The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (101 page)

The little man came forward, rolling a little as he walked. His hands were at his sides. He said, “You shouldn’t done that, Roney. You shouldn’t call people punks.”

I was tired. I had been through a long, hard day. Sure I liked the work. But managing a chain of restaurants isn’t something to soothe the nerves, nor was the harsh voice of Sampson doing anything to help. The man came forward, and when he was close enough, I reached with my left hand and grabbed his coat lapels.

Sampson said, “Let’s go, or I’ll—”

My right hand caught him across the mouth. Then, as he pawed frantically to reach his shoulder holster, I backed him against the wall near the door, belting him each time he opened his mouth.

When he clamped his mouth tightly and no longer cursed or talked, I stopped slapping him and reached in and took the gun.

Stepping back, I withdrew the clip, and ejected the shell from the chamber. Then I held out the gun to Sampson, “Next time,” I said, “bring two. You can see one isn’t enough.”

He said nothing. He just stood there, looking at me. There was something about his eyes; it seemed as if a film had come over them. He watched me through a thin, gray veil.

I tossed the gun, and Sampson caught it. He slipped it inside his coat, and although it was no longer loaded, he kept his hand on the butt. It seemed to give him strength.

“When you check with your boss,” I said, “don’t forget the answer’s no.”

Sampson nodded, and then the flood of words came out. “I’ll tell him, tough boy. But there’s one mistake you made. With me, before, it was business. Either way you took it, it wasn’t anything to me. Before, it was just business. But you made it
personal
now.” He smiled, and a little trickle of blood came from his split lip and ran down his narrow chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and turned, and went out the door.

I chuckled, watching him go. The day was gone when a punk like that could hurt me or my restaurants. I had built a secure business, with a good reputation. It never occurred to me that the matter was serious enough to report to the police.

That was Saturday night, and nothing happened Sunday, except that my housekeeper came about noon with the news that she was quitting. No, it was nothing about the job. She liked keeping house for me, but her sister was sick, the one in New Orleans, and she had to go there for a while.

I phoned a cab for the woman, and watched her go with no particular regret. She hadn’t been with me long, and her management of me and my household affairs was nothing that couldn’t be duplicated by merely phoning an employment agency the first thing Monday morning.

As it turned out, I didn’t even have to do that. My problem was solved when the doorbell rang late Sunday afternoon. I got up and went to the door.

The girl said, “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Mr Roney.”

I said, “How do you do? Won’t you come in?” I tried to place her – waitress, hostess, entertainer. She could be any of these. She went ahead of me into the living room, a slim girl, yet padded nicely. I could tell it wasn’t the suit. She sat when I offered a chair, but when I offered a drink, she said, “Before I get too comfortable, perhaps I’d better tell you – I came about the job.”

“Job?” I said. I had a personnel man who took care of hiring the restaurant help. Furthermore, there was nothing about this girl that made you think of a person who wanted a job.

“I knew Mrs Ferguson slightly,” the girl said. “She told me she was leaving, and suggested you might be hiring another housekeeper.”

I opened my mouth slightly and stared at her.

She smiled, “It’s not as silly as it sounds, Mr Roney. Incidentally, my name’s Elaine Watkins.”

There was, I supposed, no reason why a housekeeper
had
to be old and homely. On the other hand . . . I said, “Miss Watkins, have you ever been a housekeeper before? Do you know what housekeepers make?”

“Mrs Ferguson said you paid two hundred. I’m sure that would be all right with me, if you think I’d be satisfactory.”

“Have you tried keeping house before?”

“No . . . I’m afraid if it’s references you want, I won’t be able to give them. I’ve been a model up until now.”

I leaned back in my chair. “And you’d give that up to keep house?”

“Why not?” She was laughing at me.

“Doesn’t it pay more? Don’t you find it’s more interesting work?”

She turned brisk now. “Mr Roney, have you any idea what a model makes?”

“None at all,” I said.

“A few hundred in the entire country make a real living. But for every one of these there are a hundred who are lucky if they get enough to eat. I’ve been at it for more than a year now. I’ve averaged about twenty a week.”

I smiled. “I’m beginning to see your point.”

She got up and loosened her jacket. I said, “Well, I suppose there’s no reason why a man’s housekeeper has to be hideous, though I’m sure you’ll be something of a shock to the girl I’m going to marry, and to the wives of some of my friends.”

“I’ll do my hair plain,” Elaine Watkins said. “I’ll put it up in a bun.”

I said, “Whatever you like, Miss Watkins. I’ll show you to your room.”

That evening, after I’d showered, I found a change of clothing laid out for me, though I had not told Miss Watkins I was going out. Downstairs, there were ice cubes ready on the bar, and beside them a bottle of my favorite Scotch. When I asked about the clothing, Elaine Watkins smiled.

“I checked your date book,” she said, “the one near the telephone. It said ‘dinner with Lola,’ so I assumed you’d need some clothes.”

“And the Scotch?” I asked.

“You have three cases on hand,” she said dryly. “Either you’re very fond of it, or else you’d like to use it up.”

I said, “Genius, Miss Watkins. Pure genius . . . Look, I won’t be home until late. Why don’t you take the night off?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” she said carelessly. “Tonight I’ve too much to do.”

I said goodbye and went out, savoring the pleasant warmth of the Scotch, and congratulating myself on having hired this girl who, unless I was very wrong, would run my house like a charm.

The pleasant feeling that everything was going well stayed with me all through dinner with Lola Grashin. We were lingering over coffee and cigarettes at Mauri Malcolm’s club, and I was just where I wanted to be. I didn’t want to own the world. Just a small piece of the town was enough.

I looked at the girl I was going to marry. Wide gray eyes, soft now, but they could shine with swift intelligence. The kind of a figure meant for display, but Lola had too much class to display it conspicuously.

I touched the ring in my pocket and said, “Darling, I’ve something for you – a little thing to celebrate the fact that the dock-workers went out on strike today.”

She looked puzzled. “Are you interested in the longshoreman’s union?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “But I’m the foresighted lad who bought enough pineapple to last for six months.”

“That’s good?” Lola asked.

“It’s perfect. Either the competition quits serving pineapple, or else they buy it from me. Either way, I’m sitting pretty.”

She said, “You always are.” She said it thoughtfully, but I wasn’t paying much attention. My mind was moving ahead, deciding what to say.

There was no point in trying for a fancy phrase. I said simply, “I want to marry you, Lola.”

For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard. She was looking the other way. I said, “Lola—”

“I heard you, Dick.” Her voice was sad. “And I suppose I love you. But that doesn’t change anything.”

I said, “What—”

“Let me finish, Dick. I’m afraid I couldn’t live with a person who was always, unfailingly, right. Of course I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are today. And I think it’s admirable, truly. I’ve thought about it often. And it isn’t that you’re conceited. It’s merely that you’re so damned smug.”

“The pineapple?” I said, grinning.

“As much as anything,” she answered. “You managed to link your proposal with a boast about how you cornered the market.”

I looked at her hands. They were gripping her purse, and now she picked up her gloves. I said, “But, Lola – I
don’t
make many mistakes. Not now. Sure, I made plenty as a kid. But I’ve learned—”

She stood up, and I stopped talking.

“Phone me,” she said quietly, “when a couple of tarnished spots show up on the golden boy.” She moved away from the table, and I stood there, watching her go. I knew better than to follow. She wasn’t a girl to run because she wanted to be pursued.

When she had gone, I sat thinking. At first I was stunned. I had known Lola long enough to realize that the thing between us was more than a passing emotion. Then, as I thought about it, I realized that our feeling for each other was certainly mutual. And if she felt as strongly as I did, why then, she would change her mind.

Feeling more cheerful, I chalked up her conduct as a feminine whim. The waiter brought another drink, and I sat alone at the table, looking around the club.

Across the room I could see Mauri Malcolm, the club owner. He was chatting lightly with the patrons and at the same time trying to estimate the evening’s take.

The thought of Mauri’s expenses made me quite cheerful again. Inwardly, I congratulated myself. I had expanded with more restaurants instead of doing what most restaurant owners did. Malcolm could have the headaches that went with this smart supper club.

I scanned the room. Two thirds of the tables were filled, but I knew that wasn’t enough. I had seen the fixed smile nightclub owners get just before their baby folds. Mauri Malcolm was wearing it now.

I got back the feeling I’d had earlier. I was Dick Roney, thirty-six. No debts. A large bank balance, and the loveliest girl in the world who would change her mind as soon as . . .

I saw the other girl. Mauri Malcolm was bending over her table with the special smile he reserved for beautiful women.

I pushed back my chair, got up and circled the dance floor. The girl in organdy did not look in my direction. She was leaving the room. I caught up with her in the heavily carpeted hall. Here, close up, she looked even more like Elaine Watkins, and so I said, “Miss Watkins!” in a loud tone, and waited for her to turn.

She did, but it was obvious from her cool stare that she’d turned because of my voice, and not because of the name. She looked through me with an expression that said she didn’t know me and didn’t care to. Then she went into the powder room, and the door swung shut in my face.

I went back to my table, trying to seem poised and at ease. But I imagine I had the hang-dog look of a heel who had just made an unsuccessful pass at another man’s wife.

Shortly after that, I paid the check and ambled out of the club. The Century bar was down the street, and I picked up two more drinks there.

But somehow, I couldn’t relax. It wasn’t my night to be out on the town. Something – my anxiety about my housekeeper – was urging me to go home.

I went, driving with unconscious haste. At the house, I put the car away, and entered very quietly. Just inside, I paused and listened, then walked toward the housekeeper’s room.

Elaine Watkins was in bed. I saw that by the light of the street lamp that shone through the open window. The covers were well down from her shoulders, and the filmy, shadowy fabric of her nightgown was rising and falling as she breathed. The tempo was regular, almost hypnotic. It was, I realized, high time I got out of there.

Moving quietly down the hall, I turned the thing over in my mind. Either the girl had come in early, or she had not gone out at all. There was, of course, no reason why my housekeeper should not spend her evenings at Mauri Malcolm’s club. I knew Malcolm slightly. We had been business rivals before Malcolm sold a group of three restaurants to plunge more heavily on the nightclub.

Malcolm was as honest as any businessman, and there was no reason why the girl shouldn’t know him. There was also no reason, as far as I was concerned, why a model should not accept expensive clothing – if that was the life she wanted. But models who wanted that life did not take jobs as housekeepers. Not for two hundred a month.

Entering the library, I switched on the light and headed for the sideboard. Mixing a drink, I thought of Lola. I’d phone her early tomorrow and straighten everything out.

I turned, sipping from the tall glass, enjoying it and the soft play of light on the polished wood. The lighting was subdued, and that too added something to my feeling of quiet peace. This was the place to come back to, the house for a man who had everything. Here, in my own home, even the shadows were warm and friendly.

Except for the new shadow. It was one I had never noticed before. There was, in fact, no reason why it should be there behind the wing-backed chair.

I moved. The shadow did not. I took a long, deep pull on my drink and held the glass in my hand, as I knelt to inspect the body.

Then I stood up and switched on a floor lamp. The man on the floor was Mauri Malcolm. He had been shot in the head.

I listened, and there were no sounds. All through the house there was still the same silence that had, only a moment before, given a feeling of peace.

Then, very loud in the stillness, a phone dial whirred in another room. Walking softly, I followed the sound.

I went through the hall to my bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Shoving gently, I opened it.

My housekeeper was sitting on my bed. She was wearing the same transparent nightgown I had seen when I came in. Over it she had donned an equally transparent wrapper.

“Yes!” she was saying. “It was Mr Roney! I was asleep and they awoke me up with their quarreling. Then I looked in and saw Mr Roney fire the gun, and—”

“Wait a minute!” I yelled. I crossed the room and snatched the phone from her hand. “Hello. Who am I talking to?”

“Sergeant Pound, Police. Who are you?”

“I’m Dick Roney. And I don’t know what ails this woman, but I certainly haven’t killed anybody.”

The sergeant said in a tired voice, “But somebody has been shot?”