1973 - Have a Change of Scene

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘Spooky Jinx?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sat back and pushed his cap to the back of his head. After staring at me for a long moment, his pig eyes quizzing, he asked, ‘Are you making a complaint?’

  ‘Should I?’

  We stared at each other. I could almost hear his brain creak as he thought.

  ‘Did Spooky say he had stolen your case?’

  ‘No.’

  He got some cement dust out of his left nostril with his little finger, peered at what he had found and then wiped it on his shirtfront.

  ‘You got a witness when he returned it?’

  ‘No.’

  He folded his hands together, leaned forward and regarded me with contemptuous pity.

  ‘Listen, buster,’ he said in his husky worn-out voice, ‘if you plan to stay around in this goddamn town, don’t make a complaint.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, then I won’t.’ I picked up what was left of my cigarette case and dropped it into my hip pocket. ‘I thought I should report it no longer stolen.’

  We looked at each other, then he said, his voice now a whisper, ‘Off the record, buster, if I were you, I’d scram out of this town. Suckers who try to help Miss Baxter don’t last long, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Off the record, you understand?’

  ‘Would that be one of the Jinx gang?’ I asked and turned to look at the kid who was listening and watching.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s bleeding.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  He regarded me, his pig eyes now impersonal. I could see I was boring him.

  ‘Why should you care, buster? If that’s all you want to say, take off with the feet,’ and he began to roll his pencil again.

  I went over to the kid.

  ‘I work for Miss Baxter, the welfare worker,’ I said. ‘It’s my job to be helpful. Is there anything I can do for. . .’

  That was as far as I got.

  The kid spat in my face.

  * * *

  Nothing dramatic happened for the next six days, Jenny rushed in and out, dropping yellow forms on the desk, asking anxiously if I had had trouble and then rushing out again. It baffled me that she could keep going the way she did. It also bothered me that she always wore the same drab dress and she made no effort to make the best of herself.

  I typed out her reports, broke them down, put them on cards and continued to bring the card index up-to-date.

  The word must have got around that I was now the official help, because the old, the lame and the halt began to come to me with their problems. Most of them tried to con me, but I took their names and addresses, wrote down a summary of their problems and told them I would talk to Jenny. Once it got into their muddled heads that they couldn’t con me, they became friendly, and for the next four days, I fell for this, then discovered because of their yakking I wasn’t doing any useful work, so I cut them short.

  Rather to my surprise, I found I was enjoying this strange contact with a world I hadn’t imagined existed. I was startled when I got a letter from Sydney Fremlin, written in purple ink, asking how I was progressing and when was I returning to Paradise City?

  It was only when I read the letter that I realised I had forgotten Paradise City, Sydney and the deluxe shop with its rich, overfed clients. There seemed to me to be no point in telling Sydney what I was doing in Luceville. Had I told him, he would have taken to his bed in despair, so I wrote that I was thinking of him (this I knew would be a sure-fire success) that I was still very nervy, that Luceville provided me with a change of scene and that I would write before long. I thought that this would keep him quiet for a week or so.

  On the sixth day the scene changed.

  I arrived as usual at the office around 09.00. I found the office door open. A glance showed me the lock had been smashed. My careful work for the past six days: my carefully typed cards, my reports were all piled in a heap on the floor and over them had been poured melted tar. There was no question of a salvage operation: no one can deal with tar.

  On the desk, printed with my red felt pen was the legend:

  GO HOME, CHEAPIE.

  I was surprised by my reaction. The average person, I suppose, would have been angry, in despair and perhaps defeated, but I didn’t react that way. I turned cold and a viciousness I had never known flowed through me. I looked at the work I had done, ruined by a stupid, vicious youth and I took up his challenge.

  ‘You do this to me: I’ll do it to you,’ attitude.

  It took me all the morning to clean up the mess. I worked fast, as I didn’t want Jenny to know what had happened. Fortunately, this was her visiting day and she wouldn’t be in until 17.00. I got a can of gasoline and cleaned the tar off the floor. I walked the ruined reports and the cards down to the trash bin.

  Every now and then, old women would come, and I told them I was too busy to talk to them. They gaped at the mess I was cleaning up and went away. One of them, a fat woman, pushing seventy, paused in the doorway and watched while I scrubbed the floor.

  ‘I’ll do that, Mister Larry,’ she said. ‘I’m more used to it than you.’

  Maybe the viciousness in my eyes as I looked at her scared her. She went away.

  By 16.00 I had cleaned it all up. I had ignored the telephone bell. I then sat down and began again on the card index.

  Jenny came bustling in around 17.15. She looked tired as she dropped into the straight-backed chair, facing my desk.

  ‘Everything under control?’ She sniffed. ‘Gasoline? Something happen?’

  ‘A tiny accident. nothing,’ I said. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘All right, the usual. People are beginning to talk about you, Larry. The oldies are getting to like you.’

  ‘That’s a step in the right direction.’ I leaned back in the desk chair. ‘Tell me about Spooky. Have we a card on him?’

  She stiffened, staring at me.

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Have we anything on him? Where he lives?’

  She continued to stare at me.

  ‘Why do you want to know where he lives?’

  I forced a casual grin.

  ‘I’ve been wondering about him. I wondered, if I could contact him, if I might sell myself to him. I mean get friendly with him. What do you think?’

  Jenny shook her head.

  ‘No absolutely no! No one could ever get friendly with Spooky. This is wrong thinking, Larry.’

  Then she paused and her eyes searched my face. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Happened?’ I smiled at her. ‘I was just wondering if I could do a rescue act. I mean if I talked to him but I’ll go along with what you say you must know. I don’t.’

  ‘Something has happened! I know Spooky! Please tell me!’

  ‘Nothing has happened. The trouble with you, Jenny, is you get dramatic at times.’ Again I smiled at her. Then I had a sudden inspiration. ‘If you haven’t anything better to do, will you have dinner with me tonight?’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Dinner? I’d love to.’

  It struck me from her expression this was probably her first invitation to dinner she had had since she had arrived in this godforsaken town.

  ‘There must be someplace where we can eat a decent meal. Luigi’s didn’t make a hit with me. Where can we go - expense no object.’

  She clapped her hands.

  ‘You really mean that - expense no object?’

  ‘That’s what I mean. I’ve spent nothing since I’ve been here and I’m loaded.’

  ‘Then the Plaza, it’s five miles out of town. I’ve never been there, but I’ve been told about it.’ She waved her hands and looked as excited as a kid.

  ‘Okay. I’ll fix it.’

  She looked at her watch, then jumped to her feet.

  ‘I must go. I have a date in five minutes.’

  ‘Tonight then eight o’clock. Come to the hotel. I have a
car okay?’

  She nodded, smiled and was gone.

  For some moments I sat thinking, then I dialled the cop house and asked to be connected with the Desk Sergeant. After a delay, his husky voice came over the line.

  ‘This is Carr remember me?’ I said.

  I listened to his heavy breathing.

  ‘Carr? Fifteen hundred bucks right?’

  ‘That’s it. Can you tell me where Spooky Jinx hangs out - his pad?’

  A long pause, then he said, ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘I want to contact him. He and I are due for a talk.’

  ‘You looking for trouble, buster?’

  ‘I’m a welfare officer - remember?’ I said. ‘I’m asking for information.’

  Again a long pause. I could imagine him rolling his pencil backwards and forwards while he thought.

  Finally, he said, ‘Yeah - a welfare officer - yeah.’ Another pause, then, ‘His pad is 245 Lexington. The gang’s meeting place is Sam’s Cafe on 10th Street.’ Another pause and more heavy breathing, then he said, ‘Don’t look for trouble, buster. We have to clean up trouble in this town, and we don’t like work.’

  ‘That I can understand,’ I said and hung up.

  I got the Plaza restaurant’s telephone number from the book and made a reservation for eight-forty.

  But Spooky was a jump ahead of me.

  Jenny arrived at the hotel at 20.00. I scarcely recognised her. Her hair was in a plait and wound tightly around her beautifully shaped head. She had on a black and white dress that turned her from a frump into a desirable woman. She was obviously pleased and proud of herself as she smiled expectantly at me.

  ‘Will I do?’

  I had put on one of my better suits.

  She was the first woman, since I had lost Judy, who I had taken out.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ I said and meant it.

  We walked to where I had parked the Buick.

  All the tyres were flat and the driving seat razor slashed. Across the windshield in big white letters was painted: CHEAPIE GO HOME

  The evening wasn’t a brilliant success. How could it have been? Jenny was upset about the car, although I played it cool, damping down my blazing hatred of Spooky Jinx. I took her back to the hotel, sat her in one of the sagging bamboo chairs while I telephoned Hertz Rent-a-Car. In fifteen minutes a car was delivered. While we waited, I tried to soothe Jenny down.

  ‘Look, this doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the car fixed. that’s no problem. Forget it as I’m forgetting it.’

  ‘But, Larry, don’t you see this dreadful boy won’t leave you alone until you have gone? You must go! He could hurt you! Please. I know him. He’s vicious! He won’t stop at anything. He. . .’

  ‘Jenny!’ The snap in my voice stopped her short. ‘You and I are having dinner together. Let’s skip Spooky. Let’s talk about each other. You look marvellous. Why do you always wear that awful grey dress?’

  She stared at me, then shrugged helplessly.

  ‘Oh, that? Look at the people in this town. It’s my disguise. That’s why I asked you to wear a sweat shirt and jeans. You have to dress the part here.’

  ‘Yes.’ I saw her point, then I went on, ‘I have only been here eight days, but I’m getting the photo. Do you really think you can help these people? No, wait a minute. I tell you I’m getting the photo. These people are scroungers. They try all the time to con. They take. Is it such a hot idea to work at the pressure you work? Aren’t you rushing up a moving staircase that is going the wrong way?’

  She thought about this, then said quietly, ‘Someone has to do it. One out of fifty really needs help. If I can help that one, then I’m doing a job.’

  The Hertz car arrived. I signed the form and we drove out of the town.

  The Plaza restaurant, on the side of a hill with a view of the lights of Luceville, was plush and expensive. The food was good. There was a band that played soft swing. It was crowded with bulky elderly men and fat, bulging women: all who talked at the top of their voices: the kind of scene Paradise City specialises in.

  We ate, made conversation, but it wasn’t a success because we were both thinking of the ruined car, Spooky and the drab, sordid life that was the background of Luceville, but we kept these thoughts to ourselves.

  I drove Jenny back to her apartment. By this time it was 23.00.

  She thanked me for a lovely evening. The expression in her eyes told me how worried she was.

  ‘Larry please be sensible. Please go back to your own home.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Let’s do this again.’ I touched her hand. ‘Next time we will have real fun,’ and I left her and drove back to the hotel.

  I changed into the sweat shirt and jeans, then I went down to the lobby and asked the sad coloured boy where I could find 10th Street. He looked at me as if I were crazy. Then when I asked him again, he said it was a good half-hour’s walk. He began to give directions, but I told him to skip it.

  I went out into the hot, cement-dusty night and got a taxi. I arrived at the top of 10th Street at 23.35. I paid off the taxi and started down the dimly lit street, which was lined with trash bins that smelt as if each one of them contained a rotting corpse.

  People milled around: most of them were old drunks, old w o m e n . people without a roof. Further down the street, the scene changed. Neon lights made harsh white pools on the filthy sidewalk. I now moved in the shadows. There were the usual Honky Tonk parlours, the striptease clubs, blue movie shows, the bars and the cafes. This part of the street was inhabited by the young. Boys with long hair, girls with hot pants and see-through, milled aimlessly around and created noise. Most of them carried transistors which exploded into ear-shattering noise of pop.

  Further down the street I saw a flashing sign that spelt out: SAM’S CAFE

  Still keeping in the shadows, I walked past the cafe.

  Outside, in an orderly rank were eight Honda motorcycles: flashy, powerful with crash helmets hanging from the handlebars. The cafe was crowded. I had a glimpse of young people wearing the usual uniform young people dig for, and the noise erupting from the cafe was deafening.

  I walked to the end of the street, turned and walked back. I found a dark, smelly doorway and I stepped into darkness. From there I could see the cafe. I leaned against the wall and waited. My smouldering rage against Spooky was now like a forest fire inside me. I thought of the cards, ruined by tar, and my car.

  Around midnight, there was an exodus from the cafe. Kids spilled out, shouting and screaming and went running off down the street. Then eight thin youths came swaggering out: leading them was Spooky.

  All of them were wearing the same uniform: yellow shirts and cat’s fur pants and a wide nail-studded belt. They got astride their Hondas, slapped on their helmets, and then the air was split with the fiendish sound of powerful engines revving and revving. Then they shot off. The noise they made sounded as if the third world war had begun.

  I memorised the number of Spooky’s bike, then I walked to the end of the street, picked up a taxi after a wait and returned to the hotel. I stretched out on the uncomfortable bed and waited. While I waited, I smoked innumerable cigarettes and let the forest fire of my hate rage, then around 03.00, I got off the bed and went silently down the stairs to the hotel lobby.

  The nightman was fast asleep. I let myself out into the hot cement-dusty street and went in search of a taxi. Eventually, I found one on a rank in Main Street, the driver dozing.

  I told him to take me to Lexington. It was a ten-minute drive. Luceville was asleep. There were no cars to stop a fast run.

  The driver pulled up at the top of the street.

  ‘Stick around,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  It was the kind of street where vermin must breed. Either side, tenement blocks with old-fashioned iron fire escapes blotted out the sky. Stinking trash bins, newspapers scattering the sidewalk, used contraceptives and used sanitary towels lay in the gutters.

&n
bsp; I walked down the deserted, silent street until I came to the tenement block that had a plaque: No. 245: Spooky’s pad. I paused, seeing the glittering Honda motorcycle at the kerb. I checked the number plate.

  Here was Spooky’s pride and joy.

  I looked up and down the deserted street, making sure there would be no witness. The only witness was a lean, mangy cat that darted from the shadows into an alley.

  I turned the Honda on its side, then I unscrewed the gas cap. When the gasoline had made a big puddle around the bike, I struck a match, stepped back and tossed the burning match into the puddle.

  THREE

  The following morning, on my way to the office, I called in on a hardware store and bought a pickaxe handle. I took it to the office and put it by the side of my desk, out of sight, but where I could get it with one swift movement. I had an idea I might need it.

  Jenny came bustling in around 10.00, the usual yellow forms clutched in her hand and wearing the drab grey dress. I found it hard to recognise the same woman I had taken out to dinner last night.

  She thanked me again for the dinner, asked if I had slept well, to which I said I had slept fine: a lie, of course, as I had hardly slept at all. She peered at what I was doing and from the expression on her face I could tell she was surprised I was only at letter C. She wasn’t to know that Spooky had ruined the work I had done, and I wasn’t going to tell her. Then she took off.

  I thumped the typewriter and kept my ears cocked.

  Around 11.00 Spooky arrived with seven of his buddies, so silently that, in spite of listening all the time, in spite of expecting him, I was taken unawares.

  If he hadn’t been a sadistic showoff he would have had me cold. Probably he felt completely secure with seven of his hulking buddies behind him.

  He stood before my desk and looked gloatingly at me: his tiny eyes red buttons of vicious hate.

  Slowly, he began to undo his belt.

  ‘This, Cheapie, is the payoff.’

  But by this time I had absorbed the shock of seeing him and I acted.

  Had he walked in, his belt swinging, he would have nailed me, but he wanted to see me cringe.

  I stood up, kicked away my chair, grabbed the pickaxe handle and hit him all in one swift movement.