by Jerry eBooks
“Hey, Marty,” the fellows would say, “who’s that hot number we saw with you last night?” And Marty’d grin sly, like he really had been out with a girl, and he’d say, “Nonna yer bursness” or something like that. And they’d say, “Can’t you fix it up for us? Gee, she was a hot number. Oh, boy!” Marty’d act real proud like he really could and he’d say, “Naw sir, not youse guys. Not youse guys. T’hell wit’ ya.”
The funniest thing was when somebody’d ask Marty what he did to the girl. It was a scream. He couldn’t even pronounce the word right. “Aw, you never had one in your life,” they’d tell him and he’d get mad. “Tha’s all you know,” he’d say. “Tha’s all you know.” All Marty knew about things like that was what he heard the fellows saying in the pool hall. But you’d thought he did all ’em himself the way he talked.
A girl would go by on the other side of the street and the fellows would whisper, “Hey, Marty, that your girl?” And he’d say, “Sure,” and they’d act surprised and say “Gosh, Marty, you ever—?” And he’d wink like he’d seen the fellows do and say, “Yeah, sure.” Sometimes the woman would be the banker’s wife or the girl that played the organ at the church but Marty’d say sure everytime. It didn’t matter who it was, he’d say the same thing. The fellows always got a laugh out of that.
One of the worst things Marty could think to call a guy was a bootlegger. The fellows around the taxi stand used to tell him that George Burke, the lawyer, was going to have him put in jail. Marty’d go white every time you mentioned jail to him. He was goofy, but he liked his freedom more’n anybody you ever saw. So when the fellows’d rib him up about Burke he’d get scared stiff, then crazy mad. He’d go running past Burke’s office fast’s he could, yelling, “Burke’s an old bootlegger! Burke’s an old bootlegger! Yeah, Burke’s an old darn bootlegger!” Burke was a little red-faced guy and he’d get hopping mad but he never did anything about it. He knew the people would think it was small potatoes for a big lawyer to pick on a half-wit. So he couldn’t do anything. Anytime we wanted a boot we’d rib up Marty to go after Burke. You should’ve seen it.
The fellows all got a kick out of ribbing Marty, but they wouldn’t stand for anybody picking on him. One time they told Marty the reporter for another paper was playing dirty tricks on the Post, the paper Marty sold. You’d thought Marty owned the Post the way he was willing to fight for it. He couldn’t read, but he’d get sore as hell if you told him the Post wasn’t any good. The fellows kept telling Marty this fellow Danny McLeod was scooping the Post and things like that until Marty was hopping mad. One day Danny came walking down the street and one of the fellows said, “There’s the dirty punk that’s been scooping your paper, Marty. Why don’t you sock him?” Marty’s mouth got twisted worse than ever and he started biting his lips. When Danny got near him he all of a sudden ran out and hit him on the mouth. You could’ve knocked the fellows over with a feather. They didn’t think Marty had guts enough to hit anybody.
Danny’s lip was split right down the middle and blood ran down his chin onto his shirt. He doubled up his fists and acted like he was going to sock Marty back and the fellows came closer. Danny didn’t sock Marty, though. He just turned and walked away. If he had started to hit Marty the fellows would have piled him. The fellows got a kick out of ribbing Marty but they wouldn’t stand for anyone picking on him. They were as nice a bunch of guys as you’d ever find.
After that every time Danny would come by the pool hall the fellows would yell, “Better run, Danny, here comes Marty.” Then they’d all laugh and Danny would walk faster. Pretty soon he got so he wouldn’t come by the pool hall any more. Danny was all right but he couldn’t take a little kidding.
It made Marty cocky as hell. He went around town bragging about how he licked Danny and every time anybody wanted a laugh they’d say, “Hey, Marty, what’d you do to Danny?” and Marty’d stick out his chest and say, “I beat him up. Yeah, I beat him up.” It sure made Danny’s life miserable for him and it gave the fellows a lot of laughs.
One of the best jokes the fellows pulled on Marty was about Marge, the red-headed girl who worked at the coffee joint next to the station. It was a lulu of a joke and we had more darn fun, only Marty spoiled it. You’d have never thought Marty would do a thing like that but it just goes to show you how screwy he was. The fellows started telling Marty that Marge was in love with him. At first he’d grin and say, “You can’t kid me, you can’t kid me. You’re jus’ kiddin’, ‘ats all.” But the fellows kept it up. “Of course, she likes you, Marty,” they’d say. “She’s goofy about you. She told us so.”
“Did she?” Marty’d ask. “Did she, hones’ ?” and he’d lick his lips and look across at the coffee joint.
“I bet if you bought her some candy she’d fall hard for you,” one of the fellows told him one day. “You think so?” Marty asked, all excited. “Sure,” the fellow said. “Try it and see.” So by God Marty did try it. Marge came walking by on her way to work one night and Marty popped out of the pool hall and stuck a bar of five-cent candy in her hand. “Here,” he said, and started giggling. When he giggled his lips got all slobbery and he looked like he was blowing soap bubbles. The bar of candy was all squeezed up and dirty like Marty’d hung onto it in his pocket all afternoon. Gosh, the fellows roared. “Oh, Marge,” they said, “who’s your boy friend?” Marge’s face got red’s a beet. “It isn’t funny,” she said. “He means well. Thanks, Marty,” she said, and walked away fast.
And maybe you think the fellows didn’t razz Marge after that! “Hey, Marge,” they’d yell, “how’s your boy friend?” She’d flush and walk faster and it was always good for a laugh. Marty started hanging around the coffee joint when Marge was working and the owner had to kick him out almost every night. Sometimes he’d give her a bar of candy and sometimes it’d be some flowers he’d swiped out of somebody’s yard. She’d take ’em so’s not to hurt his feelings but the fellows would play like she really was in love with him. Whenever they saw her they’d ask when was she getting married and things like that. Boy, did it burn her up!
Marty got so he thought Marge really was his girl. “Who’s your girl, Marty?” the fellows would ask, and Marty would grin sly as the dickens and say, “Aw, you know, you know,” and he’d giggle and bubbles would come on his mouth. Then the fellows would say, “Hey, Marty, we saw you out with another jane last night. What’s the idea? Trying to ditch Marge?” Marty’d get all excited and beg ’em not to tell Marge that. Gosh, it was funny how serious he took the thing. “What do you and Marge do when you go out?” the fellows would ask, and Marty’d grin, “You know,” he’d say, and then he’d lick his lips and look across the street where she worked.
It was the darnedest, funniest thing you ever saw, until Marty spoiled it. You never can tell what a goofy guy’ll do and Marty was like the rest of ’em.
One night the fellows were hanging around the taxi stand in front of the pool hall when they heard a woman screaming like she’d been murdered or something. Before they could figure out where it was coming from, Marge came running into the light out of the alley. Her dress was torn and her face was bloody like it’d been scratched. Her hair was down over her shoulders and she looked like she’d seen a ghost or something. Her eyes were bugged out and she didn’t seem to see. She just screamed and screamed. Finally Ironsides found out what it was all about and the fellows all ran down the alley. She stood alone on the corner and kept on screaming. It was awful.
The fellows found Marty hiding behind a garbage can, crying. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said. “Don’t let them put me in jail.” When they got him in jail and started asking him questions he acted like a kid that’s been caught stealing candy or something. “I won’t do it again,” he said. He’d wipe his eyes with his fists and spread dirt all over his face. “Did she tell on me?” he’d ask.
Of course they had to send Marty to the nut house at Stockton. They were afraid he’d bust loose again. He bawled like a kid for t
hree days after they told him what they were going to do, until they took him away. What worried him was he’d be cooped up and wouldn’t get to go up and down the streets selling papers. The deputy that took him to Stockton said he didn’t fight. He just bawled like a kid.
What made the fellows sore about the whole thing was the way Marge acted when she got out of the hospital. You know how women are. You never know what makes ’em click. Marge was that way. She got the notion the fellows were to blame. That’s a hot one, isn’t it? How could the fellows been to blame when they weren’t anywhere near when it happened? It made them mad the way she started treating ’em. When they went into the coffee joint she treated ’em like dogs, wouldn’t kid with them or anything. Never so much as a smile or a pleasant word. The fellows started staying away from the place, so the owner canned Marge. You couldn’t blame him.
It seemed what Marty did to her and losing her job and all kind of made her screwy herself. Before she left town she met one of the fellows on the street and he told her he was sorry about her losing her job. “If you’d treated the fellows decent,” he said, “the boss would of kept you.” Well, sir, she scratched his face something awful, and he had to slap her good to make her quit. He wasn’t the kind of fellow that hits women, but women haven’t got a right to scratch a fellow’s face when he hasn’t done anything. Old Ironsides, the cop, agreed with the fellow. He told Marge to get out of town or he’d run her out.
The fellows sometimes say how funny it seems without Marty going up and down the streets yelling “Whoa! Whoa!” They sure used to get a kick out of him.
TWO O’CLOCK BLONDE
James M. Cain
My heart did a throbby flip-flop when the buzzer sounded at last. It was all very well to ask a girl to my hotel suite, but I was new to such stuff, and before this particular girl I could easily look like a hick. It wasn’t as if she’d been just another girl, you understand. She was special, and I was serious about her.
The trouble was, for what I was up to, man-of-the-world wouldn’t do it. From the girl’s looks, accent, manners, and especially the way she was treated by the other guests, I knew she was class. So I guess ‘gentleman’ would be more like what I was shooting for. Up until now I’d always figured I was one, but then—up until now—I’d never really been called on to prove it.
I had one last look at my champagne and flowers, riffled the Venetian blind to kill the glare of the sun, and then went to the foyer and opened the door. There she was, her pale face, dark hair, trim figure, and maroon dress making the same lovely picture I had fallen for so hard. Everything was the same—except the expression in her eyes. It was almost as if she were surprised to see me.
I managed a grin. “Is something wrong?”
She took her time answering me. Finally she shook her head, looked away from me. “No,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong.”
I tried to act natural, but my voice sounded like the bark from a dictating machine. “Come in, come in,” I said. “Welcome to my little abode. At least it’s comfortable—and private. We’ll be able to talk, and . . .”
She looked at me again and broke out a hard little smile. “Tell me,” she said, “does the plane still leave at two?”
That didn’t make any more sense than the fact that she’d seemed surprised to see me. I’d told her about the plane when I’d phoned to ask her here. I’d told her quite a lot more, about the construction contract and how I had closed it, with the binder check in my pocket, and other stuff. But a nervous guy doesn’t argue. “I thought I explained about that,” I told her. “The plane was booked up solid, and I’m grounded here until tomorrow morning. The home office said to see the town. Have me a really good time. I—thought I’d do it with you.”
“I am indeed flattered,” she said.
She didn’t sound flattered, but I asked her once more to come in, and when she made no move I tried a fresh start. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me your name?” I asked. Her eyes studied me carefully. “Zita,” she said.
“Just Zita? Nothing more?”
“My family name is Hungarian, somewhat difficult for Americans. Zita does very well.”
“Mine’s Hull,” I said. “Jack Hull.”
She didn’t say anything. The burn was still in her eyes, and I couldn’t understand it. After the several chats we’d had in the dining room and the lobby, while I waited for lawyers, contractors, and the rest during the week I’d been here, I couldn’t figure it at all. There wasn’t much I could do about it, but there’s a limit to what you can take, and I was getting a burn myself.
I was still trying to think of something to say when the door of the elevator opened, and out stepped a cute blonde in a maid’s uniform—short skirt and apron and cap, and all. I’d seen her once or twice around the hotel, but I’d paid no attention to her.
She smiled quick at me, but gasped when she saw who I was talking to. “Mademoiselle!” she said, in the same accent as Zita’s. “Mademoiselle!” Then she bobbed up and down, bending her knees and straightening them, in what seemed to be meant for bows.
But if Zita minded her being there, she didn’t show it at all. She said something to her in Hungarian, and then turned back to me. In English, she said, “This is Maria, Mr. Hull—the girl with whom you have the date.”
“I have the—what?”
“Your date is with Maria,” she said.
I stared at her, and then at Maria, and then at Zita again. If this was a joke, I didn’t feel like laughing.
“I heard Maria’s telephone conversation with you,” Zita said. “I did not know it was you then, of course, but I heard her repeat your room number.” She smiled again. “And I heard her say something about wine.”
“Listen—” I began.
“Wine . . .” she said. “How romantic.”
“I ordered the wine for you,” I told her. “My date was with you, not with—”
“Yes, the wine,” she said. “Where was it to be served? On the plane perhaps? It leaves at two, you said, when you told me goodbye a little while ago. You made me feel quite sad. But at two o’clock, with a smile, comes Maria.”
I knew by then what had happened, and how important it is to get names straight before you phone—and to make sure of the person you’re talking to before you do any asking. It put quite a crimp in my pitch, and I guess I sounded weak when I got the blueprints out and tried to start all over again.
“Please,” Zita said. “Don’t apologize for the maid. She is very pretty, Mr. Hull. Very pretty.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but she didn’t wait to hear it. She went off down the hall, switching her hips very haughtily. She didn’t stop for the elevator, but left by way of the stairs.
I looked at the blonde maid. “Come in, Maria,” I said. “We’ve got a little talking to do.”
I had some idea of a message, which Maria could deliver when the situation cooled down a bit. But by the time I’d closed the door and followed Maria into the living room, I’d come to the conclusion that a message was not such a good idea. So I got my wallet out, took out a ten, and handed it to Maria. “I’m sorry,” I told her, “that we had to have this mix-up. I think you see the reason. Over the telephone, to an American, one accent sounds pretty much like another. I hope your feelings aren’t hurt, and that this little present will help.”
Judging by her smile, it helped quite a lot. But as she started toward the door, something started to nag at me. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Sit down.”
She sat down on the edge of my sofa, crossing her slim legs while I cogitated, and trying to tug the short skirt down over her knees. It was quite a display of nylon, and it didn’t make it any easier for me to think. She was an extremely well-built girl, this Maria, and she had the legs to go with the short skirt. I looked the other way, and tried to figure out this point that had popped into my mind.
“There’s an angle I don’t get, Maria,” I said. “What was she doing here?”
I turned around to face her. “What did she come here for?”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“Not a word. Listen, I can’t be mistaken. She knew romance was here—with wine ordered, who wouldn’t? But she didn’t know I was here. Until she saw me, I was just Mr. X. Why would she buzz Mr. X?”
I closed my eyes, working on my little mystery, and when I opened them Maria was no longer a maid making a tip. She was a ferret, watching me in a way that told me she knew the answer all right, and hoped to make it pay. That suited me fine. I got out another ten.
“Okay,” I said. “Give.”
She eyed my wallet.
She eyed my ten-spot.
She picked it up.
“It baffles me,” she said.
“Listen,” I told her. “I’m paying you.
She walked to the door and opened it part way. She hesitated a moment, and then pushed the door shut again and walked back to where I was standing. She looked me straight in the eye, and now she was smiling. It wasn’t an especially pretty smile.
“Well?” I said.
The door buzzer sounded.
“Heavens!” Maria whispered. “I musn’t be seen here, I’d compromise you, Mr. Hull. I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
I may have wondered, as she ran in there, just what compromising was. But as I stepped into the foyer I was thinking about Zita. I was sure it was she, back to tell me some more.
I turned the knob, and then the door banged into my face. When the bells shook out of my ears, a guy was there. He stood in the middle of the living room floor, a big, thickshouldered character in Hollywood coat and slacks.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked him. “And what the hell do you want?”
“My wife’s all I want, Mister. Where is she?”
“Wife?”
“Quit acting dumb! Where is she?”
I heard the sharp sound of high heels on the floor behind me. “But, Bill!” Maria said. “What is this?”