by Jim Thompson
He flung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat up. Lighting a cigarette, pulling a robe around his shoulders, he sat looking out into the moonlit night. Thinking that perhaps it wasn’t him or them—he or Moira—that had brought him to this gloomy despair. Perhaps it was a combination of things.
He didn’t have his strength back yet. He’d used up a lot of energy in catching the train. And grifting after so long an idleness had been unusually straining on him. Then there’d been a lot of little things—Moira’s curiosity about the separate rooms, for example. And that heavy dinner, at least twice as much as he needed or wanted. Then, after all that…
His mind went back to the dinner now, the enormous quantity and richness of it. And suddenly the cigarette tasted lousy to him, and a wave of nausea surged up through his stomach. He ran to the bathroom, a hand over his mouth, cheeks bulging. And he got there barely in time.
He rid himself of the food, every miserable mouthful of it. He rinsed out his mouth with warm water, then drank several glasses of cold. And immediately he began vomiting again.
Bending over the sink, he anxiously studied his stomach’s washings, and to his relief he found them clear. There was no tell-tale trace of brown that would signify internal bleeding.
Shivering a little, he tottered back to bed and pulled the covers over him. He felt a lot better now, lighter and cleaner. He closed his eyes, and was promptly asleep.
He slept soundlessly, dreamlessly; seeming to compress two hours of sleep in one. Awakening at about six-thirty, he knew he’d had his quota and that further sleep was out of the question.
He shaved, showered and dressed. That took no more than a half-hour, drag it out as he would. So there it was, only seven o’clock in the morning, and he as much at loose ends as if he was back in L.A.
Certainly, he couldn’t call Moira at such an hour. Moira had indicated last night that she intended to sleep until noon, and that she would cheerfully murder anyone who awakened her before then. At any rate, he was in no hurry at all to see Moira. It was labor enough to pull himself together again, without the necessity of entertaining her.
Going down to the hotel coffee shop, he had some toast and coffee. But he only did it as a matter of discipline, of virtue. Regardless of nights-before, a man ate breakfast in the morning. He ate, hungry or not, or else he inevitably found himself in trouble.
Strolling down a white-graveled walk to the cliff above the ocean, he let his eyes rove aimlessly over the expanse of sea and sand: The icy-looking whitecaps, the blinking, faraway sails of boats, the sweeping, constantly searching gulls. Desolation. Eternal, infinite. Like Dostoevski’s conception of eternity, a fly circling about a privy, the few signs of life only emphasized the loneliness.
At this hour of the morning, a very little of it went a long way with Roy Dillon. Abruptly, he turned away from it and headed for the rented car.
The coffee and toast hadn’t set at all well with him. He needed something to settle his stomach, and he could think of only one thing that would do it. A bottle of good beer, or, better still, ale. And he knew it was not to be found, so early in the day, in a community like La Jolla. The bars here, the cocktail lounges, rather, would not open until shortly before lunch. If there were morning drinkers in the town, and doubtless there were, they had their own private bars to drink from.
Turning the car toward San Diego, Roy drove out of the southerly outskirts of La Jolla and into the more humble districts beyond, slowing occasionally for a swift appraisal of the various drinking establishments. Many of them were open, but they were not the right kind. They would have only the West Coast beers, which, to Roy’s way of thinking, were undrinkable. None of them, certainly, would have a good ale.
Nearing San Diego, he drove up Mission Valley for a mile or so; then, swinging up a long hill, he entered Mission Hills. There, after some thirty minutes of wandering about, he found what he was looking for. It wasn’t a fancy place at all; not one of those glossy cocktail lounges where drinks were secondary to atmosphere. Just a good solidlooking bar, with an air that immediately inspired confidence.
The proprietor was counting cash into his register when Roy entered. A graying, wiry-looking man, with a tanned smile-wrinkled face, he nodded a greeting in the back-bar mirror. “Yes, sir, what’ll it be?”
Roy put a name to it, and the proprietor said that certainly he had good ale: if ale wasn’t good it was slop. “Give you imported or Ballantine’s.” Roy chose Ballantine’s, and the proprietor was pleased at his gratified reaction.
“Good, huh? Y’know, I think I’ll just have one myself.”
Roy took an immediate liking to the guy, and the feeling was reciprocated. He liked the look of this place, its unassuming honesty and decency; the quiet pride of its owner in being its owner.
Within ten minutes they were on a first-name basis. Roy was explaining his presence in town, using his holidaying as an excuse for off-hour drinking. Bert—the proprietor—revealed that he also shunned the pre-noon drink; but he was going on vacation tomorrow, so what was the harm, anyway?
Two men came in, downed a double-shot each, and hurried out again. Bert looked after them with a touch of sadness, and came back to Roy. That was no way to drink, he said. Occasionally, even the best of men needed a drink or two in the morning, but they shouldn’t drink it that way.
As he left to wait on another customer, he brushed against a back-bar display stand of salted nuts, moving it slightly out of its original position. And staring absently in that direction, Roy saw something that made him frown. He stood up a little from his stool for another look, making sure of what he had seen. He sat down again, puzzled and troubled.
A punchboard! A punchboard in a place like this! Bert was no fool, either in the con or the everyday sense, but a punchboard was strictly a fool’s item.
Back at the time Roy was just starting out, there were still a few teams working the boards, one man planting them, the other knocking them over. But he hadn’t seen any in years. Everyone had tipped long ago, and trying to plant a board now was the equivalent of asking for a busted jaw.
Of course, some small merchants and barkeeps still bought boards on their own, punching out the winning numbers at the start and thus giving the suckers no chance at all. But Bert wouldn’t do that. Bert…
Roy laughed wryly to himself, took a foamy sip of the ale. What was this, anyway? Was he, Roy Dillon, actually concerned about the honesty or dishonesty of a barkeep or the possibility that he might be swindled?
Another customer had come in, a khaki-clad workman, and Bert was serving him a coke. Coming back down the bar with two fresh bottles of ale, he refilled their glasses. And Roy allowed himself to “notice” the board.
“Oh, that thing.” The proprietor retrieved it from the back-bar and laid it in front of him. “Some fellow walked out and left it here three or four months ago. Didn’t notice it until after he was gone. I was going to throw it away, but I get a customer now and then who wants to try his luck. So…” He paused tentatively. “Want to have a try? Chances run from a cent to a dollar.”
“Well…” Roy looked down at the board.
Affixed to the top were five gold-colored imitation coins, representing cash prizes of five to one hundred dollars. Under each of them a number was printed. To win, one had only to punch out a corresponding number or numbers from the thousands on the board.
None of the winners had been punched out. Bert, obviously, was as honest as he looked.
“Well,” said Roy, picking up the little metal key which dangled from the board, “what can I lose?”
He punched a few numbers, laying them out for Bert’s inspection. On his sixth punch, he hit the five-dollar prize, and the proprietor smilingly laid the money on the counter. Roy let it lay, again poised the key over the board.
He couldn’t tell Bert that this was a chump’s gimmick. To do so would reveal knowledge that no honest man should have. Most certainly, and even though someone else was bound to do it, he
couldn’t take the man himself. The grift just wasn’t for him today—or so he rationalized. There just wasn’t enough at stake.
If he knocked off every prize on the board, the take would be under two hundred dollars. And naturally he’d never get away with knocking them all off. The pros of the racket had always gone for the big one and left the others alone. He, however, had already hit the five, so…
He punched out the ten-dollar number. Still smiling, pleased rather than disconcerted, Bert again laid money on the counter. Roy brought the key up for another punch.
This was the way to do it, he’d decided. The way to get the board out of circulation. One more prize—the twenty-five—and he’d point out that something must be screwy about the board. Bert would be obliged to get rid of it. And he, of course, would refuse to accept his winnings.
He punched out the third “lucky” number. Properly startled, he cleared his throat for the tip-off. But Bert, his smile slightly stiffened now, had turned to glance at the coke customer.
“Yes, sir?” he said. “Something else?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, his voice grimly light. “Yes, sir, there’s something else, all right. You got a federal gambling-tax stamp?”
“Huh! What—”
“Don’t have one, huh? Well, I’ll tell you something else you don’t have; won’t have it long, anyway. Your liquor license.”
“B-but—” Bert had paled under his tan. California liquor licenses were worth a small fortune. “B-but you can’t do that! We were just—”
“Tell it to the state and Federal boys. I’m local.” He flipped open a leather credential-case; nodded coldly at Roy. “You’re pretty stupid, mister. No one but a stupe would knock a chump off for three balls in a row.”
Roy looked at him evenly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “And I don’t like your language.”
“On your feet! I’m arresting you for bunco!”
“You’re making a mistake, officer. I’m a salesman, and I—”
“You giving me a hard time? Huh? Hah? Why, you grifting son-of-a-bitch—!”
He grabbed Roy by the lapels, yanked him furiously to his feet and slammed him up against the wall.
19
First, there was the search; the turning out of pockets, the probing and slapping of garments, the hand brought up on either side of the testicles. Then came the questions, the demanded answers that were immediately labeled lies.
“Your right name, goddamn you! Never mind them phony credentials! All you hustlers got ’em!”
“That is my right name. I live in Los Angeles, and I’ve worked for the same company for four years—”
“Stop lying! Who’s working the boards with you? How many other places you pulled this gimmick?”
“My health has been bad. I came down to La Jolla last night—a friend and I—on a holiday.”
“All right, all right! Now, we’re gonna start all over again and, by God, you better come clean!”
“Officer, there are at least a hundred businessmen here in town who can identify me. I’ve been selling to them for years, and—”
“Drop it! Drop that crap! Now, what’s your right name!”
The same questions over and over. The same answers over and over. Now and then, the cop turned to the wall telephone to pass his information on for checking. But still, the information checking out, he would not give up. He knew what he knew. With his own eyes, he had seen the bunco worked, a punchboard swiftly knocked for three prizes. And Roy’s perfect front notwithstanding, how could the clear evidence of grifting be ignored?
He was on the phone again now, his heavy face sullen as he got the answers to his questions. Roy sidled a glance at the bar owner, Bert. He looked at the punchboard on the counter fixedly, and again raised his eyes to Bert. Nodded to him ever so slightly. But he couldn’t be sure that Bert got the message.
The cop slammed up the phone. He stared at Roy sourly, rubbed a meaty hand over his face. Hesitating, he tried to form the words which the situation called for, the apology which outraged instinct and flouted the evidence of his own eyes.
From up the bar, Roy heard a dull grinding sound, the garbage disposal.
He grinned quietly to himself. “Well, officer,” he said. “Any more questions?”
“That’s all.” The cop jerked his head. “Looks like I maybe made a mistake.”
“Yes? You slam me around and insult me, and treat me like a criminal. And then you say you maybe made a mistake. That’s supposed to smooth everything over.”
“Well—” mouth tight, choking over the words. “Sorry. ’Pologize. No offense.”
Roy was content to settle for that. Savagely, the cop turned on Bert.
“All right, mister! I want the number of your liquor license! I’m turning you in for—for—Where’s that punchboard?”
“What punchboard?”
“Damn you, don’t you pull that crap on me! The board that was right there on the counter—the one that this guy was playing! Now, you either hand it over or I’ll find it myself!”
Bert picked up a rag, and began mopping the counter. “I usually clean up this time of day,” he said. “Clear up all the odds and ends of junk, and throw ’em down the garbage disposer. Now, I can’t say that I remember any punchboard, but if there was one here…”
“You threw it away! Y-you think you can get away with that?”
“Can’t I?” Bert said.
The cop stammered in furious incoherence. He said, “You’ll see, by God, you’ll see!” And turning savagely to Roy, “You too, mister! You ain’t got me fooled a damned bit! I’m gonna be on the lookout for you, and the next time you hit this town—!”
He whirled and stalked out of the place. Grinning, Roy sat back down at his stool.
“Acts like he’s sore about something,” he said. “How about another ale?”
“No,” Bert said.
“What? Now, look, Bert. I’m sorry if there was any trouble, but it was your punchboard. I didn’t—”
“I know. It was my mistake. But I never make the same mistake twice. Now, I want you to leave and I don’t want you to come back.”
Another customer came in, and Bert began to wait on him. Roy arose and walked out.
The dazzling sunlight struck against his face, its strength doubled with the contrast of the cool and shadowed bar. The cold ale—how much had he drunk, anyway?—roiled in his stomach, then uneasily settled back. He wasn’t drunk, by any means. He never got drunk. But it wasn’t smart to start back to La Jolla without eating.
There was a small restaurant around the next corner, and he had a bowl of soup there and two cups of black coffee. Startled, he noticed the time as he left, five minutes after one, and he glanced around for a telephone. But the place apparently had none; no public phone, at any rate, so he went on out to his car.
It was probably best not to call Moira, he decided. The police would have called her, and he didn’t want to make explanations over the phone.
He went back down the long hill to Mission Valley, then took the road left toward the coast. It was about twenty minutes’ drive to La Jolla, twenty-five minutes at the outside. Then, he would be back at the hotel with Moira, lightly explaining the cop trouble as a—
A case of mistaken identity? No, no. Something more ordinary, something that might logically evolve from an innocent circumstance. This car, for example, was a rented car. The last driver might have been involved in a serious traffic violation; he had fled, say, from the scene of an accident. So when the police spotted the car this morning…
Well, sure, there were inconsistencies in the story: the police would have known it was a rented car by the license number. But that wasn’t up to him to explain. He’d been the victim of a police booboo; who could figure out their mistakes?
A hell of a morning, he thought. It was Bert’s punchboard. Why should he get tough with me? What the hell do I care what a barkeep thinks?
Near the intersection with Pacific Highway, the traffic about him thickened, and at the Highway itself it was stalled in a four-lane tangle which two cops were struggling to undo. That didn’t jibe with the normal pattern of Monday in San Diego. Traffic wasn’t this bad even during the shift-changes at the aircraft plants, and it was the wrong hour for that.
The cars crept forward slowly, Roy’s car moving with them. Almost an hour later, near Mission Beach, he turned off the highway and into a filling station. And here he learned the reason for the congestion.
The horses were running at Del Mar. It was the beginning of the local racing season.
In another thirty minutes, the traffic had thinned, and rejoining it, he reached La Jolla some twenty minutes later. So he was very late, and entering the hotel he called Moira’s room from the lobby. There was no answer, but she had left a message for him with the clerk.
“Why, yes, Mr. Dillon. She said to tell you she’d gone to the races.”
“The races?” Roy frowned. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir. But she was only going to stay for part of the day’s program. She’ll be back early, she said.”
“I see,” Roy nodded. “By the way, was there a call from the police about me a couple of hours ago?”
The clerk admitted delicately that there had been, also revealing that there had been a similar call to Mrs. Langtry. “Naturally, we spoke of you in the highest terms, Mr. Dillon. It was, uh, nothing serious, I hope?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Roy said, and he went on up to his room.
He stood for some time before the French windows, staring out at the sun-sparkled sea. Then, eyes hurting a little, he stretched out on the bed, letting his thoughts roam at will; piercing them together with hunch and instinct until they formed a pattern.
First there was her curiosity about the way he lived, the job he held. Why did he stay on, year after year, at a place like the Grosvenor-Carlton? Why did he cling, year after year, to a relatively small-time commission job? Then, there were her subtle complaints about their relationship: they didn’t really know each other; they needed to “get acquainted.” So he had arranged this excursion, a means of getting acquainted, and how did she use the time? Why, by putting him on his own, at every opportunity. And then sitting back to see what happened.