James Chase - Get a Load of This

Anita pulled a face. “I don’t forget him,” she said, “he is a bad man. He has everything; he has food. He knew what was going to happen.”

“Maybe he’ll consider sharing his breakfast with me,” Quentin said. “Suppose you run along and ask him. Tell him George Quentin of the New York Post would like to breakfast with him. See what happens.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I do not ask favours from such a man; he is bad. Soon someone will kill him, you see.

Quentin put down his shaving-brush. “Then get me some coffee. Now beat it, baby; you’re in the way. I want to dress.” He put his hand under her elbow and took her to the door. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Senor is a very fine man, yes?” she said. She offered him her lips, but Quentin shook his head. “Go on, dust,” he said a little irritably, and drove her out with a smack on her behind.

When he was half dressed, Bill Morecombre came in. He was a tall, loosely built guy, a soft hat worn carelessly at the back of his head, and a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth. He draped himself up against the door-post and waved a languid hand. “Hyah, pal,” he said, “anythin’ happenin’?”

Quentin shook his head. “Not a thing except there’s no breakfast.”

Morecombre shrugged. “I expected that, didn’t you? Hell, the strike’s been on a week now. This joint’s going to be plenty tough before it gets better. I brought some stuff along with me. When you’re ready come on over. I guess the manager will be up too. I got plenty.”

“You guys certainly look after yourselves,” Quentin said, fixing his tie. “Sure I’ll be over.”

Morecombre was in no hurry to leave. “See Anita this morning?” he asked, flicking ash on the floor.

“I have,” Quentin returned grimly. “That baby’s wearing a pair of very hot pants.”

“You’re right, but what else has she got to do? I’m sorry for that judy.”

Quentin slipped on his jacket. “The trouble with you,” he said dryly, “is that you’re always sorry for dames. Then, eventually, they get sorry for themselves.”

They crossed the corridor into Morecombre’s room. “Do you seriously think anything’s going to happen?” Morecombre asked, diving under his bed and dragging out a large suit-case. “I mean big enough to justify all this fuss and expense?”

Quentin sat on the bed and eyed the suit-case with interest. “I don’t know,” he said, “but when you get into a country as hot as this, packed with people who’ve been pushed around and treated as these people have been, it’s a safe bet that the lid will come off sometime. And when it comes off a lotta guys are going to be hurt.”

Morecombre opened the suitcase and sat back on his heels. “Looks good,” he said, examining a big array of brightly labelled tins. “What shall we have?”

A discreet knock sounded. Morecombre looked at Quentin with a grin. “Vulture number one,” he said, going across and opening the door.

The hotel manager was a short, rather pathetic-looking little Cuban. He bowed very stiffly at the waist. “I’ve come to present my apologies—” he began, looking at the tinned food with a sparkle in his eye.

“Forget it,” Morecombre said, stepping to one side. “Come on in and have a spot of something. You can take it off the bill.”

The manager came into the room very quickly, a smile lighting his face. “That is generous,” he said. “American gentlemen are always very generous.”

Quentin looked up. He was busy opening a tin. “You know why we are here, don’t you?” he asked abruptly.

The manager looked confused. “You come to see our beautiful city… yes?” he said, fidgeting with his small white hands.

“We are here to report and obtain photographs of a coming revolution,” Quentin said impressively. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait before it begins?”

The manager looked helplessly at the tin in Quentin’s hands. “I could not say,” he said. “I know nothing about a revolution.”

Quentin glanced across at Morecombre and shrugged. “They’re all alike,” he said a little bitterly. “I guess we’ve just got to be patient and wait.”

Another knock sounded on the door and Anita came in with a tray. She, too, regarded the tins with interest.

“Coffee, senor,” she said.

Morecombre took the tray from her. “Come on in and join us,” he said. “This is no time to stand on ceremony.”

The manager scowled at her, but she sat down close to Morecombre, taking no notice of him.

Suddenly the manager clapped his hands to his head. “I forget,” he said, “the senorita who came last night. What has become of her?”

Anita frowned. “I gave her coffee,” she said. “She wishes to sleep again.”

“Who’s that?” Quentin asked. “What senorita?”

“Beautiful American lady lost the boat last night. She come to this hotel. I am very worried, but I give her a room. I only just remember.”

“You let her stay here?” Morecombre exclaimed angrily. “What the hell did you do that for?”

The manager looked distressed. “I was not thinking. I was very worried.” He broke off and looked pathetic again.

“I guess you were tight,” Quentin said angrily, getting to his feet. He turned to Anita. “Go and wake her at once. Tell her she had better pack and clear out of this joint. Explain that trouble is likely to happen here.”

The manager started up. “No, no!” he said. “Nothing is going to happen to my beautiful hotel. You must not say such things.”

Quentin looked at him grimly. “That’s what you say. If a revolution does start, this is one of the first places they’re coming to. You don’t think they’ll let General Fuentes get away after what he’s done to them, do you?”

The manager looked as if he were going to faint. “You must not say such things,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “It is very dangerous to talk like that.”

Quentin jerked his head at Anita. “Go and tell her,” he said, “this is no place for American women.”

Anita scowled at him. “It is all right for me… yes?” she said. “It doesn’t matter about me … no?”

Quentin climbed out of his chair. “Go and tell her,” he said. “Never mind about yourself. You’ll be all right.”

She went out, closing the door sharply behind her. Quentin glanced at Morecombre, who was setting the table. “Rather complicated if we’ve got to look after some American girl, huh?” he said. “If things do start happening, I want to be free to move from here quickly.”

Morecombre grinned. “No woman has ever complicated my life,” he said. “If she’s a looker, you don’t have to worry. I’ll look after her.”

The manager wrung his hands. “This is a terrible thing that you do, senor,” he said, “turning my guests from my hotel.”

Quentin poured out some coffee. “Don’t talk a lotta bull,” he said. “You know as well as I do that all your guests have gone. If anything happens to this girl, I’m going to report the matter to the consul.”

The manager looked at him sulkily, and helped himself to a cup of coffee. “Nothing will happen,” he said; “I assure you that nothing will happen.”

Just then Anita came back. Her black eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “The senorita says she stays,” she said. “She has no place else to go, so she stays.”

Quentin groaned. “As if I haven’t got enough to worry about,” he said. “You gotta go and see her,” he went on, turning to the manager, “tell her that there is likely to be a disturbance in the town and she had better go.”

The manager shook his head. “I cannot say such a thing. It is not true.”