The Good Old Stuff

by John D. MacDonald

  “I’m calling it Hypocrisy,” he said. “The two-sided image of shame and desire.”

  “It’s—it’s cruel,” I said.

  “And very like a woman. She’ll like it.”

  “She’ll smash it!”

  “Robby,” he said sadly, “I thought you knew Bets better than that. The last pose failed because I got tangled up with conjectures about her soul. Now we are pretty well agreed that Bets’s soul has a twenty-three-inch waist, thirty-two-inch bust, and thirty-one-inch hips.” He looked at his watch. “If you can be ready in fifteen minutes, we ought to be in Endor City by nine o’clock for a late dinner.”

  We arrived at Roger’s Place at eleven. A cobblestone alley in the old portion of Endor City, an alley too narrow for a car. Three steps down to a door made of cypress boards, grooved and ancient. At the third step we broke the beam of a photo-electric cell, and the door swung silently open. Nothing could have been more incongruous in that setting.

  The ceilings were low and the massive beams were painted Chinese red. The walls were an odd pale aqua, dimly and indirectly lighted. The cypress bar was on the left, a tiny band in the back right corner: marimba, muted trumpet, and bass. The three musicians looked, at first glance, like college boys taking time off. But the crew cuts were dyed, the jackets were sodden in the armpits, and their eyes had been imported from some quiet corner of hell.

  Shay took three steps beyond the check girl and planted his feet. He has the knack of imposing himself on the people in a room, of hitting them across the mouth with amused insolence, of showing them, like a black ace flashed quickly, the constant threat of violence.

  The thin man who sauntered over wore a Shetland tweed jacket, iron-gray masculine hair. His eyes had the bulging impermanence of droplets of blue spring water spattered on a slick white surface, as though, by shaking his head violently, they would rain to the floor. The eyes flicked across my face, leaving an indescribable sensation of wetness.

  “You gentlemen would like to stand at the bar.” He murmured it, and it was a statement rather than a question.

  I had moved over to where I could see Shay’s face. It had a heaviness, a glazed, animal look. “Place was recommended to me. You’re Roger.”

  Without seeming to, he led us over to the bar. “I’m Rogah.”

  “I’m Smith,” Shay said. “John Q. Smith. And my pal—Joseph Q. Brown. Can’t have any fun in the old home town. Too close to the flagpole, as they say. You sell any fun here, Rogah?”

  “Life is so full of a number of things, Mr. Smith. Fun is spelled many different ways.”

  “We’ll let you write the prescription, Doc Rogah.”

  He floated away. My eyes were used to the dimness. Smoke drifted on the sour-sweet air, and some of it had the tang of pot. Several couples moved to the slow beat of the music, glazed and somnambulistic. A girl at a table laughed. A man with a full, silky brown beard made quick Gallic gestures and talked in a low tone to a sleepy boy.

  Maybe Rogah, maybe the bartender, pushed a concealed button. They came through a curtain in the back left corner, two of them. Graded, no doubt, to the cut of our clothes. Tall and long-legged, with that look of breeding that has gone too far, that has decayed, like collies too long in the muzzle, like continental automobiles, like French perfume bottles, like rapiers so frail that they become toys, not weapons.

  Rogah joined them and he walked as they did. “Mr. Smith, may I present Miss Smith? And Miss Brown? Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown.” He floated back into the gloom, drifting like something that had become untied under the sea.

  Miss Brown’s pupils were so vast that they shrunk the iris to a thin frame of blue. Her honey hair was intricately coiffed. The dress was an off-orange that should have been the wrong color for her but wasn’t. She moved close to the bar between Shay and me, and the other one was on the other side of Shay, his big shoulders turned so that all I could see of her was the crown of her head, the mist-brown hair, ringleted.

  “It’s so difficult to meet interesting people,” Miss Brown said. The diction was flat, clipped, precise.

  “It seemed easy this time. Boston?”

  “Dedham. And please call me Lee.”

  “I’m Robby. And your drink is either Scotch or brandy.”

  “How perspicacious, Robby. I like men who guess. Earlier in this dull evening it was Scotch, but now it’s five star.”

  I ordered. She tilted her head on one side, and I saw that some of the precision of her speech and the carefulness of her movements was due to a case of being taken drunk. Her shoulder, where she leaned lightly against me, was warm.

  She said, “Do you work for Mr. Smith?”

  “Don’t tell me it’s beginning to show, Lee.”

  “Don’t be hurt, Robby. I just felt that relationship in the atmosphere. And I prefer people without that … certain ruthlessness that employers have. You’re a small boy trying to be as tough as the big boys, aren’t you? There—I can see I’ve hurt your feelings.”

  “You’re odd, aren’t you?”

  “That,” she said briskly, “is a gambit I grow weary of. Dear Lee, you’re so intelligent, so charming, so lovely, so obviously well educated. Then the next step is to ask me why I’m doing this. I’ll tell you in advance, Robby, before you work your way up to the question. It’s because the world is a very, very dull place.”

  “Since he left?”

  The tiny brandy glass lifted slowly, was emptied, and moved just as slowly back down onto the bar. “Darling,” she said, “if you get nasty and make me cry, I’ll spoil your evening, but good.”

  A new customer moved in at the bar beyond Shay. He looked around almost shyly, like a small boy who has just finished writing a dirty word on a fence. He took off his glasses and wiped them on a crisp white handkerchief. I ordered another round. When I looked at him again there was a girl with him. He had adopted an uncle’s attitude. I heard his jovial laughter. The girl was young and she was neatly and plainly dressed. The man had a comfortable round tummy and a pin-striped business suit, a lodge pin in his lapel.

  Shay pulled his girl around so that we stood in a group of four. He said, glancing at his watch, “Robby, the party ought to be in full swing by now, and now that we’ve got dates, let’s go.”

  His girl pouted. “Don’t want to go to any dull parties, Shay.”

  “Let’s not,” Lee said.

  “Come on, we’ll have fun,” Shay said.

  “Let’s stay here,” Lee said firmly. “Then later on we’ll go over to my apartment and have a more select party. No strangers. Just the four of us.”

  “No, I insist we go,” Shay said.

  I caught the look that Lee gave the other girl. The other girl said, “You two looked like fun, but I guess we were wrong. Have a good time at your party, boys.”

  There must have been another signal I missed. Rogah appeared, as if he had sprouted up out of the floorboards. “All you sweet people shouldn’t quarrel,” he murmured.

  Shay smiled. “I have a strange aversion to going to any place a girl suggests. It so often turns out to be remarkably expensive.”

  “What are you implying?” Rogah said. He smiled.

  “Nothing at all. My friend and I are in a strange town. Our guard is up. Is there a law against that?”

  Rogah sighed. “I make my share of mistakes. Considering the hour, I think that the girls can go with you to the party you mentioned, but I do think you should pay me the profit I would have made from your drinks and theirs.”

  “Anything to make both ends meet, eh?” Shay said, smiling with his lips.

  “A hundred should cover it.”

  “That’s a fair bit of drinking.”

  “The glasses have false bottoms, Mr. Smith.”

  Shay looked at the girls. He shook his head. “Thanks just the same, Rogah. The refreshment is overvalued.”

  “Why, you cheap—”

  “Lee!” Rogah said. It was almost a whisper, but it whistled and snappe
d like a whip end. She stopped and she was pale around the mouth. Rogah made a small gesture with his hand and they walked off, balancing false dignity like schoolgirls carrying books on their heads for the sake of posture.

  “Don’t hurry back, gentlemen,” Rogah said. He smiled. His teeth were small and quite pointed.

  Outside, in the alley, Shay said, “Now we check another piece of the puzzle.”

  “If you’re collecting pieces of a puzzle, friend, you’re one up on me.”

  The cabstand was right around the corner. The flag was up and the driver lounged behind the wheel, the radio turned low.

  “We want a cab,” Shay said, reaching for the door handle.

  “Sorry, Mac. Waiting for a customer.”

  “Your flag’s up.”

  “So my flag’s up. Don’t give me an argument, chubby. Go on down the street. There’s other cabs.”

  Shay, to my surprise, walked meekly off. Our sedan was around the corner.

  He slid behind the wheel and made no move to start the motor. “The shell in the middle has the pea under it, mister,” he said.

  “You lose,” I said.

  “It smelleth to highest heaven, Robby. It stinketh, in fact. Wait here. I want to stir James P. Garver out of his downy nest.” He slid out and went off into the darkness. I lit a cigarette. When it was half gone, he was back.

  “The address,” he said, “is the Henderson Hotel. Neat, clean, efficient. Horse your bag out of the back and check in there. Let the desk clerk know you’re on vacation and you want to say whoopee in loud, harsh tones. Give your right name and a fake address.”

  It was twelve thirty when I registered. The Henderson had an aseptic look. The lobby was the severe inside of a concrete shoebox. I was too tired to give my lines much life when I leaned over the desk and asked the clerk if this was “a pretty good town.”

  He slid his fingers inside his shirt and scratched himself. “Depends.”

  “I’m not afraid to spend money.”

  “That case, you might have yourself a time. Take a look at your room and then come on down to the bar. I’ll page you later, Mr. Moran. When I get things set up.”

  I tipped the bellhop two dollars, to stay in character. After he left I yanked one black hair from my head and wound it around the catch on my suitcase. Then I went downstairs. They gave me time for one drink before the call came. The horse-faced clerk moved in so close he was nearly nibbling on my ear.

  “You just go along where the cabbie out the side entrance takes you. Good man. You can trust him.” I slipped the clerk a five and went on out.

  Three steps from the cab I began to make two and one add up to four. It was the same cab which had been at the end of the alley.

  “Hear you want some fun, mister,” the cabbie said jovially. I held my breath. He glanced at me but I could see that he didn’t recognize me.

  “I could do with some.”

  “There’s a place outside of town runs wide open. You ought to like it.”

  “It’s your town. Let’s go.”

  The music thump shook the silent fields for a hundred yards around. Cars nuzzled up against the clapboard walls like fierce, patient dogs awaiting their masters.

  “I’ll stick around,” he said as I paid him. “No charge. I might pick up a fare going back, and if you don’t like it I’ll be right here.”

  The first face I saw when I walked in was the face of Rogah. I stiffened. But the clothes, though of the same order, weren’t quite right. And the dimensions were off in a subtle manner. I got it then: Rogah’s twin brother. He was busy laughing politely at someone’s jokes. I went over to the bar and angled to where I could keep him in the mirror. In a moment a kid in a white jacket, one of the waiters, came in from outside and spoke into the twin’s ear. He glanced over at me, then strolled along the booths lining the far wall. A husky citizen with crinkled ears heaved himself out of a booth a bit later and moved in my direction. As smooth as cream.

  His voice was slurred and drunken, but his eyes weren’t. “I’d say you’re a stranger in town, friend.”

  “That’s right.”

  He lurched against me. I felt the quick cat-light flick of his hands as he made a close and clever check. “Ooops. Sorry, pardner.” He belched, lowered his voice. “Lookin’ for fun, mister?” I nodded. “You won’t find it out here tonight. The joint is dead. Better go back to town. Try Roger’s Place.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Don’t mention it, friend.” He wavered off, but his steps steadied as he neared the booth. The twin was looking into the booth. I saw him get the sign and nod toward the door. The waiter went outside again. I had been looked over, searched, and apparently okayed. I finished my drink, left a quarter tip on the bar, and went back outside. The cab pulled over and the driver opened the door.

  “Pretty dead in there tonight, I guess. My mistake. I won’t charge you for the haul to the next place. I’m taking you to a sweet little spot called Roger’s Place.”

  He spun out onto the main highway and gunned it toward town. It was beginning to shape up. But I was worried. Roger’s Place would be a bit unhealthy to go back to. A little thinking was in order.

  “Roger’s Place?” I said slowly. “I’ve heard that before. Now I remember. A fellow told me about that place.”

  “Yeah?” he said, caution in his tone.

  “I’d forgotten it until now. He told me that if I ever got to this town to go there and ask for a girl called Allana Montrose. He said she hung around there.”

  “Oh.” I detected the relief. “Little blonde?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “She isn’t around any more. The word is that she got married.” He laughed huskily. “They make good wives, the fella says, those little blondes.”

  “I’m getting pretty tired. Maybe we’d better wait until tomorrow night.”

  He slowed down, turned in the seat, and stared back at me. “What’s the matter with you? Figure this is a clip operation?”

  “Not at all. I said I was tired.”

  “I know you wise guys. Somebody tried to do you a favor, you figure there’s angles on it.” He slowed almost to a stop. “I got a notion to bust you one in the chops, Moran.”

  “You got the name from the desk clerk. I wonder why he told you.”

  The cab stopped completely. He yanked on the emergency brake. His tone was wheedling. “Look, Mr. Moran, I wouldn’t steer you wrong. Be a nice guy and let me take you there for free. If I take you back to the hotel I got to charge you for the trip in. Ten bucks.”

  “It was only three to go out there.”

  “It’s later now. So you see it would cost you a ten just not to take a look at Roger’s Place.” His rearview mirror was tilted down. I glanced in it and saw, in the glow of the dashlight, his square hand, the fingers cramped around a lug wrench. I smacked the door handle down with the heel of my hand and dived out. The wrench thudded against the upholstery behind me. I landed on my hands and knees and rolled into the shallow ditch, rolled up onto my feet, and moved back quietly another forty feet before lowering myself into the dry grass.

  He stood beside the cab for a long time, staring out into the darkness. Then he jumped behind the wheel and roared toward Endor City. I estimated that we’d gone a half mile. I went back to the first place he’d taken me to—the Club Three—in a fast walk.

  Rogah’s twin stared hard at me as I strolled in. He moved in beside me at the bar. “Back so soon?” he said softly. His voice was pitched lower than Rogah’s.

  I nodded. “I was going into town, but I had trouble with the cab driver. He got wise, and I wanted him to take me back to the hotel. He wanted to charge me ten bucks and collect with a lug wrench. So I left him fast.”

  “Indeed? I can’t have my patrons treated that way. Do you have his number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me phone the police for you.”

  “I don’t want any trouble.”

>   He stared at me hard. “They’ll have a prowl car here in minutes.”

  “Look,” I said. “I would prefer not to talk to any cops. Is that all right with you, or do you want me to type out an outline?”

  His eyes hardened a bit. “Oh, I see.”

  “And if you don’t mind, I’ll stay right here.”

  “How hot are you?”

  “Like a cucumber. This is the wrong state.”

  “Then you can stay.”

  “Thank you so very much.”

  After a fanfare by the brassy band, the floor show started. It was a dull affair of blue jokes, a raspy emcee, a chorus line with meaty thighs, and a comic juggler—as funny as a case of typhoid. I was glad when it went away. I didn’t want to go back to the hotel. And I didn’t want to stay in the Club Three. The only other choice was to go for a walk. And that seemed like too much trouble. I stayed.

  Beyond the booths was a stairway going up. The entertainers came in from a doorway beyond the bandstand. I wondered what was upstairs.

  At five minutes past two, when I had one over the limit, Allana Montrose Garver, in pale yellow slacks and a halter, came down those stairs and slid into the first empty booth, sitting so she could watch the band. Rogah’s twin brother, in a crow-flight line, came across the floor and leaned over the booth, his face angry. She leaned forward, and I could see by the shape of her mouth that she was using four-letter words. He tugged on her arm to pull her toward the doorway, and she snatched it free. The crinkly-eared guy moved in and joined the party. He leaned over the booth and she leaned back out of sight. His arm moved quickly and he straightened up. They both stared at her. Once again the twin took her arm. This time she came along without a struggle. There was a red blotch on her jawline, and she staggered as she stood up. They got her onto the stairway and watched her go up.

  I went outside as fast as I dared. The upper windows were dark. A light clicked on behind a screen on the third window from the left. Her silhouette crossed between the light and the screen. Her head was bent in dejection, her arms craned back in that odd distortion necessary to untie a halter or unhook a bra. I turned and went back inside.