The Grifters

by Jim Thompson

  “No,” she said. “No, Roy.”

  And she hung up.

  16

  On the following day, he called Moira Langtry. But there again he was defeated. He was surprised as well as irritated, since, momentarily, she had seemed to welcome an early start on their La Jolla weekend, reversing herself in practically the same breath. It couldn’t be done, she explained. At least, due to delicate womanly reasons, a periodic difficulty, it wouldn’t be very practical. Tomorrow? Mmm, no, she was afraid not. But the next day, Sunday, should be fine.

  Roy suspected that she was simply a little miffed at him; that this was his punishment for his weeks of inattentiveness. Certainly, however, he was of no mind to plead with her, so he said casually that Sunday would be fine with him, too, and the arrangements were made on that basis.

  He killed the rest of that day, or most of it, with a trip to the Santa Monica beaches. The next day being Saturday, he was free to hit the grift again. But after some mental shilly-shallying, he decided against it.

  Let it go. He wasn’t quite in the mood. He needed to snap out of himself a little more, to shake off certain disturbing memories which might add to the hazards of a profession which already had hazards enough.

  He loafed through the day, he became broody; almost, he pitied himself. What a way to live, he thought resentfully. Always watching every word he said, carefully scrutinizing every word that was said to him. And never making a move that wasn’t studiously examined in advance. Figuratively, he walked through life on a high wire, and he could turn his mind from it only at his own peril.

  Of course, he was well-paid for his efforts. The loot had piled up fast, and it would go on piling up. But there was the trouble—it simply piled up! As useless to him as so many soap coupons.

  Needless to say, this state of things would not go on forever; he would not forever live a second-class life in a second-class hotel. In another five years, his grifted loot would total enough for retirement, and he could drop caution with the grift which impelled it. But those five years were necessary to insure that retirement, filling it with all the things he had been forced to forego. And just suppose he didn’t live five years. Or even one year. Or even one day. Or—

  The brooding exhausted itself. And him, as well. The interminable day passed, and he fell asleep. And then, wondrously, it was morning. Then, at last, he had something to do.

  They were making the trip by train, the southbound one-o’clock, and Moira was meeting him at the station. Roy parked his car on the railroad lot—he would rent another for their holiday use—and took his bag out of the trunk.

  It was only a quarter after twelve, far too early to expect Moira. Roy bought their tickets, gave the seat numbers and his bag to a well-tipped redcap, and entered the station bar.

  He had a drink, stretching it out as he glanced occasionally at the clock. At twenty minutes to one, he got up from his stool and went back through the entrance.

  The Sunday southbound was always crowded, carrying not only the civilian traffic but the swarms of Marines and sailors returning to their duty stations at Camp Pendleton and San Diego. Roy watched as they streamed through the numbered gates and down the long ramps which led to the trains. A little nervously, he again checked the time.

  Ten minutes until one. That was enough time, of course, but not too much. The station was more than a block in depth, and the train ramp was practically a block long. If Moira didn’t get here very quickly, she might as well stay home.

  Five minutes until one.

  Four minutes.

  Sourly, Roy gave up and started back to the bar. She wouldn’t do this deliberately, he was sure. Probably, she’d been caught up in a traffic jam, one of the Gordian-knots of snarled-up cars which afflicted the city’s supposedly highspeed freeways. But, damnit, if she’d ever start any place a little early, instead of waiting until the last minute—!

  He heard his name called.

  He whirled and saw her coming through the entrance, trotting behind the redcap who carried her baggage. The man flashed a smile at Roy as he passed. “Do my best, boss. Just you stay behind me.”

  Roy grabbed Moira and hurried her along with him.

  “Sorry,” she panted. “Darned apartment house! Elevator stuck, an’—”

  “Never mind. Save your breath,” he said.

  They raced the marble-floored length of the building, passed through the gate and on down into the seemingly endless stretch of ramp. At its far end a trainman stood, watch in hand. As they approached, he pocketed the watch, and started up the short side-ramp to the loading platform.

  They followed him, passed him.

  As the train pulled out, they caught the last car.

  A train porter escorted them to their seats. Breathless, they slumped into them. And for the next thirty minutes, they hardly stirred.

  At last, as they were pulling out of the town of Fullerton, Moira’s head turned on the white-slipped seat back and she grinned at him.

  “You’re a good man, McGee.”

  “And you’re a good woman, Mrs. Murphy,” he said. “What’s your secret?”

  “Underwear in the chowder, natch. What’s yours?”

  Roy said his derived from inspirational reading. “I was reading a wonderful story just as you came in. Author named Bluegum LaBloat. Ever hear of him?”

  “Mmm, it does sound slightly familiar.”

  “I think this is the best thing he’s done,” Roy said. “The setting is the men’s washroom in a bus station, and the characters are a clean old man and a fat young boy who live in one of the coin toilets. They ask little of the world. Only the privacy incident to doing what comes naturally. But do they get it? Heck, no! Every time they begin to function—you should excuse the language—some diarrheal dope rushes up and drops a dime in the slot. And in his coarse surrender to need, their own desire is lost. In the end, fruition frustrated, they gather up the apple cores from the urinals and go off into the woods to bake a pie.”

  Moira gave him a severe look.

  “I’m going to call the conductor,” she declared.

  “I couldn’t buy your silence with a drink?”

  “The silence I’ll buy—a couple of hours of it, after that. You buy the drink, and be sure you rinse your mouth out with it.”

  Roy laughed. “I’ll wait for you if you like.”

  “Go,” Moira said firmly, closing her eyes and leaning back against the seat. “Go, boy, go!”

  Roy patted her on the flank. Rising, he walked the two cars to the bar-lounge. He was feeling good again, back in form. The brooding introspectiveness of recent days had slipped from him, and he felt like swinging.

  As he had expected, the lounge was crowded. Unless he could squeeze in with some group, which was what he intended to do, there was no place to sit.

  He surveyed the scene approvingly, then turned to the attendant behind the small bar. “I’ll have a bourbon and water,” he said. “Bonded.”

  “Sorry, sir. Can’t serve you unless you’re seated.”

  “Let’s see. How much is it, anyway?”

  “Eighty-five cents, sir. But I can’t—”

  “Two dollars,” Roy nodded, laying two bills on the counter. “Exact change, right?”

  He got his drink. Glass in hand, he started down the aisle, swaying occasionally with the movement of the train. Halfway down the car, he allowed himself to be swayed against a booth where four servicemen sat, jolting their drinks and slopping a little of his own on the table.

  He apologized profusely. “You’ve got to let me buy you a round. No, I insist. Waiter!”

  Vastly pleased, they urged him to sit down, squeezing over in the booth to make room. The drinks came, and disappeared. Over their protests, he bought another round.

  “But it ain’t fair, pal. We’re buyin’ the next time.”

  “No sweat,” Roy said pleasantly. “I’m not sure I can drink another one, but…”

  He broke off, glancing dow
n at the floor. He frowned, squinted. Then, stooping, he reached slightly under the booth. And straightening again, he dropped a small dotted cube on the table.

  “Did one of you fellows drop this?” he asked.

  The tat rolled. The bets doubled and redoubled. With the deceptive swiftness of the train, the money streamed into Roy Dillon’s pockets. When his four dupes thought about him later, it would be as a “helluva nice guy,” so amiably troubled by his unwanted and unintended winnings as to make shameful any troubled thought of their own. When Roy thought about them later—but he would not. All his thinking was concentrated on them, the time of their fleecing; in keeping them constantly diverted and disarmed. And in the high intensity of that concentration, in fueling its white-hot flames, he had nothing of them left for afterthoughts. They enjoyed their drinks; his were tasteless. Occasionally, one of them went to the toilet; he could not. Now and then, they looked out the window, remarking on the beauty of the passing scenery—for it was beautiful with the snowy beaches, the green and gold of the groves, the blue-gray mountains and the white houses with red-tiled roofs: strikingly reminiscent of the South of France. But while Roy chimed in with appropriate comments, he did not look where they looked nor see what they saw.

  At last, swarming up out of his concentration, he saw that the car had emptied and that the train was creeping through the industrial outskirts of San Diego, the terminus of the rail trip. Rising, wringing hands all around with the servicemen, he turned to leave the bar-lounge. And there was Moira smiling at him from its head.

  “Thought I’d better come looking for you,” she said. “Have fun?”

  “Oh, you know. Just rolling for drinks,” he shrugged. “Sorry I left you alone so long.”

  “Forget it,” she smiled, taking his arm. “I didn’t mind a bit.”

  17

  Roy rented a car at San Diego, and they drove out to their La Jolla hotel. It sat in a deep lawn, high on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Moira was delighted with it. Breathing in the clean cool air, she insisted on a brief tour of the grounds before they went inside.

  “Now, this is something like,” she declared. “This is living!” And sliding a sultry glance at him. “I don’t know how I’ll show my appreciation.”

  “Oh, I’ll think of something,” Roy said. “Maybe you can rinse out my socks for me.”

  He registered for them, and they followed the bellboy upstairs. Their rooms were on opposite sides of a corridor, and Moira looked at him quizzically, demanding an explanation.

  “Why the apartheid bit?” she said. “Not that I can’t stand it, if you can.”

  “I thought it would be better that way, separate rooms under our own names. Just in case there’s any trouble, you know.”

  “Why should there be any trouble?”

  Roy said easily that there shouldn’t be any; there was no reason why there should be. “But why take chances? After all, we’re right across from each other. Now, if you’d like me to show you how convenient it is…”

  He pulled her into his arms, and they stood locked together for a moment. But when he started to take it from there, she pulled away.

  “Later, hmm?” She stooped before the mirror, idly prinking at her hair. “I hurried so fast this morning that I’m only half-thrown together.”

  “Later it is,” Roy nodded agreeably. “Like something to eat now, or would you rather wait for dinner?”

  “Oh, dinner by all means. I’ll give you a ring.”

  He left her, still stooped before the mirror, and crossed to his own room. Unpacking his bag, he decided that she was curious rather than peeved about the separate rooms, and that, in any case, the arrangement was imperative. He was known as a single man. Departing from that singleness, he would have to use an assumed name. And where then was his protective front, so carefully and painfully built up through the years?

  He was bound to the front, bound to and bound by it. If Moira was puzzled or peeved, then she could simply get over being puzzled or peeved. He wished he hadn’t had to explain to her, since explanations were always bad. He also regretted that she had seen him operating in the club car. But the wish and the regret were small things, idly reflective rather than worrisome.

  Anyone might do a little gambling for drinks. Anyone might be cautious about hotel registrations. Why should Moira regard the first as a professional activity, and the second as a cover for it—a front which must always accrue to him like a shadow?

  Unpacked, Roy stretched out on the bed, surprisingly grateful for the chance to rest. He had not realized that he was so tired, that he could be so glad to lie down. Apparently, he reflected, he was still not fully recovered from the effects of his hemorrhage.

  Lulled by the distant throb of the ocean, he fell into a comfortable doze, awakening just before dusk. He stretched lazily and sat up, unconsciously smiling with the pleasure of his comfort. Salt-scented air wafted in through the windows. Far off to the West, beneath a pastel sky, an orange-red sun sank slowly into the ocean. Many times he had seen the sun set off the Southern California coast, but each time was a new experience. Each sunset seemed more beautiful than the last.

  Reluctantly, as the phone rang, he turned away from its splendor. Moira’s voice came gaily over the wire.

  “Boo, you ugly man! Are you buying me dinner or not?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “Give me one good reason why I should.”

  “Can’t. Not over the phone.”

  “Write me a letter, then.”

  “Can’t. No mail deliveries on Sunday.”

  “Excuses,” he grumbled. “Always excuses! Well, okay, but it’s strictly hamburgers.”

  They had cocktails on the hotel’s patio bar. Then, driving farther on in to the city, they ate at a seafood restaurant jutting out over the ocean. Moira had declared an armistice with her diet, and she proved that she meant it.

  The meal opened with a lobster cocktail, practically a meal in itself. Served with hot garlic-bread and a fresh green salad, the main course was a sizzling platter of assorted seafoods bordered by a rim of delicately-browned potatoes. Then came dessert—a fluffy cheesecake—and pots of black, black coffee.

  Moira sighed happily as she accepted a cigarette. “As I said earlier, this is living! I honestly don’t think I can move!”

  “Then, of course you don’t feel like dancing.”

  “Silly,” she said. “Whatever gave you an idea like that?”

  She loved dancing, and she danced very well; as, for that matter, did he. More than once, he caught the eyes of other patrons on them; seeing them also, Moira pressed closer to him, bending her supple body to his.

  After perhaps an hour of dancing, when the floor became oppressively crowded, they went for a moonlight drive up the coast, turning around and heading back at the city of Oceanside. The mounting waves of the night tide foamed with phosphorus. They came rolling in from the distant depths of the ocean, striking against the shore in a steady series of thunder-like roars. On the rocky outcrops of the shore, an occasional seal gleamed blackly.

  It was almost eleven when Roy got them back to their hotel, and Moira was suppressing a yawn. She apologized, saying it was the weather, not the company. But when they again stood in front of their rooms, she held out her hand in good night.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Roy? It’s been such a wonderful evening, I guess I just wore myself out.”

  “Of course you did,” he said. “I’m pretty tired myself.”

  “You’re sure now? You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Beat it,” he said, pushing her through her door. “It’s okay.”

  But of course it wasn’t okay, and he minded a great deal. He entered his own room, restraining an angry urge to slam the door. Stripping out of his clothes, he sat down on the edge of the bed; puffed surlily at a cigarette. A hell of a holiday, this was! It would serve her right if he walked out on her!

  The phone tinkled faintly. It was Moira. She spoke
with repressed laughter.

  “Open your door.”

  “What?” He grinned expectantly. “What for?”

  “Open it and find out, you fathead!”

  He hung up and opened his door. There was a sibilant, “Gangway!” from the door opposite his. And he stood back. And Moira came skipping across the hall. Her black hair stood in a sedate pile on her head. She was completely naked. Gravely, a finger under her chin, she curtsied before him.

  “I hope you don’t mind, sir,” she said. “I just washed my clothes, and I couldn’t do a thing with them.”

  Then, gurgling, choking with laughter, she collapsed in his arms. “Oh, you!” she gasped. “If you could have seen your face when I told you good night! You looked s-so—so—ah, ha, ha—”

  He picked her up and tossed her on the bed.

  They had a hell of a time.

  18

  But afterward, after she had gone back to her own room, depression came to him and what had seemed like such a hell of a time became distasteful, even a little disgusting. It was the depression of surfeit, the tail of selfindulgence’s kite. You flew high, wide, and handsome, imposing on the breeze that might have wafted you along indefinitely; and then it was gone, and down, down, down you went.

  Tossing restlessly in the darkness, Roy told himself that the gloom was natural enough and a small enough price to pay for what he had received. But as to the last, at least, he was not convinced. There was too much of a sameness about the evening’s delights. He had been the same route too many times. He’d been there before, so double-damned often, and however you traveled—backward, forward, or walking on your hands—you always got to the same place. You got nowhere, in other words, and each trip took a little more out of you.

  Still, did he really want anything changed? Even now, in his misery, weren’t his thoughts already reaching out and across the hall?