“Charles, it would be nice now if you got me that blonde from the Vineyard.”
He rolled his eyes. “You don’t want her, Mister Craven.”
“How do you know what I want?”
“They say that blonde’s poison.”
“Listen, Charles, if blondes were poison, I’d have died thirty years ago.”
He bugged out his eyes at me and left. I mixed a drink and went back in the shower. I drank under the water. Then I came out and fixed another drink and lay on the bed and thought about Oke Johnson until I got tired. In a way I was real sorry he was dead, especially as it put me on the spot. But I couldn’t go after his murderer. There was that job to do first.
I drank and smoked and looked at the dolls in the movie magazines. Then I looked at the brassière ads. Then I tried to read a story in the detective magazine. It was about a G-man I’d read about before. He was different from the G-men I’d known. Those had always reminded me of Boy Scouts. This G-man was wonderful. He had a girl who was always being abducted by the smugglers, spies, kidnappers or racketeers he was after. Then she’d send him a note and he’d come and shoot it out with them. Sometimes he’d have to kill the whole gang to get her loose. It was a fine system. It’s a wonder J. Edgar Hoover hadn’t picked it up.
I put the story down and thought some more about Oke. I hadn’t had any reports from him; only the letter saying he had something. He was one of those guys who liked to be mysterious. He’d wanted to spring it on me all at once, the dumb Swede! I knew he hadn’t put any of it down in writing. I was completely in the dark, as the saying goes. And it looked as though I was up against something tough. I had to move carefully. I thought I’d better look around the town before I let anybody know who I was. I might pick up something. And people wouldn’t be shooting at me with rifles.
It kept getting darker outside, but it didn’t get any cooler. I was all right naked, but where my skin touched the sheet there was sweat. Even the part of my neck on the pillow sweated. About eight-thirty I got in the shower again.
When I came out it was still hot. It was going to be hot all night. I put on a shirt and the pants to my seersucker suit and my shoulder holster. Then I put on the coat. The gun made a bulge under the coat, and I shoved it around until it was almost in my armpit. I went downstairs. The lobby was still filled with palm trees and old furniture, and it still smelled of dust and velvet.
I followed the noise of a radio playing dance music and found a bar. It had been fitted up with red leather and chromium tables and chairs and it looked strange in the old hotel. A couple of salesmen were drinking at a table and a girl was at the bar. It was the redhead I’d seen in the lobby. I sat down at the other end of the bar. The girl looked at me and then back at her glass. I didn’t impress her much.
I ordered a whisky sour. The salesmen were trying to promote the girl. They were making remarks about her, but she didn’t give them a tumble. One of them was fresher than the other. He kept saying: “Isn’t she lovely.” She was a very good number, except for too much paint on her face. Her green dress looked expensive, though, and the colour went well with her red hair. And she had beautiful legs, or did I say that? She was drinking a Tom Collins.
I had a second whisky sour. The fresh salesman went over to the girl.
“Buy you a drink, beautiful?” he asked.
“Scram!” the girl said.
The salesman was tall and thin. He had on a linen suit. He looked cocky. “Beautiful doesn’t want a drink,” he called to his friend.
“Okay,” the friend said. He was a little nervous.
The salesman leaned over the girl. “Come on, beautiful,” he said. “It’ll make you laugh and play.”
The girl paid no attention to him.
“Give the lady a drink,” the salesman said to the bartender.
The bartender looked at the girl. She shrugged her shoulders. The bartender made her a Tom Collins. The salesman sat with her while she drank it. He talked to her, but I couldn’t hear what he said. She didn’t play up. Her face looked sullen.
I crooked a finger at the bartender. “A double one,” I told him. I figured I wouldn’t mind the heat so much if I got lit. The salesman and the girl began to talk louder. He was trying to get her to go to his table.
“I stay here,” she said.
“Aw, come on,” he said. “We won’t hurt you, beautiful.”
“No.”
The bartender was angry, but he didn’t do anything. The salesman took hold of the girl’s arm. “Come on, beautiful,” he said.
She jerked her arm away. He began to paw her shoulder. I went over to them. “Leave her alone,” I said.
The salesman looked at me over his shoulder. “I’m not hurting her.”
“Back to your table,” I said.
“Say, mister!” He slid off his stool and faced me. “What business is it of yours what I do?”
“Come on, Teddy,” the friend called.
“What business is it of yours?” the salesman asked again.
I took hold of his coat lapels and pulled him to me and shook him. I didn’t hit him. I didn’t want to hurt him. I lifted him off the floor and tossed him back to his table. He made quite a noise when he lit. He struck his head against one of the chromium chairs. His friend sat at the table, staring down at him as though he didn’t believe what he saw.
I grinned at the girl and went to my stool. I kept my back towards the two salesmen, but I could see them in the mirror. I hoped they would start something. I’ve always hated salesmen and cops. The friend helped the salesman to his feet. He was dazed; the fall had knocked his wind out.
“Come on, Teddy,” the friend said.
The salesman tried to get his breath. He began to brush off his pants.
“We’ll get a cop,” the friend said.
He helped the salesman to the door. “We’ll get a cop,” he said again. He did not speak directly to me. He didn’t want a fight. He went away with his arm around the salesman.
“You’d better watch out,” the bartender said to me.
“Why?”
“They may get the law.”
“No, they won’t,” I said.
“The guy’ll be awful sore when he comes to.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But he won’t call any law. He won’t take a chance on a mashing rap.”
“That’s so.” The bartender took my glass and began to make another sour. “But the next time don’t be so rough.” He smiled at me. “You scared ’em so they forgot to pay for their drinks.”
I liked the bartender’s face. He was young and decent-looking.
“I’ll pay for them,” I said.
The girl came over to me. It was the first time I’d seen her standing up. It was something to see. She had a million-dollar figure, as they say. She was tall, and it was nice to see good breasts on a tall babe.
“Hello …” I said.
Her eyes were blue-green. “Thanks,” she said.
“That’s all right.”
“I could have handled him,” she said.
“Sure,” I said. “But I thought it would be a good way to pick you up.”
She laughed at that. “I’m a popular dame to-night.”
The bartender put my drink on the bar. “Have one?” I asked her.
“Why not?” she said.
While we waited for the drink she stared at me. Her eyes weren’t bold any more, but thoughtful. She was younger than I’d figured. When she saw I was watching her, she looked away.
“Why’d you want to pick me up?” she asked.
“I’m lonely,” I said; “and you got a swell shape.”
She took the Tom Collins from the bartender. “Well, my god!” she said. “At least the man’s honest.” She held up the drink. “Here’s how.”
She liked her liquor all right. We had three drinks. I saw it was nine o’clock. I said it was time for dinner. I asked her if she knew of a cool place to eat.
“Ton
y’s,” she said. “But you don’t want to take me there.”
“Why don’t I?”
“You just don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
The bartender looked as though he didn’t care about what was going on. I saw him shake his head at the girl. She didn’t pay any attention to him.
“Got a car?” she asked me.
“I’ll get one.”
“And you don’t give a damn what happens?”
“Not with you, beautiful.”
“Don’t start that beautiful stuff.”
“I wouldn’t go,” the bartender said.
“What can I lose?” I asked.
“Plenty,” the bartender said.
“Shut up,” the girl said.
I grinned at the bartender. “Well, it’s your funeral,” he said.
“Sure,” the girl said.
The check was $7.10. I paid it and we took a cab to a Drive-It garage on Main Street. On the way she told me her name was Ginger.
“Not Ginger Rogers?” I said.
“Ginger Bolton,” she said.
I said my name was Karl. I said she smelled nice. I asked her where she got the perfume and the expensive clothes.
“I get around,” she said.
I told her I was a hardware salesman.
“You act tough for a salesman,” she said.
“That’s because I was in the army.”
I got a Chevy sedan at the Drive-It garage. I had a card identifying myself as Peter Jensen, 11 Division Street, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin; but the night manager made me lay down a hundred dollar deposit anyway. When Ginger saw my wallet she looked surprised. I expected her to. I went to a lot of trouble to let her catch sight of the wad of hundred-dollar bills in it.
I let her drive out to Tony’s. I wanted to look at the town. It wasn’t much to see. The street lights were dim and all I got was an impression of many brick and frame houses kept back by lawns from the street. We passed a hospital and the city dumping plant. Then we were in the country. It was cooler. I looked at Ginger. She was intent on her driving and her face was not so sullen.
“What’s a girl do in a town like this?” I asked her.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“You’d get sore if I told you.”
“Yeah?” she said. “Well, I’m a singer.”
“What kind?”
“With an orchestra.”
“Where?”
“At Tony’s. He’s going to open up next week.”
“How much will he pay you?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.
She had a husky voice and I thought she’d probably sing well.
We went off the cement road on to a gravel road. We passed a small lake and turned into a big parking lot. There were half a dozen cars there. I saw a big farmhouse with a neon sign on it: Tony’s. We went up wooden stairs to the entrance and came into an old-fashioned bar with a big mirror, two bartenders in shirt-sleeves, and pyramids of glasses. One of the bartenders said “Hello, Ginger,” and then looked at me. He seemed surprised to see me.
“Where’s Pug?” he asked Ginger.
“How do I kow?” Ginger said.
The bartender glanced at me. I looked dumb.
We had a drink at the bar. I said I wanted to order dinner and the bartender got a waiter. We ordered steaks and green salad. I ordered a bottle of champagne. That made both Ginger and the bartender look at me. After a while we went out to a veranda overlooking the lake.
There was a breeze off the water. The waiter showed us our table. “This is swell,” I said.
“Yeah,” Ginger said. “But where’s our champagne.”
The waiter brought it in an ice bucket. I had him bring a bottle of cognac, too. I poured some of the cognac in the champagne glasses and the waiter put champagne on top. There is nothing that gives you a rear like champagne laced with good cognac. Try it some time. We drank slowly.
“Who’s Pug?” I asked Ginger. I wanted to hear what she would say.
“A friend.”
“Anybody to worry me?”
“No.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “I’m steaming up for you.”
“He’s a louse,” Ginger said.
There were people at three tables. One party was large; three men and five women. At the other tables were couples. The big party was noisy and two of the women were climbing all over a red-faced fat man. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t see him very well. The cuddling was strictly fun on the surface but the women were really trying for the fat man. He was giving the party.
“Do you think you could go for me, beautiful?” I asked Ginger.
“Not tonight,” she said.
“Tomorrow?”
“Let’s dance.”
I stuck a nickel in the jive box and we danced. Some of the other people danced, too. I noticed one of the women had got the fat man on the floor. Suddenly I recognized him. It was the chief of police. Piper. He was pretty drunk. Ginger danced away from me.
“Don’t be so distant,” I said.
“That gun of yours tickles me where I don’t like to be tickled,” she said.
I pushed the holster further under my arm. She danced closer, her head on my shoulder. Her body was firm.
“That’s better,” I said.
“Don’t talk,” she said. “Dance.”
We danced until the record stopped, and then we went back to the table. I noticed one of the bartenders and the waiter watching us. When they saw me look at them, the bartender ducked into the other room and the waiter came over and poured us more brandy and champagne. Then he got our dinner. The steaks were good; burned a little on top, but red inside. I was having a good time. There were only three things I really liked in the world; food, fighting and … women. Oh yes, and maybe liquor. And I was having at least two of them.
“How about another bottle of champagne?” I asked.
“Why spoil good brandy?” Ginger said.
We drank about half the bottle of brandy. The big party at the table near the bar-room door kept getting noisier. The liquor didn’t seem to affect Ginger, but she got a little more sociable. She told me she’d worked in the chorus at Harry’s New York Bar in Chicago, and then had sung at a Chinese joint on the North Side. She’d also done a little radio singing. Her face wasn’t sullen when she was talking about her work. She was really interested in singing.
“Ever think of the movies?” I said.
“Don’t pull that,” she said.
“I used to work in Hollywood,” I said.
“When do you want me to start taking my clothes off?” she asked.
“The hell with it,” I said. “I was just making conversation.”
“I’d rather dance.”
I said “Okay.” I put a dime in the box and we danced again. She danced close to me, her body flat against mine, but I had a feeling there was nothing personal in it. I liked it anyway; her body was so young. When we got back to the table I asked if there was gambling in the place.
“Craps,” she said. “In the back.”
“Let’s try our luck.”
“All right.”
We went across the bar and then through a big dining-room with a dance floor. There was a raised place for a band. “They open this next week,” Ginger said. Back of the floor was a door. We went through that into a room with thick green carpet and green drapes pulled close over the windows. There was a crap table and six slot machines. One of the slot machines was for silver dollars. I hadn’t seen one that big since Reno. I put a dollar in it and pulled the crank. A lemon showed. A dark man with a green visor came into the room. He looked at us questioningly. I gave Ginger a twenty-dollar bill.
“Try your luck,” I told her.
She was surprised at the bill. “I don’t get you,” she said.
“No?”
“No,” she said. “You talk like a drummer for ladies’ hosiery,
with your Hollywood stuff. But you don’t act it.”
“Don’t let it worry you, beautiful,” I said.
She got a double handful of silver dollars for the bill. Then the dark man gave her some dice. “Let’s see,” I said. I took the dice and gave them a couple of rolls and then held them up to the light. They were all right.
“We run a square game,” the dark man said.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said.
Ginger did all right. She made three points before she crapped out. I won ten bucks on a come bet, but when I tried the dice I threw snake eyes, a ten and a seven in three rolls. I was very cold. As Ginger started to roll again, the chief’s party came in and began to play too. The dark man gave them silver dollars. One of the women called him Dave. They all looked curiously at Ginger and me. The two women were still hanging on to the fat chief. He was drunk and his face was bright red and he seemed to have a lot of money. He kept forking it out in twenties to the gals, not caring how much they lost. Once I saw one of them, a dark-haired woman about thirty, slip a twenty between her breasts. She saw me watching her and smiled, and I turned back to Ginger. She’d just lost the dice. The chief was reaching for them, but I got there first.
“My turn,” I said.
He looked at me, but he didn’t recognize me. He was too drunk.
CHAPTER 3
The crap game began to grow. Another couple joined it, the man tossing out quarters, and a few minutes later a sour-looking guy in a double-breasted blue suit wandered into the room. He watched for a while and then he began to play, acting as though he was dubious about the game. His face was freshly shaved and powdered, but blue-black stubble showed on his jaws. He looked like a Greek. I figured he worked for the house, but it was all right. Ginger was so hot it didn’t matter who was in the game.
She had the dice. When she shook them her body shook, too, and it was exciting to see her press against the table to read the numbers. The table caught her just below the hips. She threw for a long time and finally made her point. She left the money on the table and threw a seven. It was hard to read the number because of the smoke in the room. She let all the money ride and threw an eight. She didn’t look sullen any more. She smiled at me.
The Fifth Grave Page 2