James Chase: The Dead Stay Dumb

Dillon said, “Stay where you are. Don’t start a squawk.” He held the Colt so that Abe could see it.

Abe laid down his pen… His old fingers trembled a little. “My Rose was wrong,” he said sadly.

Dillon walked to where Abe hid the day’s takings. They were in a coffee-tin, up on a shelf. He reached up and took it down. Abe sat with his hands in his lap, quite crushed.

“I guess I want this more’n you,” Dillon said, emptying the tin on the counter. There were just over a hundred dollars in small bills in the tin. Dillon scooped them into his pocket. He said, “I guess I’ll take your wad too… maybe you’ll use a bank after this.”

Abe gave a groan. “You ain’t givin’ me a break,” he said. “That money took some earning.”

Dillon opened the till, pulled the drawer right out, and put his hand in the gap. He felt round the wood carefully, found the wad of notes in the false drawer, took them out and put them in his pocket. “Two grand, ain’t it, Goldberg?” he said. “I’ve watched you count it enough times.”

Abe said, “I guess this is the last time I’ll help any bum.”

Dillon sneered. “Aw, can that,” he said. “Suckers like you go on givin’ a hand till they’re buried.”

While he was speaking Dillon moved round the store putting some tinned food together. He shoved them roughly into a large paper carrier. “We’re makin’ a trip,” he said. “I’d hate to steal this stuff from you… see, I’ll pay you for it.” He tossed three dollars on to the counter.

Abe said nothing. He just wanted Dillon to go away. He kept thinking how he was to tell Rosey. She’d never forgive herself.

Dillon picked up the carrier and walked over to the door. “Maybe, when I get the breaks, I’ll remember you, Goldberg… then maybe I won’t… you see.”

He walked out into the night, tossed the carrier into the car and climbed in. He gave the key to Gurney. “State line, fast,” he said.

Gurney started the engine and engaged the gears. They pulled out of Plattsville as the street clock struck two, and headed for the border.

Myra swung her legs off the bed and sat up. The sun came through the open window, burning her feet. The cheap clock on the mantleboard indicated 8.10. She sat there, sniffing the crisp air, her firm white body naked. She fished about with her feet, hunting for her shoes. Finally, with a little gasp of annoyance, she went on hands and knees and dug them out from under the bed.

She knelt there staring at the shoes. “By heck,” she said, “I’m getting a regular bum.” The shoes were just about handing in their checks. Two large cracks gaped like little mouths at her from the top, and the soles were as good as a sieve.

She sat back on her heels, scratching her thigh, thinking. It wasn’t from choice she was naked in bed. She just hadn’t anything to wear.

Three long weary weeks had crawled by since Butch had been knocked off. The cabin, hidden in the hills, was just held together by its paint. Dillon had been glad to move into it, and now he was in he just stuck.

The last owner had been an Okie, who had taken his family with him on the futile search for work in the Californian invasion. He had left the cabin pretty well as it stood. Even the bedding had been left. That Okie had certainly been in a hurry to get away.

Taking the car to the nearest small town, Dillon had got in enough stores to last for some time, and the three of them had dug themselves in. The cabin was lonely, off the beaten track, and they didn’t see anyone from dawn to dusk.

Dillon spent most of his time lying in bed, brooding. He got up around midday, had some food, and sat on the step of the cabin in the sun. He got on the other two’s nerves. The work was shoved on to Myra. Gurney cut the wood and got the water, but he didn’t do much else. He hung around the house, treading on Myra’s heels, keeping his hands off her with an effort, and generally eating his head off with boredom.

Myra was getting sick of it. She wasn’t taking any chances in getting laid up, so she kept Gurney out of her room. This made Gurney sore as hell, but Myra’s waspish temper stood between them like a wall.

She got to her feet and put on the shoes, wriggling her toes inside them, feeling the rough boards through the soles. She splashed water into a tin bowl and began to wash. Slapping the water on her body, she rubbed herself briskly. All the time she was doing this her mind was busy. It was time to, shake these bums up a bit, she thought. Dillon would have to be handled carefully. Up to now he had ignored her. That irritated her. He just didn’t know she was there. She thought he was a cold-blooded fish. She walked over to the stool where she had dropped her clothes. She turned them over, her nose wrinkling with disgust. Every damn garment was in holes. Even her dress was patched heavily under the arms.

Pulling the dress over her head, she smoothed the creases with her hands. Then she walked into the living-room.

Gurney was standing in the open doorway, fixing his belt. He nodded to her sourly. He thought he was having a swell break bringing her along, and then to have her lock herself in every night. His chin was covered with a stubbly beard, and his eyes, still puffy with sleep, peered at her hungrily.

Across the way was another little room, where Dillon slept. The door was shut. They didn’t expect to see him for some time.

Myra said, “Suppose you get the fire goin’.” She spoke shortly.

Gurney said, “Sure.” He wandered outside and came back with a handful of wood. He sat down in front of the small stove and began to poke at the ashes.

Myra filled the kettle and began to lay the table. When the wood in the stove was crackling Gurney got up and put the kettle on. He walked round the room, scratching himself under the arms, yawning. His eyes were on Myra. She didn’t take any notice of him, but she could feel his lust for her.

He came up behind her, slipping his arms round her, his hands over her breasts. He hugged her to him.

Myra stood quite still. “Get away, will you?” she snapped. “There’s work to do.”

Gurney forced her round. “I’m sick of this,” he said savagely. “I ain’t goin’ to stand it.”

He lifted her off her feet and ran her into her room. Myra made no effort to resist him. In the room, he set her down, arid stood holding her, his chest heaving.

She said, “You’re gettin’ wrong ideas, Nick.”

“Yeah?” He shook her a little. “That’s what you think. You’re enough to drive a guy nuts…. What’s the idea? You’re hot enough when Butch might’ve killed you… but now…”

She kept her face cold. “The kettle’s boiling,” she said. “Suppose you come down to earth.”

Gurney took his hands off her. “By God!” he said angrily. “You can’t treat me like this.”

A furious wave of rage shot through her like a flame. “And what d’you think this is?” she screamed at him. “Look at me! How d’you think I like this? There’s not a rag to my back. All you think is gettin’ into bed. Well, you got another think coming. That lousy punk out there’s got a roll of dough, and he just sits on it. How long d’you think we’re goin’ to stay in this sty? Who the hell are you to get sore?”

Gurney backed away uneasily. “Pipe down,” he said surlily, “I can’t help it, can I?”

“You can’t help it!” She beat her hands together. “I’ll show you something.”

She pushed past him and burst in on Dillon. Dillon was sitting up in bed. He was wearing a shirt and trousers, a splinter of wood between his teeth. He looked at her suspiciously. “What the hell do you want, bustin’ in like this?” he snarled.