The Grifters (5 page)

Any way you looked at it, he owed his life to Lilly. And Lilly, unconsciously or deliberately, was making sure that he didn't forget it.

In a sweetly feline fashion, she'd put such a frost on Moira Langtry that Moira had stopped coming to the hospital after a couple of visits. She called every day, letting him know that she was concerned about him, but she didn't come back again. And Lilly often managed to be on hand at the time of her calls, practically restricting his end of the conversation to monosyllables.

Lilly obviously intended to break up his affair with Moira. Nor did her intentions end there. She'd selected a day nurse for him who was a real turtle, competent enough but homely as a mud fence. Then, by contrast, she'd picked a little doll for night duty, a kid that was bound to appeal to him even if Lilly hadn't given her a clear field with no competition.

Oh, he could see what was happening. Everywhere he looked, he could see the shadow of Lilly's fine hand. And just what could he do about it, anyway? Tell her to get the hell away and leave him alone? Could he say, "Okay, you saved my life; does that give you any claim on me?"

A doctor came in, not the one who had visited at the hotel-Lilly had dismissed him right at the beginning-but a merry-looking young man. Behind him came an orderly, wheeling a metal-topped cart. Roy looked at the implements on it, and let out a groan.

"Oh, no! Not that thing again!"

"You mean you don't like it?" The doctor laughed. "He's kidding us, isn't he, nurse? He loves to have his stomach pumped."

"Please." Carol frowned reprovingly. "It is not funny."

"Aah, you can't hurt this guy. Rally round now, and we'll get it over with."

The orderly held him on one side, one hand clamping over the intravenous needle. Carol held the needle into the other arm, her free hand poised over a bowl of tiny ice cubes. The doctor picked up a narrow rubber tube and pushed it up into his nose.

"Now, hold still, keedo. Hold still or you'll jerk those needles loose!"

Roy tried to hold still but he couldn't. As the tube went up into his nose and down into his throat, he jerked and struggled. Gagging, gasping for breath, he tried to break free of them. And the doctor cursed him merrily, and Carol pressed little ice lumps between his lips.

"Please to swallow, Mr. Dillon. Swallow the ice and the tube will go down with it."

Roy kept swallowing. At last the tube was down his throat and into his stomach. The doctor made some minor adjustments in it, moving it up and down slightly.

"How's that? Not hitting bottom, is it?"

Roy said he didn't think so. It seemed to be all right.

"Good." The doctor checked the glass receptacle to which the pump was attached. "I'll be back in thirty minutes, nurse. If he gives you any trouble, sock him in the stomach."

Carol nodded coldly. She looked after him, frowning, as he strode out of the room, then came over to the bed and patted away the sweat from Roy's face.

"I am sorry. I hope it does not bother you too much."

"It's all right." He felt a little abashed at the fuss he had made. "I'm just kind of conscious of it, you know."

"I know. The worst part is getting it down, but afterward it is not good. You cannot swallow well and your breathing is ever-so- slightly hampered, and never do you become accustomed to it. Always, there is the consciousness of something wrong."

"You sound like you'd been pumped yourself."

"I have been, many times."

"Internal bleeding?"

"No. I began to bleed after a time, but I was not bleeding to begin with."

"Yes?" he frowned. "I don't get you. Why were you being pumped out if-"

"I don't know." She smiled suddenly and shook her head. "It was a very long time ago. Anyway, it is not pleasant to talk about."

"But-"

"And I think you should not talk so much, either. You will just lie still, please, and do nothing to disturb your stomach contents."

"I don't see how there could be any contents."

"Well, anyway," she said firmly. And he let it go at that.

It was easy to drop the subject. Easy, in his insistent need to survive, to ignore all possible distractions. Years of practice had made it so easy that it was almost automatic.

He lay quietly, watching Carol as she moved about the room, seeing her youthful freshness as a refreshing relief from Moira. A very nice little kid, he thought, just about as nice as they came. So doubtless she must be left that way. On the other hand, wouldn't it be a little strange if a girl as attractive as she was had remained strictly on the nice side? Weren't the odds all against it? And if she did know the score…

Well, it was something to think about. Certainly, it would be a pleasant way of putting Lilly in her place.

The doctor returned. He checked the glass container of the pump, and chortled happily. "Nothing but bile. That's what he's full of, nurse, as if you didn't know."

He removed the stomach tube. Then, wonder of wonders, he ordered the intravenous needles removed from Roy's arms. "Why not? Why should we baby a goldbrick like you?"

"Oh, go to hell." Roy grinned at him, flexing his arms luxuriously. "Just let me stretch."

"Sassy, hmm. How about something to eat?"

"You mean that liquid chalk you call milk? Bring it on, brother."

"Nope. Tonight you get steak, mashed potatoes, the works. You can even have a couple of cigarettes."

"You're kidding."

The doctor shook his head, became serious. "You haven't bled any in three days. It's time your stomach resumed peristalsis, started toughening itself up, and it can't do it on liquids."

Roy was just a little uneasy. After all, it was his stomach. The doctor assured him that he had nothing to worry about.

"If your stomach won't take it, we'll just have to open you up and cut out a piece. No trouble at all."

He walked out, whistling.

Again, Carol looked after him, frowning. "That man! Ooh, I would like to shake him good!"

"You think it will be all right?" Roy asked. "To have solid food. I mean. I'm not particularly hungry, and-"

"Of course, it will be all right! Otherwise, you would not be allowed to have it."

She took one of his hands in hers, looked down at him so protectively that he wanted to smile. He restrained the impulse, clinging to her hand while he gently urged her into the chair at his side.

"You're a good little girl," he said softly. "I've never known anyone like you."

"T-thank you…" Her eyes fell, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "I have known no one like you either."

He lay studying her in the gathering twilight of the room, examining the small honest face with its tenderly upturning features; thinking how much she looked like some gravely innocent child. Then he turned on his side, and eased over near the edge of the bed.

"I'm going to miss you, Carol. Will I see you after I leave here?"

"I-I do not know." She was breathing heavily, still not looking at him. "I-I would like to, b-but I must work whenever I can, whenever I am c-called and-"

"Carol?"

"Y-yes?"

"Come here."

He drew her forward by the hand, his free hand dropping around her shoulders. She looked up at last, eyes frightened, hanging back desperately. And then, suddenly, she was in his arms, her face pressed against his.

"Like me, Carol?"

"Oh, yes!" her head jerked in assent. "So, so much! B-but-"

"Listen," he said. And then as she listened, waiting, he was silent. Putting on the brakes. Telling himself that this was as far as it should go.

But was it?
He would need looking after for a while, wouldn't he? Lilly had hinted at something of the kind, suggesting that he stay in her apartment for a week or so. He'd been against it, of course, first because it was her suggestion, and secondly because it seemed pointless. With her away at the tracks so much, he'd still be on his own. But…

Carol shivered against him delicately. He started to shove her away; and, unwillingly, his arms tightened around her.

"I was just thinking," he said. "I'll still be a little rocky after I leave here. Maybe-"

"Yes?" She raised her head, smiled down at him excitedly. "You would want me to tend you for a while, yes? That is it?"

"You'd like that?"

"Yes! Oh, my, yes!"

"Well," he said, awkwardly. "We'll think about it. See what my mother has to say. I live in a hotel myself, so I'd have to stay at her place. And-"

"And it will be all right!" Her eyes were dancing. "I know."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, it is what your mother wants! I-we were not going to say anything about it yet. She was not sure how you would feel, and- and-"

Her voice died away under his flat-eyed stare. Quick anxiety tugged at the tipped-up corners of her mouth.

"Please. T-there is something wrong?"

"Not a thing," he said. "No, sir, everything's just fine."

It was still early in the day. There were still a lot of full pockets. The crowd would not shake out much before the end of the sixth race.

Lilly Dillon collected three bets at as many windows. Putting the money to one side in her purse-for it would have to be accounted for--she hurried toward the bet windows. Her betting money, the playback dough that came by wire each day, was already separated into sheafs of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She used the twenties as much as her limited time would allow, usually five and ten at a time. With the fifties she was more cautious; the hundreds were disposed of with downright stinginess.

Possibly, rather probably, much of her caution was wasted. The treasury agents had no interest in the betting; they were normally on the lookout only for wins, the cashing in of fistfuls of fifty and hundreddollar tickets. And Lilly was not there to win, and seldom did. Her activities were largely precautionary, not usually concerned with favorites or semi-favorites. The odds on such horses pretty much took care of themselves. She dealt mainly in "likely" runners and long-shots, and they rarely wound up in the money. When they did, she collected on them only when it seemed absolutely safe. If it didn't, she simply let the winnings go, keeping the pari-mutuel tickets as a matter of record.

To an extent, she was a free agent. She had certain general instructions, but within them she was allowed and expected to use her own judgment. That didn't make things any easier for her, of course. On the contrary. It was a hard job, and she was well paid for it. And there were ways of adding to that pay.

Ways which Bobo Justus frowned upon, but which were very difficult to detect.

She strolled off toward one of the bars, her eyes shrewdly watchful behind the dark sunglasses. Several times she stooped quickly and picked up a discarded ticket, adding them to the ones in her purse. Losing tickets were usually thrown away. As long as they weren't torn or suspiciously trampled, she could count them as money spent.

A certain number of them, anyway. It wasn't something you could lean on too hard. She'd only gone overboard once at this meet, and that had been a mistake. Rather, she'd done it to cover a mistake.

It had happened almost three weeks ago, right after Roy had gone into the hospital. Perhaps that was how it had come about, she'd had her mind on him instead of her job. But, anyway, a real dog had come in at a hundred-and-forty for two. And she didn't have a dime down on him.

She'd been too frightened and worried to sleep that night. She'd been even more frightened the next day when the papers hinted at heavy off-track betting on the nag. As an expensive but necessary precaution, she'd sent five thousand dollars of her own money back to Baltimore-her pretended winnings on the horse. And apparently that had taken the heat off of her, for she'd had no word from Bobo. But days passed before she was resting easy.

For a while, she was even carrying a gun when she went to the bathroom.

She stood at the bar, sipping a rum and cola, looking at the milling crowd with something approaching disgust. Where did they come from? she thought wearily. Why did they buck a stupid racket like this? Many of them were downright shabby. Some of them even had children with them.

Mothers with kids… Men in cheap sport-shirts and baggy slacks… Grandmothers with cigarettes dangling from their mouths.

Gaah!
It was enough to turn a person's stomach.

She turned away from them, shifting wearily from foot to foot. She was wearing a sports outfit; a simple but expensive ensemble of fawn-colored slacks, blouse, and jacket, with flat-heeled buckskin oxfords. Everything was cool and lightweight, the most comfortable things she could put on. But nothing could compensate for her hours of standing.

As the fifth and sixth races dragged by, as she moved back and forth from the betting and pay-off windows, the struggle between her growing tiredness and the never-ending need to be alert almost reached a stalemate. It was hard to think of anything but sitting down, of resting for at least a few minutes. It was impossible to think about it. Need and necessity fought with one another, pulling her this way and that, tugging her forward and holding her back; adding unbearably to the burden she already carried.

There were seats in the grandstand, of course, but those were for yokels. By the time she got into the stands, she would be due at the windows. The effort of going back and forth would take more from her than it gave. As for the clubhouse, with its comfortable chairs and pleasant cocktail lounge, well, naturally, that was out. There was too much money floating around, too much heavy betting. The treasury boys loved the place.

She set down her cup of coffee-her third in the last hour-and trudged away toward the mutuel windows. The seventh race, the next to the last, was coming up. It always drew some of the day's heaviest play, and the yokels were rushing to buy tickets. As Lilly pushed her way through them, a sardonic thought suddenly struck her. And despite her weariness, she almost laughed out loud.

Now, isn 't this something? she thought. Twenty-five years getting out of the mob, and I'm right back in it. Hell, I've never even been away!

She collected a couple of bets on the seventh, disposing of the money as she hurried toward the parking lot. There was nothing in the last race that couldn't be missed. By beating it out now, before the crowd swarmed down from the stands, she could avoid the last-minute traffic jam.

Her car was parked back near the gate, in a space as near to it as a big tip would buy. A convertible, it was a very good car but by no means the most expensive. Not even faintly flashy. Its one distinctive feature was something that couldn't be seen. A secret trunk compartment containing one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in cash.

As she approached the car now and saw the man standing beside it, Lilly wondered whether she'd ever live to spend the money.