? He wouldn’t offer to open the checkroom himself?”

  “Not a chance. It would be beneath him, see, bellboy’s work, and it would make me sore. He’d be cheating me out of a tip.”

  She nodded, still clinging to him. He bent his head a little and touched his lips to the sweet-smelling hair.

  “About Tug, Marcia. I haven’t asked before, and I don’t want you to tell me if you’d—”

  “It’s a dangerous secret, darling; it could be one. There’s nothing to be gained by your knowing, and everything to lose.”

  “Well”—he hesitated. “But is it safe for you? You know where Tug is. Once you give him the money, he might figure that—”

  “I won’t give it to him. I’m going to leave it in a certain place where he can get it. Don’t worry, Dusty.” She patted his cheek, lovingly. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  They kissed again, stood whispering together a moment longer. At last she stepped back, and he reached for the door of the car. A streak of heat lightning raced across the sky. He paused on the point of sliding into the seat.

  “Your clothes,” he said. “Want me to drive you in tomorrow, and pick them up?”

  “Clothes? Oh, yes. Maybe that would be a good idea.”

  “Well. Anything else? Sure you can get all the dough in that bag of yours?”

  He knew that she could. It was an outsize shoulder bag, and she would remove the contents before coming to the hotel. She nodded absently to the question but she continued to stand there at the curb, a small frown on her heart-shaped face.

  He glanced at the radiant dial of the dashboard clock. Nine-fifteen, and he was supposed to be in uniform by ten tonight. They were taking his picture for the morning papers.

  “I’ve got to run, Marcia. Is there something else—anything bothering you?”

  “We-el…Oh, I guess not,” she laughed ruefully. “I don’t think I should mention it, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. It just isn’t my place to suggest it. After all, it must have already occurred to you, and as long as you haven’t said anything…”

  “About what? What are you—Oh,” he said slowly. “Well…” And his voice trailed off into an uncomfortable pause.

  Actually, he had thought very little about it, how he was going to get his share of the money out of the hotel. A problem so simple required little thought. Unlike Tug, he had unlimited time. He could take months at the task, carrying it out in his wallet a few hundreds at a shift. It was the easiest way and the safest way. The Manton’s bellboys made good money. No suspicion would attach to one with a mere few hundred in his possession.

  He explained this to her, and she nodded her understanding. There was no sign of resentment or hurt in the upturned face. Still, however, his discomfort grew: he felt awkward, constrained to go on explaining. And the more he said—logical as it was—the worse it sounded.

  It might be difficult to open the money satchel, take out Tug’s share and transfer it to her bag. It could certainly be done, all right, but there might be difficulties. The safest and simplest thing to do would be to give her the satchel itself, with all the money.

  And why not do it? Let her hold Tug’s share and his.

  Why not, unless…

  She touched his arm gently. “I understand, darling. Now, run along and don’t think anything more about it.”

  “It’s not”—he hesitated—“I wouldn’t want you to think I didn’t trust you. It’s just that I’d planned it the other way, and—”

  “Of course.” She urged him into the car, closed the door after him. “Why wouldn’t you trust me? After all, you’re practically trusting me with your life.”

  “Well…well,” he murmured, feebly. “I’ll, uh, see you, then.”

  He drove to the
hotel, downcast, feeling that he had acted like a suspicious fool. He decided—half-decided—to give her the satchel when she came that night. Why not? Either she was completely trustworthy or she was not to be trusted at all. If Tug’s money could be trusted to her, then so could his own.

  Or couldn’t it? Why couldn’t it be?

  Frowning, he buttoned his uniform jacket, adjusted the wing tips of his shirt collar. Why? Well, there was one reason. One hideous, heart-wrenching reason. She might not be finished with Tug after the pay-off, nor he with her. She might be much more to Tug then she pretended to be. And if she was—well, she had pointed it out herself. A hundred and sixteen thousand dollars wouldn’t last forever; it would be gone in a few years. But with two hundred and thirty-two thousand…

  Furiously, Dusty pushed the terrible thought out of his mind. No! A thousand times no; she couldn’t be Tug’s woman. She was his. She liked to be, and she was. And just to prove it—to prove his complete faith in her—he would give her the satchel tonight.

  Maybe. Probably. Surely. Unless he thought of some really good reason for not doing it.

  He finished dressing and left the locker room. Tolliver, the superintendent of service, and Steelman, the manager, were waiting for him in the latter’s office. Tolliver called to the two photographers in the reception room. They sauntered in and set up their equipment.

  The first pose was of Dusty shaking hands with the manager, while Tolliver looked on beaming. Then he posed between the two men, each with a hand on his shoulder. Finally, he was photographed by himself, arms folded in the traditional manner of bellboys “standing post.”

  Repeatedly, he had to be reminded to smile. Toward the last, the photographers became quite sharp with him, and the two executives were showing signs of annoyance.

  Dusty returned to the locker room for a brief, pre-work smoke. His lips twisted in silent mimicry, Lets see a smile Rhodes—a SMILE DAMMIT—don’t you know how to smile? And scowling he hurled away the cigarette, and started up the steps. To hell with them. To hell with the hotel. She would take his dough out tonight with Tug’s, and the sooner they fired him after that, the better. The money would be waiting for him when he got home in the morning—she and the money. And as soon as he figured out an angle on the old man, how to shake the old bastard without causing trouble…

  That was the way it would be. It would—could—be that way if he was sure of her.

  Preoccupied, now and then frowning unconsciously, he began the night’s duties. A few minutes before midnight, he went behind the keyrack and manipulated a series of light switches.

  “And just what,” said a chilly voice at his elbow, “do you think you are doing?”

  Dusty jumped, startled. It was Mr. Fillmore, the night clerk hired to replace Bascom. He had come from a smaller, second-rate hotel, and the Manton was a big step upward for him. Unsure of himself, fearful that his authority might be infringed upon, he made a point of appearing the opposite. He knew his job, by golly. He was in charge here, not some smart-alecky bellboy.

  “I asked you what you were doing,” he repeated. “Who told you to fool around with those lights?”

  Dusty explained curtly; he had taken an immediate dislike to the clerk. “We always do this at midnight, dim the lobby and light up the—”

  “But it’s not midnight yet. Won’t be for five minutes. You put those lights back on, understand? When I want them off, I’ll tell you.”

  “I’ve got a better idea than that,” said Dusty. “Do it yourself.”

  Turning on his heel, he left the desk area. He kept his back turned as the clerk emerged from behind the key-rack and spoke to him sharply across the counter.

  “We may as well get this clear right now, Rhodes. The hotel appreciates what you did, and they’ve shown that appreciation, but you’re still a bellboy. While you’re at work you have no more rights or privileges than any other bellboy. It—uh—it has to be that way, understand? I’m sure that Mr. Tolliver or Mr. Steelman will bear me out. I hope—I’m certain, of course—that it will never be necessary for me to report—”

  “Go ahead,” Dusty grunted, still not looking around. “Go ahead and report me and see what they say.”

  “Well, uh” —Fillmore cleared his throat—“well, now, I wouldn’t want to do that. Not at all. Sure we’re going to get along fine, now that this little misunderstanding is cleared up, and…”

  He left the sentence unfinished, moving up the counter to the room-clerk section. He busied himself there, coldly furious, angry as only the self-fearful can be when character and circumstance conspire to make them ridiculous…He’d been in the right, hadn’t he? But that smart-aleck—he’d acted snooty from the minute he stepped on the floor tonight—had gotten gay with him. Crowded him into saying things that he hadn’t meant to say. Well, maybe, certainly, he couldn’t do anything about this. He’d look foolish if he tried. But just wait! Something else would come up. He’d put that young punk in his place yet!

  There was a squeal of brakes at the side entrance. Instantly, Fillmore arose from his stool, stood briskly alert as a woman got out of the cab and came through the double doors to the lobby. She ascended the three steps from the foyer, paused for a moment in the muted glow of one of the huge chandeliers. Fillmore gaped, his fearful fussy old heart missing a beat. He’d never seen a woman who looked like that. She was so beautiful that it almost hurt to look at her. He hoped she didn’t want a room. He’d have to turn her down, of course, a woman alone at this time of night, and he could see that she was a lady. As much a lady as she was beautiful.

  Gratefully, he noted that the cab was waiting for her. (She didn’t want a room, then.) Jealously, he watched as she started across the lobby and Rhodes stepped forward to meet her. Now there was presumption for you. There was sheer gall. Accosting a lady—asking if he could help her—instead of allowing her to proceed to the desk!

  Fillmore’s eyes glinted. He moved down the desk quickly, leaned over the counter.

  “Yes, madam?” he called. “Can I be of service to you?” Rhodes whirled around, frowning. That would show him, by golly! The lady looked momentarily surprised, then smiled at him warmly.

  “Could you, please? I left a bag here recently when I checked out of the hotel. I see that your checkroom’s closed, but I wonder if—”

  “Certainly. The boy will get it for you.” Fillmore snapped his fingers. “Front, boy! Get the lady’s bag out of the checkroom.”

  He slapped the key upon the counter. Rhodes snatched it up, tight-lipped, strode down the lobby and rounded the corner of the corridor to the checkroom window. The lady followed him after a gracious smile at Fillmore.

  The clerk grinned to himself. He flicked an invisible speck of dust from his suit, silently crying down the small voice of his conscience. Petty? A show-off? Nonsense. This was a smart hotel—a real swell place. And its executives, and, by golly, he was an executive!, were supposed to conduct themselves accordingly. Maybe it wasn’t absolutely necessary here at night, so much spit and polish, but he would never be criticized for it. It was a kind of bonus. He was giving more than was expected of him.

  Fillmore’s bony hands clenched and unclenched, exultantly. So perhaps he couldn’t complain about Rhodes…not unless he did something completely out of the way. But neither could Rhodes complain about him. He wouldn’t get very far, by golly, if he tried. He could keep that smart-aleck on his toes all night long, make him toe the line. And Rhodes would have to take it or else. If he rebelled, refused to do as he was told—

  Well, discipline, the chain of command, had to be maintained, didn’t it? The management would have to uphold a clerk against a bellboy. They would have to do it or fire him, and how could you fire a man for being utterly correct?

  So…

  Fillmore glanced up at the lobby clock. He straightened his shoulders, and his head reassumed its imperious tilt…Three minutes, no, now it was four minutes. Four minutes to get a bag out of the checkroom, and
he hadn’t done it yet! Now that was fine service for you. That was certainly a fine way to run a hotel.

  He waited until the big hand of the clock jerked again, marking off another minute. Then, easing open the door of the desk area, he moved silently down the lobby. Perhaps he thought, Rhodes was sneaking a smoke, loitering along the baggage racks while the lady waited. Or perhaps…perhaps he was trying to pull something funny. Trying to flirt with her. He was a good-looking punk—too darned good-looking to be trustworthy! Probably had the idea that he could crook a finger at a woman, and she’d come a-running.

  Fillmore paused at the corner of the areaway, straining his ears to listen. He could hear them—what sounded like an argument—but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. The bellboy’s voice was strained. The lady’s was softly insistent, faintly wheedling.

  Fillmore hesitated, teetering in nervous indecision. Perhaps—well, it might be well to go a little slow. Rhodes was something rather special with the hotel management. He had risked his life in the hotel’s interests, and if things came to a showdown—

  But things wouldn’t! He wasn’t doing anything out of the way. After all, what was wrong with making an inquiry, intervening, where there was obviously some difficulty between a patron and an employee?

  Fillmore patted his tie, threw back his shoulders and stepped around the corner.

  “What’s going on here?” he said briskly. “What’s the trouble, Rhodes?”

  Rhodes’ face went white. So he had been up to something! The woman also seemed perturbed, but she managed a smile. She nodded at the bag, a kind of dispatch case, which the bellboy was holding.

  “I’ve misplaced my baggage check,” she said. “Can’t I please get the bag without it?”

  “Well, I—uh—” Fillmore hesitated.

  “Please? My husband just returned to town tonight, and he’s very anxious to have these papers. I know it’s rather unusual, but I have been a guest here—this bellboy admits he remembers me and…”

  She looked at Fillmore winningly. He stared uncertainly at Rhodes. He’d had the same problem before at other hotels, and he’d known how to handle it. But at the Manton—well, it might be different here. Rhodes knew what the custom was better than he did.