James Chase - Well Now, My Pretty…

The trouble with Regan was he had too many memories. He couldn’t resist talking about the good old days. Few bothered to listen to him, but this didn’t discourage him. He always managed to find some unwary person who, trapped by his guile, had to stand impatiently while he described with a wealth of detail the glories of the past.

This bulky, elderly man, who did his job well, who had given years of faithful service, represented Harry Lewis’s most serious mistake with his staff. Regan had a very important job: to see no one should ever pass his glass box without being known or without he being absolutely sure of their credentials. Regan was proud of his responsibility, and this Maisky had discovered. Maisky had found out by listening to gossip that Regan liked to act on his own initiative. He disliked being told anything. He had held his job successfully for years… he wasn’t a kid. Why should he be told what to do? Maisky was gambling on this attitude of Regan’s, and it was a successful gamble.

When Regan saw a small truck with the well-known I.B.M. letters painted on its sides pull up at the Staff entrance, he was puzzled, but not suspicious. He decided that something had gone wrong and Head Office had failed to alert him. He was thinking, as Jess Chandler got out of the truck, that those girls in the office were getting more and more inefficient.

Chandler had been well coached by Maisky. He walked up to the glass box, pushed his peaked cap to the back of his head and nodded to Regan.

“You have a breakdown in the vault,” he said. “My goddam luck! I was right in the middle of a musical on the Telly when the call came through. What a time!” He handed a delivery note to Regan. “Let’s snap it up, mister. You know about it, don’t you?”

Maisky had impressed on Chandler to use this phrase. He had watched Regan as he had walked to and fro from the Casino to his home. He had seen him stop and talk to people and had seen their desperately bored expressions. He had come to the correct conclusion that Regan imagined that he was the Casino, and he felt certain that Regan would never admit to not knowing about such an important event as a calculator having broken down in the vault.

But his guess hung on a knife’s edge. For a split second, Regan was in two minds whether to call the office for confirmation, then, knowing the office was shut and feeling hurt that no one had bothered to consult him, he accepted the delivery note, shifted his glasses to the end of his nose and studied it. This was in order. It had taken Maisky some days to get a printed form from I.B.M.’s local office, but he had got it.

“Yeah… yeah,” Regan said, pushing up his glasses and regarding Chandler. “I know all about it. They are waiting for you, boy. You take it right in,” and he banged down the rubber stamp on the delivery note: a stamp that cleared anyone walking into the forbidden territory.

Wash now appeared from out of the truck, and a moment later, Perry appeared. While Wash and Chandler man-handled the big carton out of the truck, Perry strolled over to Regan’s glass box.

“Hi, pal,” he said, feeding a cigarette between his thin lips. “Are you the guy who had his photo in the paper last week?”

This again was information supplied by Maisky who had told Perry to use it.

Regan preened himself, taking off his glasses.

“That was me. You see it? Mind you, it’s an old picture, but I reckon I don’t change much. I’ve been in this box for thirty-eight years. Imagine! You can understand why they put my photo in the paper, can’t you?”

“Is that right?” Perry’s fat face showed impressed astonishment. “Thirty-eight years! For Pete’s sake! I’ve only lived in this City for three years. I bet you’ve seen a lot of changes, mister.”

Again this was Maisky’s dialogue. Regan snapped at it as a trout snaps at a fly.

By now Chandler and Wash were past him and walking down the narrow corridor, carrying the carton.

“Changes?” Regan said, accepting the cigarette Perry offered him. “You bet. I remember…”

Outside, sitting in the truck, his clawlike hands gripping the steering wheel, Maisky waited.

Twenty-five minutes before the truck arrived at the Staff entrance, Mish Collins drove up to the Casino in his hired car, swung a tool box over his shoulder by its leather strap, got out and stared up at the lighted entrance.

The doorman, magnificent in his bottle-green and cream uniform, converged on him. The doorman considered this big, fat man in uniform was spoiling the de luxe background of the Casino.

Before he could remonstrate, Mish gave him a friendly grin and said, “You have an emergency. Mr. Lewis flashed us. Seems you have a circuit breakdown somewhere.”

The doorman stared at him.

“I haven’t heard about it,” he said. He had been with the Casino almost as long as Regan. He had collected a fortune in tips by opening and shutting car doors. During the years of standing in the hot sunshine, doing a simple, mechanical job, he had become alarmingly slow witted.

“Look, chum,” Mish said, his voice suddenly sharp, “do I have to worry about that? This is an emergency. It’s no skin off my snout if the electricity fails, but I’ve got this call and whoever made the call is laying eggs. Where do I find the fuse boxes?”

The doorman blinked, then suddenly realised what it would mean if the Casino was without electricity. He broke out in a cold sweat.

“Sure… I’ll show you… you come with me.”

Mish had almost to run to keep up with him as he led him down a narrow alley, lined on either side by orange trees, heavy with fruit, and to a steel door, set in a wall.

The doorman produced a key and unlocked the door.

“There you are,” he said, snapping on the light. “What’s wrong?”

“How do I know, pal?” Mish said, setting down his tool box. “I’ll have to take a look, won’t I? You want to stay and watch?”

The doorman hesitated. Somewhere at the back of his turgid mind he vaguely remembered the rules of the Casino: no one should be allowed into the control room without authorisation and should never be left alone there. But this was only the vaguest memory. He thought of the people still arriving at the Casino, even at this late hour, and the dollar tips he was missing. He eyed Mish’s uniform and the tool box with Paradise City Electricity Corp. written on the lid in startling white letters.

What was he worrying about? he thought. He should be on his job.

“You fix it,” he said. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“Don’t rush,” Mish said. “I’ll be here for at least half an hour.”

“Well, okay, but you wait here. Don’t go away until I get back.” The doorman hurried away up the path.

Mish grinned. He turned to examine the fuse boxes. He quickly found the fuse that controlled the calculator. He had some minutes yet before he went into action. He lit a cigarette and then opened the tool box.

He was very calm and sure of success.

Bic Lawdry felt a drop of sweat roll down his nose and then drop on his hand. He had been dozing and, surprised, he stiffened, now aware of the heat in the vault. His fat face creased into a puzzled frown.

“Hey! Ain’t it getting hot in here?” he demanded, leaning over to give Hank Jefferson a shove. Hank was absorbed in a paperback with a jacket picture of a naked girl lying in a pool of blood.

“Wrap up!” Hank said. “I’m busy.”

Bic wiped the sweat off his nose and glared at the air conditioner. He slid off his stool and walked over to the machine, putting his hand against the grille. Only hot, steamy air was being forced out by the fan.