Wild Town

by Jim Thompson

  As usual, he wound up at about five-thirty in the morning. Yawning wearily, he sauntered into the telephone room and sank down on one of the long-legged stools.

  He lighted a cigarette, stifling another yawn. The operator smiled sympathetically.

  “Long night, huh, Mr. McKenna?”

  “Yeah, real long. Be glad when it’s time to turn in.”

  A light flashed on the board. She plugged it out, voiced a polite sing-song query, and made the desired connection with another plug. Then, she turned back to Bugs.

  “Well, look, Mr. McKenna. If you’re tired, why don’t you turn in, now?”

  “Yeah, why don’t I?” Bugs grinned. “Suppose the old man should take a notion to ring me?”

  “Suppose he did?”

  “Well…Oh, I get you,” Bugs said. “You mean he wouldn’t know that I was there. You could say that you’d ring me down in the coffee shop, or something like that. Wherever I’d be likely to be at this hour of the morning.”

  “Uh-huh. Of course, I wouldn’t do that for everyone, but someone that’s all right like I know you are…”

  Bugs stared at her vacantly. His hand moved his cigarette toward his mouth; paused in mid-air with the journey uncompleted. The operator turned away, plucked the plugs out of the board.

  “I hope I didn’t say anything wrong, Mr. McKenna,” she murmured. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to think that I go around deceiving people.”

  “What? Aw, no, nothing like that,” Bugs protested. “No, I appreciate it. Glad to know you could help me out that way.”

  “Well—I don’t really see that it hurts anything. After all, we’re all here together, and if we can do each other a harmless little favor now and then, why—”

  “Sure, that’s the way I see it.” Bugs veiled his eyes, fought to keep his voice casual. “But, look, let me ask you this. Suppose we just reverse the deal. I’ve been working too hard, say, and Hanlon orders me to stay in my room and rest up. But I don’t want to do it. So I step out somewhere, and—”

  “I know what you mean.” The operator bobbed her head. “Well, that’s an easy one. You’d just tell me where you were going to be before you left, and when he asked me to ring your room I’d ring the other place instead. I’d get you on the line, you know, and then I’d open the connection.”

  Bugs frowned interestedly. He remarked that a writer could make a swell plot for a story out of a situation like that. “Let’s say, mmm, how could you do it? Let’s—Well, how about this? You’re just being nice, doing me a favor, but while I’m out of my room I commit a crime. You find out about it, and of course it’s your duty to tell the cops. But if you do that, you’ll put yourself on the spot. It’ll cost you your job, anyway, and—”

  “Oh, now, really, Mr. McKenna,” the operator laughed. “I’ll bet that’s your secret ambition, isn’t it? To be a writer?”

  “Well,” Bugs shrugged easily, “why not? Nothing much to it that I can see, once you’ve got a plot. Just putting words down on paper.”

  “Now, that’s true, isn’t it? If you’ve got a good idea, why, anyone could make a good story out of it. It certainly can’t take any brains to do that.”

  “Well, getting back to this idea of mine, then. What would you do in a case like that? What would a woman do? Me, now, I don’t think I’d know which way to jump. Probably figure that I’d better keep my mouth shut.”

  He waited. He dropped his cigarette to the floor, kept his eyes on it while he tapped it out with his foot. She was studying him, he knew. Comparing him as he was tonight with what he usually was.

  For a guy who didn’t ordinarily have much to say, he guessed he’d been talking a hell of a lot.

  The silence grew heavier. At last he looked up, stretched lazily, and stood up.

  “About your story plot, Mr. McKenna. The operator would handle hundreds of calls a night. She couldn’t be expected to remember this one—I mean, the one to the place where the crime was committed.”

  “No? Well, probably not,” Bugs agreed. “Anyway, you could hardly blame her if she didn’t remember.”

  “And how could she know that this party she’d done the favor for had committed the crime? Just because he was there, wouldn’t mean that he’d done it.”

  Bugs admitted that this was also right, adding, regretfully, that he guessed his plot wasn’t much good.

  “Well…Is there anything else I can tell you?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” Bugs said. “I think you’ve told me all you can.”

  And with a word of good-night, he sauntered out of the room.

  He hadn’t learned anything definite, nothing that positively placed Joyce in Dudley’s room at the time of his death. Under the circumstances, however, the fact that she could have been there was good evidence that she had been. Dudley was pretty low-down. He could easily have been pulling a squeeze-play on her of some kind, and got squeezed himself.

  Yeah, it figured, all right. The facts added up despite their one nominal contradiction. Joyce couldn’t move directly against her husband because of his money—the dangerously strong motive it represented. But there’d be no such obstacle in the way of her doing a job on Dudley.

  The end of the shift came, and Bugs went to bed. As usual, he spent the evening with Amy, another evening that was at once wonderful yet insidiously aggravating.

  He left early, and a little huffily. Returning to his room, he called Joyce Hanlon.

  18

  She was pretty cool when she first came to his room. She’d tried to be nice to him, she pointed out. She’d got him his job, and then she’d done her best to see that he made out okay. And in return he’d given her a good hard snubbing. Well, she didn’t take that kind of stuff. She didn’t have to take it from anyone, and she particularly didn’t have to take it from a guy like him. Particularly, understand? And he could take that any way he wanted to.

  Bugs let her get the mad out of her system. Now; finally, she lay stretched out on the bed, knees drawn up, one long silken leg stretched over the other. She was puffing a cigarette, lazily blowing smoke toward the ceiling. Asking a question with her silence, and preparing herself for the answer.

  She was like a cat, Bugs thought. Perfectly relaxed, yet ready to spring instantly in any direction.

  He cleared his throat, fidgeted uncertainly in his chair. He said, “Joyce…I want to ask you something.”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “You don’t really need five thousand dollars do you?”

  “Five thou—Well,” she laughed with deliberate lightness. “Every little five thousand helps, you know. Five thousand here and five thousand there, and—”

  “You know what I mean. You don’t want five thousand from me.”

  “We-ell…I’d be rather foolish if I did, wouldn’t I? A case of wanting in one hand and spitting in the other.”

  “Now, dammit, Joyce, listen—!”

  “I’m trying to, Bugs. Very hard. I’m sure if you say anything I’ll hear it.”

  Bugs hesitated, leaned forward. “I’ve been getting letters. They demand five thousand dollars as a price for keeping quiet about a certain matter. You’ve been writing them.”

  “Have I? Now, how could you possibly think a thing like that?”

  “Because this matter concerns Dudley—his death. Because I know you were with him at the time.”

  “Oh,” she said. “So that’s where I was.”

  She raised up on one elbow, dropped her cigarette into an ashtray. She lay back down again, drowsily shielding her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “There’s only one way you could be so sure of that, Bugs. You were with him, too.”

  “Well—let’s say I’m not sure of it. Only as sure as you’re sure about me. It’s a push, in other words. You can’t put me any further into the soup than I can put you into it.”

  “Mmm, I don’t believe you really think that way, do you, honey? If you did, you wouldn’t be worried about those
letters I’m supposedly writing you.”

  “Maybe I’m just smarter than you are,” Bugs said. “Maybe you ought to be worried a lot more.”

  “Now that,” Joyce murmured, “is a straight line if I ever heard one. Coming from a guy with a record like yours—”

  “What about your record? And don’t tell me you haven’t got one.”

  “But I haven’t, darling. Honestly.”

  “Nuts. You’re no kid, and Dudley couldn’t be the first guy you hit with that stuff. It’s a modus operandi, the trade-mark of a certain type of worker. Some gals go in for boosting, or paper-pushing or lifting leathers. Others work the chloral hydrate.”

  That did it, jarred her out of the indifferent act. Her body stiffened, and under the shielding fingers, her eyes widened with sudden fear. She lay almost absolutely motionless for a moment. Then she slowly sat up, swung her feet to the floor.

  Bugs grinned at her. She looked at him blankly; and then her lips twisted into a different kind of grin.

  “Yes,” she said, “some gals work the chloral hydrate. Hard-boiled gals. Gals who’ll take the long chance…So that alleged record of mine isn’t much protection for you, is it, Bugs? No more than I care to let it be. And if I don’t care to let it be at all…”

  “Then you’d be stupid?”

  “Perhaps. Under different circumstances. But you’ve got a pretty good idea that those circumstances don’t exist in this case, that there isn’t going to be any matching up of records. The lightning is going to strike in just one spot, and you’ll be on it. That’s your idea—your pretty good idea—and it’s a pretty good idea to hang onto.”

  “You’re talking about Ford, now. He’ll protect you.”

  “That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? But you’re saying it, Bugs. I haven’t said a word.”

  “But dammit,” Bugs snapped. “You’re not telling me anything. I can’t be sure where Ford stands or—or—”

  “You should be able to. All you have to do is see how he runs this town, remember the way he picked you up out of nowhere and brought you to me…I’d say he was a very pleasant easy-going guy when it suits him. He couldn’t ignore something if it was shoved right in his face, but—”

  “You’re still not telling me anything! Now, let’s have it, Joyce. What do you want—what am I supposed to do—and how can I be sure I’ll get away with it?”

  She laughed softly, with false sweetness. Crinkled her eyes at him coquettishly. “Why, Bugs. I believe that’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever had. Of course, I do think I hold my age very well, but—”

  “Compliment! What—”

  “Mmm-hmm. Saying I was only a day old. Or isn’t that what you meant—that I was born yesterday?”

  She laughed again, but in a different way. Amused. Jeering. Then she stood up, swinging the sable stole back around her shoulders.

  “You’ve taken your time about seeing me, Bugs, and now you don’t have anything to say. But—never mind. I’m sure you won’t wait so long next time, will you? I’ll hear from you very, very soon, because otherwise my feelings might be hurt. And if that happened…”

  Bugs let out a moaning snarl of frustration. He again asked what the hell she wanted him to say. Or rather he started to. She cut him off with a thoughtful gesture.

  “I’ve been thinking, Bugs…Why bother to say anything? It isn’t at all necessary, is it?”

  Bugs looked into her mocking face. He shrugged wearily and was silent.

  “At least, a word or two should be enough. Don’t you think?…Okay? All right?”

  She left then, leaving the words hanging in the air.

  Bugs bathed his face in ice water and went dully to work.

  He’d botched things, he guessed. He’d as good as admitted that he’d been in Dudley’s room, while she, on the other hand had admitted nothing. And there was no satisfaction at all in the possibility that she might be bluffing, taking advantage of the blackmail act which another person was pulling.

  Because someone was pulling it. And whether it was Joyce who wanted her husband murdered, or whether it was another woman who merely (merely!) wanted five grand, he was still behind the eight ball. Either way, a demand was being made on him that could only be met in one way.

  But he knew it had to be Joyce. He was sure of it, and he became surer. For there were no more of the blackmail letters. And if she hadn’t been sending them…well, they would have continued, wouldn’t they?

  Bugs could see it in no other way. Joyce had made her point. Having made it, the letters became unnecessary. Now, she was waiting, checking the next move to him.

  As the days dragged by—she began to prod him toward that move. No, she still didn’t come out in the open. She said or did nothing even remotely incriminating. It was just a matter of an occasional telephone call, or a brief visit to his room. No more than the open and patently innocent friendliness she had showed for him from the beginning. How was he feeling—okay? How was he getting along—all right? Well, that was fine. And so on, and so on.

  Bugs grew more and more tense. He was a bundle of worries and nerves, hardly able to keep his mind on his job, almost wholly unable to rest or relax. He couldn’t take any more, he thought. He’d have to give in, give up, or—

  And he didn’t know how. He was incapable of it. As his tension and worry and fear increased, so did his stubbornness.

  No crooked cop was pushing him around. No two-bit floozy was giving him orders. No one was making him do a goddamned thing that he didn’t want to do.

  That’s the way it was. That’s the way it had been all his life. And if anyone didn’t like it, they knew what they could do about it. They might kill him, but they wouldn’t change him. They might give him a beating, but they’d damned sure know they’d been in a fight.

  So there was a stalemate, one which no amount of subtly insistent threats from Joyce could jar him out of. One which would remain—in his own mind, at least—until he himself decided to change it. His instinct for survival tangled with unrelenting stubbornness; and subconsciously relishing the situation, revelling in a feeling of nobility and martyrdom, he would neither retreat nor go forward.

  In the end, he resolved the stalemate himself. For the same reason—and as harrowingly as—he had done so with countless others. Because he was tired of it. Because he had gotten all the self-torturing pleasure from it that could possibly be extracted. Being what he was, however, he could not admit this.

  It was Amy’s doing, not his. It was Amy who, while he was tottering right on the brink, gave him a push.

  If Amy had been fair…

  If she’d been understanding…

  If she’d been forgiving…

  If she’d been a saint instead of another human like himself…

  If she’d been willing to take everything he dished out, meanwhile whimpering with adoration and self-abnegation…

  Well, that was really all he expected of her. Although he wouldn’t have put it quite that way.

  19

  Afterwards, when he had acquired a reasonably normal perspective, he couldn’t understand how he could have acted as he had, how any grown man could have behaved in such a determinedly boorish and uningratiating manner. He had been given no excuse to behave that way, nothing that could be sanely regarded as an excuse. On the contrary, Amy showed much less spirit and independence than she usually did. She smiled at provocative statements. She laughed off near-insults. She petted him, literally and figuratively, when she must have felt like clouting him.

  And somehow it only made Bugs worse. The greater her efforts to please him, the greater were his to be displeased—and displeasing. With part of his mind he was aware of this; he knew he was utterly wrong, and getting wronger by the minute. But he just couldn’t help it. He was like a man in a dream, delighting in deeds which at the same time sickened and shocked him.

  Amy had cooked liver for their dinner. It was not a dish that Bugs had any very strong feelings about ei
ther way. But tonight he decided to dislike it. So after a few obviously reluctant bites, he pushed his plate aside.

  Yeah, he mumbled unconvincingly, it was okay. All right. Just wasn’t very hungry, he guessed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Aren’t you feeling well, Mac?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m feeling well. Why not? I just said I wasn’t hungry.”

  “I guess I should have got something else,” she said apologetically. “I meant to, but they were having a special on liver today, and, oh, you know how it is with a woman! Just can’t pass up a bargain. Of course, if I’d known that you didn’t like—”

  “Amy, for—! Never mind, have your own way about it.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she smiled quickly. “I won’t say another word. If you’re not hungry, you’re not, and why should you eat when you’re not?”

  Bugs managed to say that he was sorry, too. But he didn’t sound like he meant it—and he didn’t. Except with that very small part of his mind. She was picking on him, he told himself. She, of all people, was finding fault with him!

  He drank coffee and smoked a cigarette while she hurried through her meal. He studied her out of brooding, sultry eyes.

  She looked childishly young tonight, like a gay, friendly child in a woman’s body. Her clear peaches-and-cream skin was free of make-up. Her candy-colored hair was pulled back in a horse’s-tail. Beneath their silky brown lashes, her gray eyes were straightforward and sparkling.

  She was wearing a housedress. Neat, stiffly starched and immaculately clean, yet faded and shrunken. It barely came to her knees, fitted snugly over the curves of her body. Her full breasts strained against the material, were pushed upward by its tightness. And Bugs could see deep into the hollow between them.

  He stared, almost openly, feeling a surge in his unreasoning resentment. He wanted her, wanted to look upon her again as he had looked upon her that first time, and the desire made him furious. What was she trying to pull, anyway? What was the idea in appearing so damned girlish and innocent when they both knew that she wasn’t?