He Won't Need it Now (9 page)

     She looked at him and then lay back. “You scared me silly,” she said.
     “Quiet,” he said, “I don't want the others to wake.”
     She looked from him to the clock and then back at him again. “It's so late... what is it?”
     “Things are happening,” he said. “I gotta talk to you. You know the spot you're in, don't you? Max has been knocked off. Someone paid him a visit and slit his throat for him.”
     The pupils of her eyes became very big. “You mean—?”
     “I'm going to start from the beginning. Then you gotta fill in the gaps.” He lay back a little, resting on his elbow. His battered face was drawn with fatigue. She suddenly felt a little pang of compassion for him.
     “Take off your shoes and lie here beside me.”
     He shook his head. “I'd go to sleep,” he said. “Now listen. There's a redhead called Annabel English, she's the daughter of Edwin English, the politician. She's wild and bad. One of her boy friends is this guy Weidmer. She has dealings with Cattley. This punk called on her and she tossed him down the elevator shaft. Right, before we go any further, you gotta tell me all you know about Cattley.”
     She said in a low voice, “Cattley was mixed up in a big dope traffic. He started off in a small way, peddling the stuff and taking a rake-off. That was when I knew him. Then he got big and began to make money. Weidmer was his boss. Gleason was the big shot. Cattley got tired of taking orders and he stole the list of customers——”
     “Stop!” Duffy's voice sounded like the snap of a steel trap. He took the little note-book from his pocket and put it on the coverlet before her. “Is this the list?”
     Her startled face told him. “So that's it,” he said. He thumbed the book through. “Why, these guys can't operate without this list... the dope buyers must be hopping mad.” He shut his eyes and tried to think.
     “How... how did you get that?” she asked.
     He opened his eyes. “I got it from Cattley's joint. Annabel came down to look for it, and I took it off her. This makes things pretty clear. Hell! They certainly operated in a big way. Look at those names, for God's sake.”
     She put her hand on his arm. “They'll get it away from you,” she said, fear coming into her eyes. “It means millions to them.”
     Duffy turned on his elbow and looked at her. His tired eyes searched her face. “You know,” he said, speaking slowly, “years ago, I used to think of being in a spot like this. To have the chance of grabbing a million dollars from a bunch of toughs. Well, I've got my chance. I'm going to play the ends against the middle.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “If they find you've squawked, you're going to be washed up. I like you, honey. Will you come in on this with me?”
     Her eyes became shrewd again. “How?”
     “This guy Morgan,” Duffy said, “you ain't heard about him. I can't quite see how he fits, except he's looking for easy dough.”
     She looked blank. “Morgan?”
     Quickly and with economy, he told her about Morgan and the three toughs. “They thought they'd blackmail Annabel. It'd be good enough to publish a photo of Cattley and Annabel to upset old man English. I thought it was deeper than that. Gee! I gave her the benefit and thought they killed Cattley to pin it on her. All the time she had killed Cattley herself, and I was sucker enough to help her shift the body. Anyway, that's her funeral now. I'm selling the book to the highest bidder.”
     Olga said, “Why should Morgan want to buy it?”
     Duffy grinned. “Use your head,” he said. “This crowd here,” he tapped the note-book, “is lousy with dough. They'd pay anything to hush up scandal. How'd it look if it got round that they traded in dope?”
     She leant back in the bed and brooded. Then she said, “I believe you've got something.”
     Duffy put the note-book away. “You bet I've got something,” he said. “Why not? Why the hell shouldn't I make a little dough out of these punks? Why shouldn't you?”
     “How much will it be?” she asked.
     “Fifty grand, hundred grand, anything.”
     She lay back flat, and ran her fingers through her thick hair. Duffy thought she was a very nice broad indeed. “We could do a lot with that money, couldn't we?” she said, her voice thrilling.
     Duffy patted her hand. “Yeah,” he said, “we could do a lot.” He glanced at the clock and got stiffly to his feet. “I'm going to have a little sleep. There's action coming.”
     She put her hand on his arm. “You look so tired,” she said.
     He dug up a grin. “You're dead right, sister.”
     She lay there, her eyes very bright, and he could see the sudden rising and falling of her breasts under the sheet. She said, looking into his eyes, “I could make you better. Won't you come?”
     He sat down on the bed again. “You're swell,” he said. “Not tonight. Tomorrow we'll get out of here.” He paused, then he nodded his head to the next room. “They're nice people. It wouldn't be fair on them. Tomorrow.”
     He put his hand against her face. “Didn't you think Alice was swell?” He stepped away from the bed. “They mustn't know about this. This is between you and me.”
     She watched him go from the room, then turned out the light. She lay in the dark a long time, before she fell asleep.

     
     DUFFY STEPPED INTO ROSS'S garage and looked round the dim shed. Ross came out of the little office at the far end of the shed. He was big and fat, with a glistening rubbery face. He plodded over the oily concrete, waving a short thick arm.
     “Don't tell me,” he wheezed when he saw Duffy. “Let me guess.”
     Duffy drew his lips off his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Ain't seen you for years,” he said.
     “I bet you're in a jam.”
     Duffy shook his head. “You're wrong,” he said. “It ain't anything like that. I want to spend some dough with you.”
     Ross put his broad hand on Duffy's arm. “Well, well,” he began, leading Duffy to the office. “I've got a bottle in there that'll suit you.”
     Duffy sat down in a basket chair and looked round the small box-like room. Ross nearly filled it.
     “Gettin' mighty hot, ain't it?” Ross said, bringing out a black bottle from his desk cupboard. He wiped the mouth of the bottle on his shirt-sleeve and pushed it over to Duffy. “You be careful of that liquor,” he went on, “that's Tiger's sweat okay.”
     Duffy took a swig, rolling the liquor round his mouth before swallowing. Then he grunted a little. “Yeah,” he said, “it's fierce.”
     Ross took the bottle from him and raised it to his lips. Duffy watched his Adam's apple jump in his fat throat. Ross put the bottle on the table, wiped his wet mouth on the back of his hand, and hitched his chair forward a little. “Now, what's the business?”
     Duffy lit a cigarette and rolled another across the table to Ross. “You still got that old Buick around?” he asked.
     Ross's little eyes opened a trifle. “You mean the armoured one?”
     “That's it.”
     Ross nodded. “Sure I've got it.”
     “Does she run?”
     Ross grinned'. “Does she run? Listen, all my cans run. That bus's as good as new.”
     Duffy said, “I want to rent her for a bit.”
     Ross shrugged. “That's okay,” he said simply. “Why not have my Packard? Now that's a swell job.”
     Duffy shook his head. He got to his feet. “I want the Buick,” he said. “I might need a little protection from now on, and I'd feel a lot safer in the Buick.”
     Ross said, “I knew it, you're in a jam.”
     “Show me the wagon.”
     Ross led him out into the shed again. “That's her.”
     The Buick was just an ordinary-looking car, slightly shabby in the body, although she had been freshly washed down. Duffy looked her over thoughtfully. “Sell her to me,” he said at last.
     Ross took a quick look over his shoulder, then plodded over. “She looks the berries, don't she?” he said. He opened the door. “You try that.”
     Duffy had to make a strong effort to get the door to shut. “That's steel,” Ross said. “Good thick stuff, see?” He opened the door again and climbed inside. Duffy leant against the door and put his head forward.
     “The guy that threw this bus together knew all about it,” Ross said, settling his hindquarters firmly on the padded seat. “The roof is armour plate. Take a look at the windows.” He rolled one down. “Looks all right from the outside, but see how thick they are.”
     The glass was at least three-quarters of an inch in thickness.
     “That'll bounce a .45 slug back at the guy who sent it,” Ross said. He touched a spring in the dashboard and a small panel slid back. He put his hand inside and took out two Colt automatics. “You won't need these,” he said. “I'll clear them out for you.”
     “Let 'em stay, they can go with the bus,” Duffy said quietly.
     Ross looked at him, pursed his fat mouth, then shrugged. He put the guns back. “Under the seat there's four hundred rounds.”
     Duffy said, “For the love of Mike.”
     Ross grinned. “I ain't had time to shift the stuff. It's been in there some time.”
     “It's a fine job. Anything else?”
     Ross climbed out of the car again. “The radiator grill is bullet-proof. The engine is protected with plate. The rear window rises from the bottom, so you can operate a gun if you wanted to. And the tyres are filled with puncture-healing liquid which fills any holes immediately if a slug finds its way there. That cab is certainly a swell job for trouble.”
     Duffy pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Yeah, I guess it's right up my street. What you want for her, Ross?”
     Ross scratched his bald head. “What you got, buddy?” he asked. “You done things for me in the past...”
     Duffy said, “I'll give you thirty bucks a week for her.”
     Ross shook his head. “Too much,” he said. “I'll take twenty.”
     Duffy took forty dollars from his pocket-book and handed them over. “I'll take her for a couple of weeks,” he said. “Fill her up, will you?”
     Ross pushed the money into his trouser pocket. “She's ready to go.”
     Duffy opened the door and got in. “I'll be seeing you, pal,” he said.
     Ross put his fat face through the window frame. “Take it easy with the cannons,” he said anxiously. “They ain't registered, but take it easy all the same.”
     Duffy nodded at him and engaged the clutch. The Buick rolled out into the street. Duffy drove to his bank, cashed a cheque for a thousand dollars, checked his deposit and went back to the car again. With the thousand on him, and three thousand in the bank, he could last a little while, he thought.
     Olga was waiting for him at “Stud's Parlour", a quiet little bar just off East 154th Street. When he drove up, she ran out and he pushed open the off door for her. She got in, and he had to lean over her to slam the door shut. “That's stiff,” she said.
     “It's steel,” he grinned, pulling away from the kerb. “"This tub's from Chi. They know how to build 'em there.”
     She was silent for half a block, then she said, “You expecting trouble?”
     “Trouble'll blow up sooner or later in a racket like this. I like to be prepared for it.” He pushed the Buick past a big truck, then he said, “You ain't going to get scared?”
     She shook her head. “I don't scare easily.” She put her neat gloved hand to her throat. She was wearing a high-neck blouse. “Your friends were swell,” she said as an afterthought.
     Duffy nodded. “I'm a heel all right,” he said. “I told Alice I was seeing you on the train for your home.”
     Olga said, “You couldn't let them in on this?”
     Duffy shook his head. “They've got each other. They don't give a damn for money; why should they? It's punks like you and me that ain't got anchors that think money's the tops.”
     She shot a quick glance at him. “You're not feeling sore?” she ventured.
     Duffy shook his head again. “No, not sore. I've started this, so I'm finishing it. If I don't get away with it, it don't matter. If I do, well, I'll spend what I get, and think I'm having a swell time.”
     She said in a low voice, “And me?”
     Duffy put his hand on her knee. “You're okay, baby, you'll get what you want.”
     He pulled up outside his apartment. “Come on in and see how you like your new home.”
     They went upstairs, and she stood waiting for him to open the door. Inside the small apartment they stood and looked at each other, then she turned her head quickly and walked over to the window. “I like this,” she said. “It's nice, isn't it?”
     Duffy threw his hat on the chair and brought out a bottle of rum. “You like Bacardi?” he said.
     “Yes, but it's early yet, isn't it?”
     Duffy took two glasses and poured out the rum. He went over to her and put the glass in her hand. “To you and to me and to dough,” he said.
     The Bacardi went down smooth, leaving a hot ball of fire burning inside them.
     “Take your hat off, honey,” he said, “this is your home now.”
     She said, “Is that the bedroom over there?”
     “That's it. Go ahead and have a look.” He was surprised to find his hands were trembling. He watched her walk slowly across the room and into the bedroom. Her long legs and flat hips had a lazy movement, but there was an electric tension that radiated from her.
     He followed her and stood just behind her, looking at her in the mirror. She raised her eyes, studied his face, then she turned quickly.
     He put his hands on her hips and drew her to him. “You're swell,” he said. “I've known you twenty-four hours, but it seems a lifetime. I bet you're bad. I bet you've loved, but I don't care.”
     She said, “I've been all that and more.” She took his hands in hers, held them for a moment, then pushed them away from her. She went over to the bed and sat down.
     Duffy shifted away from the mirror and leant over the back of the bed. “We've got to get together,” he said. “Tell me about yourself.”
     She turned her head and looked at him. “Isn't it unwise?” she said.
     Duffy shook his head. “I want to know,” he said.
     “I was born in a small Montana town.” Her voice was flat and expressionless. “Living there was like living in a morgue. Nothing ever happened. The sun shone, the dust collected on the dry roads, carts came and went, nothing ever happened. I used to get fan magazines and read about Hollywood. Millions of other girls have done the same. I thought if I got to Hollywood, I'd get a break. I dreamed Hollywood, lived Hollywood, and I guess I even slept Hollywood. Well, one day I took my chance. I waited until my Pa had gone into the fields, then I took all his money—it wasn't much—and I blew. I never got to Hollywood. My dough gave out when I hit Oakland. I got a job as a hostess in a dance hall there.”
     Duffy came round and sat on the bed close beside her.
     “I had to be nice to the men at the bar. Talk to them, kid them along, and get them to buy drinks. They paid me commission on the drinks. It didn't last long. The boss called on me one night, and then I hadn't anything to take care of after he had been over me. Well, you know how it is, once on the slide, you can't stop.”
     Duffy said, “How long ago was this?”
     “About eight years. I was seventeen then. I ran into a guy named Vernor. How that guy kidded me! He certainly could paint a picture. He showed me how I could make money so fast that I'd get dizzy. Pretty clothes, motor-cars, jewellery, and all the rest of it. Just by selling myself three or four times a night. I fell for it. What did it matter, so long as I could get enough dough to get out of the game in a year or so?
     “He got me into a house in Watsonville, one of the northern Californian towns, and once I was there I knew what a sucker I'd been. I just couldn't get away. They never gave me any money. They kept my clothes from me. They threatened me with the police; in fact, they had me.”
     Duffy grunted, “A sweet life you've had.”
     She was silent for a moment, then she went on. “I didn't see a white man for three years. Filipinos, Hindus and Chinks, yes, but no white man.”
     Duffy moved restlessly. He didn't like this.
     “Just when I was giving up, along came Cattley. Can you imagine that? Cattley came into my room, and I was expecting another of those fierce little brown men. Cattley fell for me, and I gave him everything I had. He thought I could be useful to him, so he got me out of the place and set me up in that little house.”
     Duffy said, “How could you be useful to a guy like Cattley?”
     Her face hardened a little. “I'm telling you everything, aren't I?” she said.
     Duffy leant back on his elbows. “Sure, and it don't sound so good.”
     She lifted her shoulders wearily. “It isn't good. In Cattley's business he had to have a woman around. He got me to play hostess to his suckers. I got him introductions to the upper set. It was through me that he made so much money. Cattley was on the level with me. He gave me plenty.” She sighed, twisting her hands. “Now the poor mug's dead.”
     In the other room the telephone began to ring. Duffy made no move to answer it.
     Olga said, “What's the matter ? Don't you want to answer it ?”
     “Let it ring,” he said, looking at her.
     The telephone stopped ringing.
     She stood facing him, then she said, “Yes... yes... yes.”
     He reached out and pulled her roughly to him. “I'm crazy about you,” he said, his lips hard against her throat.
     The telephone began to ring again. It rang for a long time, then it stopped. A fly buzzed busily from room to room, hitting the window with distinct little plops.
     On the bed, Duffy lay, his eyes half shut, feeling the muscles of his body running into liquid. Olga went to sleep. Duffy watched her. Time meant nothing to him. He was quite content to look at her. Her body was strong and white Her flesh was firm. He thought she looked good.
     He put out his hand gently and touched her hair. She stirred and opened her eyes. She smiled at him.
     Duffy said, “You've got me. You've got me hard.”
     “I want to go away with you,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “I want to get away from all this. You won't let me down, now?” She said “now” very urgently.
     Duffy shook his head. “It'll be all right, you see.”
     The telephone began to ring insistently.
     Olga sat up. A little shiver ran through her. She said, “No, don't go. Leave it.”
     Duffy hesitated, then got off the bed. He looked at her for a moment, smiled, then went into the other room. He took the receiver off the prong.
     “What is it?” he said sharply.
     “Gleason talking,” came the harsh purring voice.
     Duffy pulled a chair up and sat down. His eyes and mouth were suddenly hard. “Okay,” he said, “I didn't expect you so soon.”
     “I've been ringing for some time.” There was just a hint of nerves in Gleason's voice.
     “Well, you got me now.”
     “I'll buy that thing from you for fifteen grand,” Gleason said with a rush.
     Duffy grinned into the 'phone. “I must be getting deaf,” he said. “It sounded like you said fifteen grand.”
     Gleason was silent for a minute, then he said, “I can't go higher than that. Fifteen grand.”
     “What the hell kind of a cheap punk are you? Ain't you aching to get that list back? The list is worth that much as State evidence.”
     “Now listen,” Duffy could almost see Gleason squeezing the telephone with excitement, “I can't lay my hands on any more dough. I'll make you a fair offer. Fifteen grand and five per cent cut on the business.”
     “Aw, use your head,” Duffy shifted forward in his chair a little. “I ain't so dumb. What's five per cent cut to a corpse? I wouldn't trust you, Gleason, for a second. Once you had that list, you'd bust your guts to iron me out. No, it's cash or nothing.”
     Gleason said, “You goddam sonofabitch...
     “Skip it. You don't know what you're up against. I've got another buyer in the market. You're going to pay plenty for that list, or the other guy gets it.”