Wild Town

by Jim Thompson

  Ed Gusick greeted him unctuously. Bugs responded with his usually monosyllabic grunt, and got out of the car at the mezzanine. It was close to one o’clock now, and Rosalie Vara was absent; having her dinner in the kitchen, Bugs guessed. He walked down the mezz’ to its far end, descended the staircase there to the lobby, and, turning to his left, entered the coffee shop.

  It was a popular place, the one really good restaurant in town. And even at this hour, many of the tables and most of the counter stools were in use. Looking things over, automatically, Bugs glanced at a table in a far corner of the room, a table occupied by a taffy-haired young woman and a grinning, satanic-looking young man.

  Bugs gulped, and his heart did a hop-skip. Ducking his head, he started for his usual stool at the end of the counter. But Lou Ford had already seen him.

  “Hey, Bugs…McKenna!” He stood up and beckoned insistently. “Come on over!”

  Bugs scowled and shook his head. Ford repeated his invitation at a shout. “Come on, fella! Don’t be so skitterish. Got a friend here that wants to meet you!”

  Bugs joined them; there was nothing else to do. Blushing, he mumbled an acknowledgement of Ford’s jovial introduction to Amy Standish. Without raising his eyes, he gave his order to the waitress. He felt like his face was on fire. He felt like he was smothering. Practically all women affected him that way until he got to know them, but none had done so to the extent that Amy Standish did.

  He heard an amused chuckle from Ford. Angrily, tossing the menu aside, he forced himself to look up.

  Amy was smiling at him gently, her small round chin resting in the palm of her hand. “You mustn’t mind him, Mr. McKenna”—she inclined her head toward the deputy. “He’s just naturally ornery.”

  Bugs tried to smile back at her. He said he agreed with her in spades.

  “Well, don’t you mind, anyhow. We’re friends now, so there’s nothing to feel shy or awkward about.”

  “W-well…well, thanks,” Bugs stammered. “I mean—”

  “Heck, he ain’t shy,” Ford drawled. “He’s just embarrassed. That’s right, ain’t it, Bugs? You’re just embarrassed about that day you come up to the house and busted in without knockin’?”

  “Shut up!” Bugs snarled. “I—if you don’t shut up, I’ll—”

  “Yeah? What’s the matter? I say somethin’ wrong?”

  Bugs glowered at him. Amy looked curiously from one man to another.

  “What is the matter?” she said. “You may as well tell me, Lou, now that you’ve started to. I—No, Mr. McKenna. I’m sure this concerns me, and I want to hear what it is.”

  Ford grinned at Bugs. He spread his hands easily. “Why, it wasn’t nothin’, really. All I was going to say was that Bugs seen you in your birthday suit.”

  “Did he?” Amy looked at him steadily.

  “Didn’t have a stitch on that I could see,” Ford said, “and I sure could have seen any, close as I was. Yes, sir, you went skittering out into the hallway, naked as a jaybird. Stood there puttin’ on your underclothes while you was chewin’ me out.”

  “Yes? Well, go on. You’re surely not going to stop there, are you?”

  Ford drawled that yes, he guessed he would stop there. “Probably ain’t a real fittin’ thing to talk about at table,” he added, with unapologetic apology. “Kind of looks like I maybe already sort of spoiled Bugs’s dinner.”

  Amy turned away from him. Seemingly, at least for the moment, he ceased to exist for her.

  “Well?” she said. “Well, Mr. McKenna?” Her voice was quiet, too quiet. Her gaze too steady. “Well?” she repeated. “We—”

  “Sounds like a deep subject,” remarked Lou Ford. “Yes, sir, I’d say that was a plumb deep subject, and that’s a fact.”

  Bugs suddenly shoved back his plate. He shoved back his chair and stood up. And Amy smiled at him mistily and also stood. She seemed to have been waiting for him to make the move. He took her arm, and they started for the door.

  “Hey, wait a minute, now,” Ford called after them. “Where y’all rushing off to?” But he didn’t sound like he actually cared, only sardonically amused. And they continued on across the restaurant and out the door to the sidewalk.

  Bugs had paid down on an old coupe out of his last salary check, and it was parked a few doors down the street. He helped her into it and drove her home. Her house was a companion piece to Ford’s—was, in fact, in the same block as his. And, as in his case, it had been her parents’ home, and their parents’ before them. They were both old family, Lou Ford and Amy Standish. The last survivors of two old families. Bugs considered that fact, taking another look at her in his mind’s eye, and he decided that she must be older than he orginally thought. Around thirty maybe. Maybe as old as thirty-one.

  He stopped the car. She smiled at him softly, spoke as though answering a question and making an explanation.

  “I’ll be thirty my next birthday,” she said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never gone with anyone but Lou. What would you do in my place?”

  “What would I…”

  “Considering my age and my background. Considering that there is a very limited number of eligible men in a place like this.”

  Bugs didn’t see what she was driving at. Or, perhaps, he didn’t care to admit that he saw it. He was pretty broad-minded, understand—by his own admission. And he’d fallen for this Amy Standish the moment he saw her. But falling for her, liking and wanting her, was one thing, and something else was something else. And he’d already had one chuck of second-hand goods.

  “I guess I ought to be getting back to the job,” he said uncomfortably. “Am I—can I see you again?”

  “I don’t know—Mac? Is it all right to call you that? I don’t care for Bugs.”

  “I don’t either, and Mac’s fine. Well, how about it—Amy?”

  “As I was saying, I don’t know, Mac. I’m not sure that you should…No, it isn’t that”—she anticipated him. “Lou has told me quite a bit about you, your past, and that isn’t a factor at all. It’s just that—that—”

  “You think Lou might not like it?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t tell you. But”—she smiled with sudden brightness, head tilted playfully to one side—“There’s one thing I am sure of. Very sure of. In fact there are several things. I’m sure I like you a lot, and I’m sure you’ve got the kindest-looking eyes I’ve ever seen, and I’m sure”—she kissed him lightly on the mouth—“I’ve been wanting to do that for the last thirty minutes.”

  She laughed and scampered out of the car. She turned her head back through the window. “And another thing. I’m sure you ask a great many questions on short acquaintance.”

  And then she was crying. The laughter had changed suddenly to tears.

  Weeping, she fled up the walk to the house.

  Bugs kicked open the door, called a question after her.

  “Y-yes!” she stopped and whirled around. “Why shouldn’t you see me? Why shouldn’t anyone, everyone? Why—why—”

  She started running again. Bugs let her go. After all, he was going to have this Dudley matter to deal with tonight. And he’d damned well better keep his mind on it until it was safely wrapped up. And, aside from that, well…

  Well?

  He cursed, cursing himself and Lou Ford with equal venom. Feeling frustrated, his mind churning with confusion, he drove back to the hotel.

  Ford was loitering in front of the entrance, one boot heel hooked back against the bricks, one of his thin black cigars in the corner of his mouth. He slouched out to the curb as Bugs climbed out of his car.

  “You’re bein’ paged,” he announced. “Looks like you got a suicide on your hands.”

  “A suicide?” Bugs managed a satisfactory start. “Who was it? How did it happen?”

  “Joyce Hanlon. Drank herself a cup of poison. Guess she heard about you bein’ with Amy and it plumb broke her heart.”

  He nodded soberly, very long of face. Then
, as Bugs gaped at him, he laughed and slapped the big man on the back. “Just jokin’ with you, fella; doubt if they’s anything on the market that would make a dent in Joyce.”

  “Very funny,” Bugs snapped. “Look, has there actually been a suicide, or—”

  “Oh, sure, there’s been one all right. Sure looks like one anyway. Man name of—Well, let’s see if you can guess. Three guesses, and if you hit it right I’ll give you a see-gar.”

  “Never mind, goddammit.” Bugs started for the entrance. “Of all the—!”

  “You mean you don’t like see-gars?” Ford easily joined stride with him. “Well, seein’ as you’re so impatient-like, it was a fella named Dudley, Alec Dudley. You know him, I reckon?”

  “Sure, I know him; he’s the Hanlon’s auditor. I don’t mean I was well-acquainted with him, but—”

  “Uh-huh. Then, you wouldn’t have any idea why he’d kill himself? Don’t know of any trouble he was in, or whether he was feelin’ dee-spondent or anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can find out.” Ford linked arms with him companionably. “Been waitin’ for you to come back before I did any investigatin’. Me, I’m a great hand for observin’ pro-to-col, as the sayin’ is. Guess you might call it my greatest vice and my strongest virtue…”

  They made the investigation together—if such a casual asking of questions and looking-about could be called an investigation. Then, an ambulance having removed Dudley’s body, they stood once more at the entrance of the hotel.

  Bugs didn’t want to be there; not with Ford, at least. He wanted to be alone, to relax his taut nerves, to sort out his thoughts about Amy Standish. But the deputy held him as if by an invisible magnet. He didn’t have anything to say. He simply rambled on and on, with his usual drawling, rube-ish chit-chat, until Bugs was on the point of crawling out of his own skin.

  And then Ford broke off suddenly, staring at Bugs out of shrewd, narrowly amused eyes. “Ain’t you got some work to do?” he inquired, his voice soft-hard. “Hadn’t you maybe ought to be gettin’ at it?”

  Bugs said he had. He added curtly that he couldn’t very well work while he was standing around listening to a lot of goddamned nonsense.

  Ford nodded equably. He took the cigar from his mouth, and examined the tip. And then, swiftly, he looked up, his gaze striking into Bugs’s face like a blow.

  “Why listen to it, then?” he said. “Why not just say good-night or go to hell, and turn around and walk off? You’re all paid up with the law. You got a clean conscience—I reckon. So what’s the answer? What are you afraid of? Why put up with me a minute more than you care to?”

  Bugs looked down at the walk, not answering him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t put his feelings into words, nor, naturally, would he have dared to if he could have. He was guilty, technically guilty of at least manslaughter. There was a growing impression in his mind that he had been given his job for a sinister purpose, and that tacitly he had agreed to that purpose. So he could be held by Ford, forced to bend to him. And Ford knew it, and he was making him admit it.

  The silence lasted for seeming hours. Then Ford cleared his throat, and his tone was casual again.

  “Looks like you made quite a hit with Amy. Can’t say when I’ve seen her quite so taken with a fella. How’d you like her anyway?”

  “I liked her fine,” Bugs said gruffly. “A lot more than I should, I guess.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean, well, I’m just getting a start here. Never really had anything in my life, and don’t know that I ever will have. And if she’s your fiancee…”

  “Mmm? Well, yeah, I believe I did say that, didn’t I? But that’s kind of a loose expression out this a-way. Gal and a fella goes steady for years, it’s just kind of taken for granted that they’re engaged. Don’t really have to do nothin’ or say nothin’ about it themselves.”

  “Well,” said Bugs. “I—uh—see.”

  “Had an idea you didn’t like the way I talked to her tonight. Kind of got the impression you didn’t like it a-tall.”

  “I didn’t! I thought it was a goddamned lousy thing to do!”

  “Yeah? Uh-huh?”

  “What do you mean, ‘yeah, uh-huh’?”

  “I mean, you got some right not to like it? I mean, just what the hell is she to you for you to like or dislike it? Sure, you ain’t got nothing, but you’re still young and you’re a pretty fair figure of a man, and Amy ain’t the kind to count the money in your pocket. She was pretty taken with you; that’s all that counts with her. And you seemed to reciprocate the feeling. And remember, I ain’t standin’ in your way. Got too much pride to use my job in a personal matter, even if I did want to…So let’s have your answer. Just what the hell is she to you? Or maybe I should say, what’d you like to have her be to you?”

  “Hell.” Bugs squirmed. “What’s this all about, anyway? I’m busy, and I hardly know the girl and—”

  “You can be unbusy a minute longer. And maybe you know her too well. You feel like you know her too well, and you don’t like what you know.”

  “For God’s sake, Ford! I told you that—”

  “Why don’t you say it? Spit it out. Say that she might be all right for you to play around with, but she ain’t good enough for anything more.”

  So all right, Bugs thought savagely. I do feel that way, kind of. And how can you blame me for that?

  He didn’t say anything, however.

  Although he might as well have.

  Ford stared at him, lip curling, his face a mask of profane wonderment. “We’ll, I,” he said, incredulously, “I will be a son-of-a-bitch! Never let no one call me that in my life, but I’ll say it myself. I will be a dirty double-donged son-of-a-bitch!…A jailbird like you. A stupid, stubborn jerk that never did a damned thing right in his life, that’s fouled up everything, and you think…”

  He turned slowly and walked away.

  Scowling defensively, Bugs re-entered the hotel. So maybe he had botched up his whole life. Or, rather, since it wasn’t his fault, it had been botched up for him. That was why he had to be extra careful now. Because he wasn’t so young anymore, and just about one more wrong move would foul him up for good.

  And just where—and this was what completely bewildered Bugs—where did Ford get off at lecturing another guy about Amy? He was no good, a crook and a grafter. She’d been a sweet clean girl, and he’s made her into something not so sweet and clean. And then, the low-down louse, he kidded her about it in front of a stranger! He was that kind of guy, he did that to her. And yet he had the gall to bawl out the aforesaid stranger for his entirely natural concern with what had happened before he came along!

  Hell, Bugs thought, I didn’t say I held it against her, did I? Hell, she’s still going with him, isn’t she? Hell, I just met her, didn’t I? Hell…

  Hell, hell, hell!

  Bugs stood in a corner of the vaulted lobby, smoking a cigarette in short angry puffs. Nothing absently that Rosalie Vara had returned from her dinner—or wherever she had been—and was once again at work on the mezz’.

  She saw him looking at her and flirted a hand at him. He grinned back weakly, and sauntered toward the elevators.

  Well, nuts, he thought. He was getting all up in the air over nothing. Getting the cart a mile in front of the horse. This was a hell of a time to be thinking about Amy Standish, her or any other woman. To be thinking about anything except hanging onto his job, and staying out of trouble. And he wouldn’t have been if Ford hadn’t hailed him there in the coffee shop, and acted like the double-distilled son-of-a-bitch which he admitted being.

  Well. Well, maybe it was all for the best. Maybe Ford had done him a favor. He hadn’t been afraid, exactly, but naturally he’d been pretty shaken up over what had happened to Dudley. And then Ford had latched onto him, diverting his mind from Dudley until it could accept his death without shock. Until he was prepared to face up to the death in front of Ford with
no telltale nervousness.

  Yeah, everything had worked out for the best. The means hadn’t been exactly pleasant, maybe, but the result had been perfect. Because he was safe, now. He’d been in a mess that might have meant curtains for him, but now he was safe.

  He wondered why he felt so lousy.

  He wondered why, meaning as well as he did, he was always getting into messes.

  7

  …Bugs was working as a guard in an aircraft plant when World War II broke out. Since the beginning of his working career, he had almost always landed in jobs as a night watchman or a guard or something of the kind. He wasn’t trained for a well-paying position—the kind a man might be proud to hold. And having a little authority, even at relatively low pay, helped to buck up his ego.

  This particular job was somewhat better than average, and Bugs did his best to hold onto it. He did everything he was supposed to, nothing that he shouldn’t; sticking to the rule book right to the letter. And his best wasn’t good enough.

  The chief engineer’s wife showed up at the plant one day. She had a pass, as was required, but she also had a sealed package. And Bugs, over her vehement protests, insisted on opening it. It contained a box of sanitary napkins.

  She departed the plant in tears. About thirty minutes later—just as quickly as she could reach her husband by telephone and he could get in touch with the plant superintendent—Bugs departed with his final paycheck.

  The loss of the job lost him his draft deferment. Bugs went into the Army where he shortly found himself an MP. He was patrolling the airplane hangars one evening when he discovered a man in a Russian officer’s uniform prowling amongst the planes. Accosted by Bugs, the man complimented him on his alertness, and displayed the credentials of an American general.

  Well. As Bugs admitted at his court-martial, he recognized the credentials as genuine; he had even recognized the general. Still, the masquerade had been a damned stupid thing, a violation of regulations in itself. And he, Bugs, had been entirely within his rights in insisting that the general march ahead of him to a guard post where an officer could dispose of his case. The general had refused, profanely and violently. He had started to walk away from Bugs. Bugs told him to halt. When he kept on going, Bugs shot him in the hip.