1968-An Ear to the Ground

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘She was in Paradise City on a month’s vacation. The Cohens’ home was in Frisco, and this was her first visit to Paradise City. She had been there two weeks with friends on her father’s yacht and the old man had asked her to take a gander at the store to see how it was being handled and to report back to him. He had a lot of faith in Lisa’s judgment and he got her to do these snap checks when she was in Florida. A couple of times, she had reported unfavourably, and the managers of the stores found themselves out on the cold, hard sidewalk.

  ‘Lisa had been watching Harry without him noticing her for the past ten minutes. She had been wandering around the store, noting how the merchandise was being displayed, how the girls coped, and she had been favourably impressed. She was still more impressed when she realised this tall, husky hunk of beautiful manhood was the store manager.

  ‘It’s no secret that Lisa had hot pants. I wouldn’t go so far as to say she was a nympho, but she was as near it as makes no difference. She could have married twenty or thirty times. With her money, and what Sol Cohen was going to leave her, men were queuing up. Lisa let a lot of them lay her. This was something she had to have, but she had made up her mind when she was going to marry she would pick her man for herself and he wasn’t marrying her just for her loot.

  ‘As soon as she saw Harry, she decided he was the one she was going to marry. Up to now, she had met all types of men: tall, thin, short, fat, smooth, brash, young and old, but none of them combined Harry’s looks, his huskiness and the sex appeal that leaked out of his ears.

  ‘So she went up to him, looking at him with her big, alive eyes and told him who she was.’

  ***

  To say Harry was startled to find himself face to face with his boss’s daughter was to put it mildly. He was practically thrown into a panic. He wondered how long she had been in the store . . . if she had seen him squeeze the bottom of the girl working on the cosmetic counter. He wondered. . . then he pulled himself together and switched on his charming smile.

  ‘Welcome to the store, Miss Cohen. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  Lisa had noted the panic, which pleased her. She also liked the smile, which made her blood move more quickly.

  ‘I want to talk to you about the store,’ she said abruptly. ‘What time do you close?’

  ‘Seven o’clock,’ Harry told her. ‘Won’t you come up to the office, Miss Cohen?’

  ‘I’ll be outside in my car at seven,’ Lisa said. ‘We will have dinner together,’ and turning, she walked into the crowd and Harry lost sight of her.

  He cursed to himself because he had a girl lined up who promised great things for this night, but he had no alternative but to call her and cancel the date. She took it badly. Harry said it was just one of those things and hung up while she was still screaming abuse.

  During the afternoon, he wondered what the hell the daughter of a tycoon wanted, having dinner with him. He spent the rest of the afternoon in his office, feverishly making notes on the latest sales figures and getting out a balance sheet. He could only imagine she was going to probe his profit and loss account, and as the takings had fallen off during the month, Harry sweated. But he need not have worried. During dinner, Lisa didn’t even mention the store.

  She was waiting for him in a white Aston Martin. She had changed into a simple scarlet dress which from its cut must have cost plenty. She wore no jewellery and no stockings. Her black glossy hair was immaculate and if her nose had allowed her to look attractive, she would have been attractive.

  Harry got into the passenger’s seat and she shot the car off with an expertise change of gears that startled him. She said nothing until they were roaring along the beach road that led out of Paradise City, then she asked abruptly, ‘Can you eat seafood?’

  ‘Why, sure,’ Harry said. ‘I can eat anything.’

  She concentrated on her driving, and although Harry hated to be driven, preferring always to drive himself, he didn’t feel one qualm of uneasiness although she drove at an enormous speed.

  They arrived at a small restaurant that Harry knew to be murderously expensive, situated on a lonely strip of beach. He wondered if he had enough money on him to meet the check’, but again he need not have worried. When the Maître d’hôtel saw Lisa, he came forward, bowing, and led them to a secluded booth, away from the rest of the crowded restaurant and from then on, Harry had nothing to do with the arrangements.

  The dinner had already been ordered: king-sized prawns, hanging from wine glasses that were filled with crushed ice, lobster in a cream and champagne sauce, followed by wild strawberries in Kirsch.

  During the meal, Lisa, sitting opposite Harry, studied him and questioned him: not about the store as he had expected, but about himself. Her questions were personal and probing, and bewildered, Harry answered them. Who were his parents? What was his father’s profession? Where was he educated? What were his ambitions? (To this, Harry answered a little vaguely that he was doing all right at the store and liked the work. Then seeing Lisa’s sharp, frowning stare, he went on to say that of course it would be grand to get to head office, but he did really enjoy his work.) Was he married? What were his hobbies? (To this, Harry said golf, but if he had told the truth, he would have said sex.) The probing questions went on and on and Harry became more bewildered and even a little resentful, but he told himself you never know: she might be vetting him for a more important job. By the end of the dinner, Lisa knew almost as much about Harry as he did himself— but not quite. When she abruptly asked him about his sex life, Harry threw up a smoke screen. This was taking the probe just too far.

  ‘I get along. . . is this something we have to talk about?’

  She studied him, then nodded.

  ‘No. Do you want coffee?’

  ‘Look, Miss Cohen,’ Harry said firmly, feeling now was the time to assert himself. ‘You are my guest. I want you to understand that. Do you want coffee?’

  She moved her shoulders impatiently.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said with brutal curtness. ‘It goes down on Daddy’s account. I sign for everything and he pays. On what you earn, you couldn’t possibly afford to pay the check. . . do you want coffee?’

  Thinking back later, Harry realised this was the crucial moment when he should have either slapped her face or tossed his only $100 bill on the table and walked out. But Harry wasn’t made of that stuff. He hesitated, then turned on his charm.

  ‘Why, thanks . . . I didn’t know. A coffee would be marvellous.’

  From that moment, he was a dead duck.

  They had coffee and brandy and they discussed the latest novels, the latest pop discs and the latest movies. All the time, he felt those big black eyes searching his face, regarding the width of his shoulders, looking intently at his hands.

  Then suddenly she signalled to the Maître d’hôtel for the check. She examined it carefully, even added the figures, then she signed it. She put a ten dollar bill on the plate as a tip. As she left the restaurant, money passed between her and the Maître d’hôtel. He bowed nearly to the floor. Harry registered this and flinched. This was brash, vulgar spending and he resented it.

  They walked together to the car. Harry said it was one of the best meals he had had, and he thanked her for it. Lisa said nothing. She got in the car, started the engine and when Harry was by her side, she drove the car further down the beach road towards the sand dunes.

  ‘I don’t know if you know it,’ Harry said awkwardly, ‘but this road is a deadend. You . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  Because Harry wasn’t all that dumb, he got the idea that the evening wasn’t over. He suddenly realised Lisa Cohen, his boss’s daughter, had hot pants for him, and this brought him out in a cold sweat. For one thing, she wasn’t his type. She was just the kind of girl Harry never even looked at. He liked his girls to have big breasts and neat, hard bottoms. This girl had no front and no behind. She was just skinny. Apart from that, he thought of Sol Cohen. If he lai
d his daughter and Cohen heard about it, he would be out on his ear.

  Lisa pulled up under a clump of palm trees. There was a big stretch of silver sand, looking in the moonlight like freshly laundered sheet. . . there was the sea.

  She got out of the car and walked down on to the hard firm sand, and Harry, his heart thumping, feeling he wanted to shout for help, followed her. She sat down under the palm trees and he stood over her.

  She looked up at him.

  ‘Come on,’ she said impatiently, ‘take me.’

  A half an hour later, Harry came out of an exhausted doze and stared up at the big, white moon. He felt as if he had been put through a wringer. Never before in his sexual life had he ever had such an experience. Making love with Lisa was like making love to a buzz saw. It had been a shattering session and Harry had hated it. When he laid a girl, he liked to be in charge.

  He liked to regulate the tempo, but he had had no chance to do anything but to submit to Lisa’s terrifying passion.

  ‘Give me a cigarette,’ she said. She had pulled down her dress and was lying placidly by his side. As he lit the cigarette for her, he was surprised to see in the flame of the lighter how relaxed she was now. The hardness had gone. As she looked at him, smiling, her eyes limpid and kind, in spite of the size of her nose, she looked beautiful.

  Not knowing what to say, still feeling torn to pieces, Harry said nothing. He lay there until Lisa had finished her cigarette, then she crushed it out into the sand and sat up.

  ‘I must get back. They’ll think I’ve had an accident or something.’ She got to her feet and walked across the sand to the car. Harry followed her. It was an effort to drag one foot after the other. He had never felt so drained out.

  As she slid under the steering wheel and as he dropped heavily into the passenger’s seat, she looked inquiringly at him.

  ‘Was it good?’ she asked.

  Harry could have said it was sheer hell, but he remembered his job. After all, he told himself, she would soon be gone.

  This was something not to be repeated, so he lied: ‘The best ever.’

  She nodded, slid into gear and sent the car roaring back along the beach road towards the lights of the City.

  Three days later when Harry had recovered his virility and had had no word from Lisa, he decided he was out of danger.

  This was just a passing thing, he assured himself, and he wouldn’t have to face that ordeal again.

  When Lisa had said goodbye to him, she had looked intently at him with those big, glittering eyes and had smiled. ‘It was good, wasn’t it, Harry? It was the best ever for me too.’ Then she had driven away.

  Well, that was that, Harry thought with heartfelt relief. What an experience . . . phew!

  But how wrong he was.

  On this third day, he was in his office working on reorder sheets when the telephone rang.

  ‘This is Miss Selby,’ a cool, crisp voice informed him. ‘Mr. Cohen’s personal secretary. I am calling from San Francisco. Mr. Cohen wants to see you at three o’clock on Friday, the 11th. I have mailed you your return air ticket. It will reach you tomorrow. Please be punctual,’ and the line went dead.

  Right then and there, Harry laid an egg. The few times any store manager had been summoned to the holy of holies, he had got the gate. Could the old bastard have heard about Lisa? Harry wondered, really sweating it out. If he got the gate, what was he going to do? He hadn’t saved any money . . . damn it, he owed money! Hell’s teeth! He would be fixed!

  By the time he reached Frisco and had been shot up seventeen floors in the express elevator to Sol Cohen’s palatial office, he was practically a hospital case.

  He was met by Miss Selby who he had heard about. She was tall and willowy and gorgeous, with eyes like ice pick points and a smile that would have frozen a glacier. She took him to Sol Cohen’s office door, tapped and half-opened the door.

  Harry heard a voice talking with vicious anger. The sound of the voice sent a chill up his spine.

  Sol Cohen was on the telephone.

  ‘German?’ Sol Cohen was shouting. ‘Listen, Sam, don’t tell me lies like that! That consignment comes from China! I know! You can’t fool me! I’m not handling any crap from China!’ There was a click as Cohen slammed down the receiver.

  Miss Selby raised her beautiful eyebrows at Harry, her face expressionless.

  ‘You may go in.’

  Sol Cohen was a small, fat, balding man with a big hooked nose, small, dark, tough looking eyes and the magic only the real top executives have that come from them like a laser ray.

  As Harry walked across the forty-foot carpet before he finally arrived at Cohen’s desk which was big enough to play billiards on, Cohen leaned back on his high executive chair and studied him. By the time Harry reached the desk, his knees were knocking together and he was sweating cold sweat.

  Cohen’s fat face was a hard mask: an unnerving face. Harry thought wildly that this could be a dead face, then the face broke into a wide beaming smile and Cohen became transformed from a ruthless tycoon to a jovial, fat Jew who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  ‘You Harry Lewis?’ he said, getting to his feet.

  Harry gaped at him. The transformation threw him hopelessly out of his stride.

  ‘Y-yes, sir.’

  ‘Sit down, boy. First, let me shake your hand.’

  Dazed, Harry felt the small hard hand grip his, then as Cohen waved to a chair opposite his desk, he almost collapsed into it.

  ‘So you’re Harry Lewis.’ Cohen regarded him, smiling, then he nodded. ‘Quite a boy! Well! Well! I always knew Lisa could pick ‘em. Now listen, Harry, I’ve got a busy day. People keep worrying me. When you ran a business the way I ran this business, you’re like a goddam slave, so we’ll have to make this a quickie. Maybe when I take a vacation, we’ll get together and have fun . . . huh?’

  Harry just stared at him.

  ‘You want a cigar?’ Cohen asked.

  ‘No-no, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Okay, Harry, let’s get at it. Tell me, how do you like the idea of me being your father-in-law?’

  Harry thought: One of us must be mad! I guess it must be me!

  ‘Surprised? Didn’t Lisa tell you?’ Cohen laughed. ‘My little girl loves you . . . you love her . . . so . . . okay. She wants to marry you and when Lisa wants anything, she gets it.’ Cohen wagged his head, his expression rueful. ‘I’ll tell you something, Harry, she’s got me wrapped around her finger. But I like the idea of Lisa getting married. I want grandchildren. You know something, Harry? I like little kids. It’s the Jew in me. Besides, I’m not going to last forever and I want to leave my dough to Lisa and after her to three or four or even five boys. See?’

  Harry was speechless. He just sat there, sweat beading his face, his heart thumping, his mouth half-open.

  ‘I’ve been checking on your record, Harry,’ Cohen went on. ‘No great shakes, huh? Six thousand . . . nothing, but according to Lisa you’ve got something pretty special.’ He gave a leering laugh, ‘And Lisa likes it. Between you and me . . . how was she?’

  Harry reared back, feeling blood rash to his face.

  ‘I’d rather. . . I. . . I. . .’

  Cohen waved his hand.

  ‘Okay, boy. . . I like that. . . shows class,’ he said. ‘Forget it. . . sure, that’s something a classy guy doesn’t talk about. Well now, Harry, I’ve got to rush this. I’ve a full day. Just listen: Lisa wants to get married at the end of the month. I’ve already got a replacement for you at the store. That’ll give you a chance to help Lisa find a house. She’s struck with Paradise City and wants to settle there. I’ll miss her here, but when Lisa wants anything, she damn well gets it. So she’ll look around and she’ll find a house. You must be around to help her. The house and everything that goes with it. . . the furniture . . . the cars . . . you know, is all on me. I’m opening a bank account down there with the Florida Deposit in your joint names . . . just to start you two off right. Two hundred and f
ifty thousand. When the account begins to ran low — and knowing Lisa — it’ll ran low — I’ll keep it topped up. You have nothing to worry about. When you get back, go along to the bank and draw some money. Buy some clothes. When you go around with Lisa you’ve got to look good.’ The telephone bell buzzed and Cohen scowled. When he scowled, Harry shivered. It was a different face: a face you see in a nightmare. Cohen snatched up another telephone receiver. ‘I’m busy! I’m not taking calls! What? Hong Kong? Who the hell cares about Hong Kong?’ and he slammed down the receiver. For a long moment he scowled at the telephone, then he worked himself into a good mood again. ‘What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Now look, Harry, I don’t believe a man can be happy without some kind of work. Lisa didn’t want you to work. She thought you should stick around in the house and on the yacht and have fun with her, but I don’t go for that. I think you should have some work to do. I’ve got fifty thousand acres of building land out in Florida. My father bought it for a song. I’ve sat on it for years, but three months ago, I began to sell. I’ve set up an office in Paradise City. The punk in charge is as useless as a newborn babe — all he does is to make a noise. So I telephoned him this morning and gave him the heave-ho.’

  Harry suppressed a shiver. ‘When a guy is no use to me, I get rid of him,’ Cohen went on, ‘and this punk has a hole in his head. Well now, Harry, here’s a job that’ll give you interest. It’s not hard. There’s a clever little bitch down there who knows all the answers. She practically runs the office on her own, but I like a man in the front. I thought twenty thousand would be about right. . . we can adjust that later. That’ll be your own personal spending money. Of course, the heavy money will come from your joint account. The other money is for your cigarettes. Get all this?’

  Still Harry said nothing, but by now his mind was beginning to function.

  Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. . . a house . . . a yacht. . . $20,000 a year. . . a job in an office.

  Miss Selby put her gorgeous head around the door.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr. Cohen, but the American Ambassador is calling from London and Hong Kong is still on the line.’