by Jim Thompson
I wondered if I was drinking too much.
I wondered how it would be—how I would manage to eat and sleep and talk and work: how to live—if I drank less.
I decided that I wasn’t drinking enough, and that henceforth I should be more careful in that regard.
Dave Randall looked at me nervously as I sat down. Tom Judge jerked his head over his shoulder in a way that meant that Mr. Lovelace had arrived.
“And, Brownie,” he leaned forward, whispering, “you should’ve seen the babe he had with him!”
“How, now,” I said. “Much as it pains me, I shall have to report the matter to Mrs. Lovelace. The marriage vows are not to be trifled with.”
“Boy, for some of that you could report me to my wife!”
“Let me catch you,” I said, sternly, “and I shall.”
It was an average morning, newswise. I did a story on the Annual Flower Show and another on the County Dairymen’s convention. I rewrote a couple of wire stories with a local twist and picked up a few items for my column. So it went. That was the sort of thing—and about the only sort of thing—that got into the Courier.
Mr. Lovelace frowned on what he termed the “negative type” of story. He was fond of asserting that Pacific City was the “cleanest community in America,” and he was very apt to suspect the credibility of reporters who produced evidence to the contrary. I could have done it and got away with it. For reasons that will become obvious, I held a preferred place in the “happy Courier family.” But I was temporarily content with the status quo, and there was no one else. It had been years since any topflight reporter had applied for a job on the Pacific City Courier.
With my last story out of the way, I began to feel those twinges of mental nausea that always herald the arrival of my muse. I felt the urge to add to my unfinished manuscript, Puke and Other Poems.
I rolled paper into my typewriter. After some preliminary fumblings around, I began to write:
Lives of great men, lives en masse
Seem a stench and cosmic ruse.
Take my share, I’ll take a glass
(no demi-tasse—it has to knock me on my ass)
Of booze.
Not good. Definitely not up to Omar, or, perhaps I should say, Fitzgerald. I tried another verse:
Sentience, my sober roomer,
Steals my warming cloak of bunk
(I’m sunk, sunk, sunk.)
Leaves me an impotent assumer
Of things that I can take when drunk.
Very bad. Far worse than the first stanza. Assumer—what kind of word was that? And when was I ever actually drunk? And the wretched, sniveling self-pity in that sunk, sunk, sunk.…
I ripped the paper out of the typewriter and threw it into the wastebasket.
I didn’t do it a bit too soon, either.
Mr. Lovelace wasn’t a dozen feet away. He was heading straight toward me, and the “babe” Tom Judge had mentioned was with him.
I don’t know. I never will know whether she was a little slow on the uptake, a little dumb, as, at first blush, I suspected her of being, or whether she was merely tactless, unusually straightforward, careless of what she said and did. I just don’t know.
I gave Mr. Lovelace a big smile, including her in the corner of it. I complimented him on his previous day’s editorial and asked him if he hadn’t been losing weight and admired the new necktie he was wearing.
“I wish I had your taste, sir,” I said. “I guess it’s something you have to be born with.”
No, I’m not overdrawing it. It doubtless seems that I am, but I’m not. He couldn’t be kidded. However good you said he was, it wasn’t ever quite so good as he thought he was.
I poured it on, and he stood beaming and rocking on the balls of his feet, nodding at the woman as if to say, “Now, here’s a man who knows the score.” Even when she burst out laughing, he didn’t catch on.
He looked at her a little startled. Then the beam came back to his face and he chuckled. “Uh—just finished telling Mrs. Chasen a little story. Kind of a delayed punch, eh, Mrs. Chasen?”
She nodded, holding a handkerchief over her mouth. “I’m s-sorry, but—”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Often affect people that way.…Uh, by the way, Mrs. Chasen, this is the Mr. Brown I spoke to you about. Come along with us, eh, Brown?”
I followed them out into the reception room. “Mrs. Chasen,” he explained, “is a very dear friend of ours—uh—of Mrs. Lovelace and myself. Unfortunately—uh—we did not expect Mrs. Chasen’s visit and Mrs. Lovelace is out of town, and—uh—well, you know my situation, Brown.”
“Tied up every second of the day,” I said promptly. “Not a moment to call your own. Perhaps it’s not my place to say it, Mrs. Chasen, but there isn’t a busier man in Pacific City than Mr. Lovelace. The whole town leans on him. Because he is strong and wise, they—”
She started laughing again, staring at him with narrowed, unblinking eyes. And it was a nice laugh to hear, despite the undertone of contempt. And the way it made her tremble—what it trembled—was pleasant to watch.
Mr. Lovelace waited, smiling, of course, but with a nervous glance at the foyer clock. “So if you’ll—uh—take over, Brown,” he resumed. “You know. Show Mrs. Chasen our local points of interest, and—uh—play the host, eh?”
I knew what he meant. I knew exactly where Mrs. Chasen stood. She was an acquaintance of his and his wife’s, a friend, perhaps, of a friend of theirs. And as such, she could not be given the fast brush-off. But she was certainly not their very dear friend. She wasn’t because Mrs. Lovelace was not out of town, and he, Mr. Lovelace, was about as busy as the zipper on an old maid’s drawers.
The Grade-C Tour. That was what Mrs. Chasen was supposed to get. A drive around the city, a highball or two, a meal in a not-too-expensive place, and a firm shove onto her train.
“I understand, sir,” I said. “I’ll show Mrs. Chasen what we mean when we call this the Friendly City! Just leave everything to me, Mr. Lovelace, and don’t worry about a thing. You have far too many cares as it is.”
“Uh—ha, ha—excellent, Brown. Oh, don’t bother to come back today. Make a holiday of it. You can make the time up some other day.”
“Do you see?” I turned to Mrs. Chasen, spreading my hands. “Is it any wonder we all love Mr. Lovelace?”
“Let’s go,” she said. “I need some fresh air.”
If she’d been balancing a glass of water on her head, she wouldn’t have spilled a drop with the nod she gave him. She turned abruptly and stepped onto the elevator.
I studied her, as best I could, on the way down to the street. And I liked what I saw, but I couldn’t say why I liked it.
She wasn’t any youngster—around thirty-five, I’d say. Added up feature by feature, she was anything but pretty. Corn-colored, almost-coarse hair, pulled back from her head in a horse’s tail; green eyes that were just a shade off center; mouth a little too big. Assessed individually, the parts were all wrong, but when you put them all together you had a knock-out. There was something inside of her, some quality of, well, fullness, of liveness, that reached out and took hold of you.
When she stepped from the elevator, I saw that she toed in a little, her ankles were over-thin, the calves of her legs larger than the norm. But it was all right on her. On her it looked good. She preceded me to the street, the outsize hips swinging on the too-slender waist—or was it the slenderness of the waist that made her hips seem outsize?
One thing was certain, there was nothing at all wrong with Mrs. Chasen’s bank balance. Not, that is, unless she’d given Saks Fifth Avenue and I. Magnin a hell of a kidding.
We reached the sidewalk and I started to take her by the elbow. She turned and looked up into my face.
“Have you,” she said, “been drinking, Mr. Brown?”
“Why,” I said, drawing away a little, “what makes you think I—why do you ask that?”
I didn’t know what to say. The question had caught me com
pletely off guard, and I still couldn’t make up my mind whether she was stupid or only appeared to be.
As I say, I never could make it up.
“It’s pretty early in the day to be drinking,” I hedged.
“Not for me,” she said, “under the circumstances. I’m going to have a drink, Mr. Brown. Several drinks, in fact. And you can come along or not come along, just as you please. As far as I’m concerned, you and your dear Mr. Lovelace—”
“Tut,” I said. “Tish and pish, Mrs. Chasen. You have just said a naughty word, and there is only one thing to be done. We shall have to wash out your mouth.”
“What”—she laughed a little nervously—“what do you—?”
“Come, Mrs. Chasen,” I said. “Come with me to the Press Club.”
I made a Charles Boyer face, and she laughed again. Not nervously, now. Rather, I thought, hungrily.
“Well, come on!” she said.
3
She leaned back in the booth, her green eyes crinkled and shiny with laughter, her breasts under the sheer white blouse shivering and shaking. I’d used to visualize breasts like those, but I never thought I’d live to see any. I’d considered them—well, you know—physically impractical. Something that looked very good in the blueprint stage, but impossible of achievement.
It just went to show—as Mr. Lovelace often remarked. Yes, sir, here was the proof; there was no problem too big for American genius and know-how.
“…You crazy thing, Brownie! Do you always talk so crazy?”
“Only with people I love, Deborah. Only with you and Mr. Lovelace.”
“You said it, Brownie! You said it that time!”
“So I did,” I said, “and I shall take my punishment with my elbows firmly on the table.…Close-order drill?”
“With a barrage, Brownie! A big barrage!”
“Jake,” I called, “advance with artillery.”
Perhaps she hadn’t been too tactful about it, but she’d had a right to be sore at Mr. Lovelace. Her late husband, late and elderly (“but he was a fine man, Brownie; I liked him a lot”), had been an oil man. The Lovelaces had often visited them at their place in Oklahoma. Then, six months ago, her husband had died, and she had found herself with a great deal of money and even more than she knew what to do with.…Money and time and a growing suspicion that she was not highly regarded in the circles she had formerly moved in. (“And why not, Brownie? I was good to him. I waited on him hand and foot for ten years.”)
She had fought back; she had delivered two snubs for every one she received. But you lose at that game, even when you win. There is no satisfaction in it. Finally, she had begun to travel—she was on her way to the Riviera now—and today she had stopped off here. And Lovelace, of course, had given her the firmest brush-off of all. (“But I’m glad I stopped, Brownie. You know?”) She was lonely as hell, though not the kind to admit it. The chances were that she would always be lonely. Because that manner of hers—whatever its motivation—was not something that would ordinarily win friends and influence people.
I had a hunch that she had even got under the Lovelace hide.
I stole a glance at my wrist watch and looked back at her. Thus far, she was holding her drinks very well. But train time was four hours away—she was catching the four-fifteen into Los Angeles. So it seemed to me that some food was indicated.
I picked up a menu, turned it right side up, and started to pass it across the table.
“I’ll,” she said, “have the hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and buttered asparagus.”
I nodded. “That sounds—Say, how did you know that was on the menu?”
“I read it.” She smiled, pleased as a child with herself.
“Upside down? And sitting way over there?”
“Uh-huh. My eyes are wond—I mean, I have very good eyesight.”
“In that case,” I said, “you had better order the steak. You will be the only person in history ever able to see a Press Club steak.”
We had the turkey sandwiches. I bought a bottle from Jake, and we got my car off the parking lot.
“Where are we going, Brownie?” she said. Then, before I could answer: “I know something about you.”
“I was afraid of that,” I said. “Yes, officer, you have the right person. I am actually Tinka Tin Nose, girl insect exterminator.”
“You’re sad.”
“Why wouldn’t I be with a name like that?”
“I know. You want to know how I know?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“Crazy!” She gave it up. “Where did you say we were going?”
“Well, we have several points of interest. Ensconced in the basement of the public library is the largest collection of Indian artifacts in southeast Pacific County. Why, they have a metate there that actually makes your hands itch for a pot, and—”
“Pooh!”
“Check! You’re a thousand per cent on the ball, D.C., and let me be the first to congratulate the new manager of our Pooh division.…How about a son-of-a-bitch? Would you like to see the world’s biggest son-of-a-bitch, Deborah?”
“I thought I’d met him this morning.”
“Sharp!” Or was she? “But this guy is in another class. He’s our Chief of Detectives here, and—No sale?”
It wasn’t. Obviously, and I say this in all modesty, she was quite content with the company present.
“Well,” I said, “I’ll have to take you some place. I may be asked to account for my time. What about a visit to our city animal shelter?”
“Animal shelter!” She wrinkled her nose. “Double pooh!”
“It’s a nice long ride,” I said carelessly. “Way out in the country, you know. I think you might enjoy it.”
“Oh?” She sidled a glance at me, then nodded firmly. “I think I might, too.”
That, then, was the way it happened. And, as you can see, there was nothing sinister about it, nothing premeditated. That trick she’d pulled in the Press Club—reading upside down and backward—had made no real impression on me. I hadn’t been even mildly interested in why she thought I was sad.
We drove out to the shelter—well, call it dog pound, if you like—stopping at intervals for drills, bombardments, and barrages. By the time we reached our destination the bottle was empty, and Saks, Magnin, et al. knew little about the anatomy of Mrs. Chasen that I didn’t know.
She was a little mussed. She was happy as all hell. I’d brought her back into the human race again, and her heart was right in her eyes. She could carry on by herself from now on. The ice was broken, and she’d be all right—as right, at any rate, as she could be. Much righter than she had been.
…The shelter was—and is—supported by donations; rather, I should say, it was supposed to be supported by them. Because the cash that came in wasn’t half enough to operate the place decently. If Mr. and Mrs. Peablossom, the old couple who superintended the shelter, hadn’t donated most of their wages, the dogs would have been completely starved instead of the two thirds starved that they usually were.
Mrs. Peablossom insisted on fixing tea for us, and afterward the old gentleman walked us out to the gate of the compound.
“I just don’t know what we’re going to do, Mr. Brown,” he fretted. “The kennels have fallen to pieces. We have to let them run loose there in the court—and they keep coming in, more and more of them, and I can’t bear to have them put to sleep—poor homeless fellows—but hardly anyone adopts a dog any more, and…”
He rambled on worriedly, while Deborah and I stood looking through the wire-mesh gate. There must have been two hundred dogs in there, closed in by the six-foot-high wall. They lay panting on the hot, shadeless pavement or milled around listlessly, pawing and sniffing hopelessly at the twigs that had blown over the wall.
I fumbled at my wallet, then shoved it back into my pocket. “I’m a little short of funds today, Mr. Peablossom, but—”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Brown. Y
ou’ve done far too much already.”
“But I haven’t done anything,” said Deborah, and she opened her purse. She took out a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to him.
“Bless you!” The old man almost wept. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Chasen. Do you have dogs of your own?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t like dogs.” She saw my frown. “I mean I’m afraid of them. A big dog knocked me down when I was a little girl and I never got over it. I’ve been terrified by them ever since.”
I reached up to lift the hasp of the gate, but Mr. Peablossom caught my arm. “I don’t believe you’d better go in today, Mr. Brown. The dogs are so hungry, and—”
“You think they’re that hungry?”
“Well,” he hesitated, looking apologetically at Deborah, “you know how it is with dogs, Mr. Brown. They can smell fear. It makes them worse than they might be ordinarily.”
“I know,” I said. “Well, we’ve got to be going, anyway. Mrs. Chasen has less than an hour to catch her train.”
The old man saw us out to the car and stood waving until we were out of sight. Deborah leaned back in the seat, looking at me out of the corner of her eyes. “Brownie—”
“Yes?” I said.
“Do you—do you think I’m pretty?”
“No,” I said. “You’re too big, too little, too something every way I look at you, so you can’t be pretty. What you are is just the damnedest, delightfulest chunk of woman I ever laid eyes on.”
She sighed comfortably. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Every word.”
“And you like me? You know, Brownie? Like?”
“Like isn’t quite the word,” I said. “I’m crazy about you. Almost any man would be if you didn’t scare him off. Which reminds me, Deborah…”
I suggested several ways by which she could do herself a favor: thinking before she spoke; aiming her laugh in some direction other than a person’s face.
“Would you like me better that way, Brownie?”
“I like you just as you are,” I said. “But I’m out of the picture. You’re leaving and—”
“Leave with me, Brownie.”