James Chase - Well Now, My Pretty…

“Maybe he had trouble with the Buick,” Chandler said. “It’s a bad starter. Maybe he used this one if he couldn’t get the Buick to start.”

“Yeah… that could be it,” Mish said, relaxing. “I tell you, he’s a real smart cookie. Yeah… that must be it,” and he walked quickly to the T.R.4 and paused beside it.

The light of the coming dawn was spreading across the sky and the light was sufficient for Mish to see the dark stains on the white leather of the bucket seats. He frowned at them and looked at Chandler who had joined him.

“What’s this?”

Mish touched one of the stains with his finger tip, feeling wet stickiness, and then holding his hand up to the growing light, he drew in a sharp breath.

“Judas! It’s blood!”

“Maybe he was hit,” Chandler said, uneasily. “He could be dead in there.”

They moved quickly up the path that led to the front entrance of the bungalow, paused, listened, then Mish, gun in hand, eased open the door and the two men stepped into the stuffy, tiny hall.

“Maisky?” Mish said, raising his voice. “You there?”

“No… I am…” Perry said from the living-room. There was no giggle in his voice and it sounded far away. “Get in here quick!”

Mish jerked open the door, stared into the gloom, then his hand groped for the light switch, found it and snapped it down.

Perry sat in an armchair. He held a blood-soaked cushion against his belly. There was blood on the floor, his right trouser leg was black with blood. His washed-out blue eyes were slightly out of focus.

“I’m bleeding like a goddam pig,” he said huskily. “Do something about it.”

While Chandler stood staring at him, Mish went quickly into the bathroom and opened the cabinet door above the washbasin. His small eyes narrowed when he saw the cabinet was empty. He remembered the previous day when he had cut his hand opening a can of beer, Maisky had taken him into the bathroom and the cabinet had been well stocked with all kinds of first-aid and medical equipment. He ran into Maisky’s bedroom, opened one of the drawers in the chest to find that empty too. Cursing, he snatched off the cover from the bed, ripped a sheet off and came back into the sitting-room.

Mish had dealt with many wounds in his past. He snapped to Chandler to get hot water and to hurry.

Twenty minutes later, Perry was lying on the settee. His fat face was drained white, but his wound had been skilfully bandaged. For the moment, at least, the bleeding had stopped.

While Mish was working on Perry, Chandler had gone through the bungalow.

“The bastard ratted on us!” he said, returning, his face white with rage. “I told you! He’s pulled out!”

Perry opened his eyes.

“Get that car out of the way. Dump it somewhere. If the cops spot it…” He tried to go on, but faintness overtook him and his eyes closed.

Mish and Chandler looked at each other.

“Yeah… you lose it, Jess,” Mish said. “If someone spots those bloodstains, we’ll have the cops here like a swarm of bees.”

“He ratted on us!” Chandler repeated.

“One thing at the time… get rid of that car!”

Chandler hesitated, then left the bungalow. Mish watched him through the window get in the car and drive away.

He looked around the room, saw a half bottle of whisky on the table and made a drink.

“Here…” he said, bending over Perry, who drank greedily.

“The little bitch… she shot me…” Perry murmured. He giggled. “She was a good lay… she…” He drifted off into unconsciousness.

Mish wiped his sweating face. There was a battered radio on one of the bookshelves and he turned it on. Then going into the kitchen he got a pail of hot water and a swab and, returning to the living-room, cleaned up the mess of blood on the floor. He also washed the armchair, although he couldn’t entirely efface the bloodstains.

A voice suddenly broke in over the swing music: “We interrupt this programme of dance music coming to you from Paradise City Station XLL with a news flash. The Great Casino robbery. The police have issued the following descriptions of the three men wanted in connection with the robbery…” There followed a fairly accurate

description of Mish, Chandler and Perry. “These men are dangerous. If seen, please telephone Police Headquarters. Paradise City 7777.”

Mish grinned uneasily. Well, the heat was now on. That old man in the glass box wasn’t such a dope as he had looked. He snapped off the radio.

He poured himself a shot of whisky, drank it and then went into the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty and so was the store cupboard. Mish rubbed the back of his neck. He was hungry. Worried, he went back and stood looking down at Perry, shaking his head.

Perry had been shot in the stomach. The bullet had cut through a layer of fat and had nicked an intestine. Mish knew the wounded man badly needed hospital treatment, but that was out of the question.

What did he mean about a girl shooting him? Mish wondered.

He poured himself another drink, lit a cigarette, then cursed when he saw he had only two more left in the pack.

He was sitting brooding when Chandler, twenty minutes later, returned.

“Okay?” Mish asked.

“I dumped it.” Chandler was jumpy. “Way out on the beach behind a sand dune. Listen, Mish, on the way back I’ve been thinking. We better get the hell out of here… go back to our hotels and sweat it out. At least we have some money.”

Mish grinned.

“Not a chance, boy. It came over the radio half an hour ago. They have our descriptions. You haven’t a hope of getting back to your hotel or getting out of the City. We have to stay right here if we are going to survive.”

Chandler stared at him, his face tight with frustrated rage.

“Do you think he’s coming back?”

Mish shook his head.

“No… I guess he’s taken us for suckers. Beats me… I really thought I could have trusted him. He’s pulled out… taken everything with him and the dough.”

“If ever I run into him again I’ll kill him!” Chandler said.

Mish shrugged.

“One of those things, boy, but at least, we are in one piece.” He looked at the unconscious Perry. “Not like him.”

Chandler looked coldly at the wounded man.

“Who cares?” He dragged open his shirt collar. “If I don’t have a cup of coffee, I’ll blow my stack.”

“Go ahead and blow it. There’s not a damn thing left… no food… nothing except that whisky. You got any cigarettes?”

“Used my last one.” Chandler stared at Mish. “We can’t live here without food.”

“We show ourselves on the street and we’re cooked. We have to stay under cover.” Mish thought for a moment, then asked, “Have you any friends here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone who would bring us supplies without asking questions?”

Chandler then remembered Lolita. Would she do it? Had she heard the radio description of him and if he contacted her would she give him away to the police? He decided he could trust her. She had been in cop trouble herself… nothing bad, but the cops were always shoving her around, stopping her entering the better restaurants, leaning their weight on her.

“You might have an idea,” he said. “There is a girl… maybe she would do it. Is the phone working?”

“I don’t know… should be.”

Chandler went over the telephone, lifted the receiver and listened to the reassuring dialling tone. He concentrated for a few seconds, trying to remember the telephone number she had given him. Was it Paradise City 9911 or 1199? He decided it was the latter number. He was very good at memorising his girlfriends’ telephone numbers. He dialled the number and waited. There was a long pause, then Lolita said sleepily, “Yes?”