James Chase - Well Now, My Pretty…

He turned off the Miami highway on to the dirt road that led through the pine forest down to the Paradise City highway. He switched on his headlights. The sun had gone down behind the foothills. It was now turning dark.

Sheila said abruptly, “About that watch… you may not know it, but any decent husband gives his wife a wedding anniversary present. There’s nothing else I want so much. I should have something I want.”

Tom sighed. He hoped she had put the goddamn watch out of her mind.

“I’m sorry, baby. We just can’t afford that kind of money. I’ll find you a watch, but it’s not going to cost $180.”

“I want this watch.”

“Yeah… I know… you told me, but we can’t afford it.”

“I must have been crazy to have married you,” she said with an outburst of bitterness. “All those lies about your success. Success? What a joke! You can’t afford anything! We don’t even get a decent vacation. Camping! God! I should have had my head examined!”

“Would you kindly shut up?” Tom said. “You’re no ball of fire youself. Look at the way you keep house… like a pigstye. All you’re any good at is watching TV.”

“Oh, knock it off!” Her voice was strident and hard. “You bore me. Mr. Successful who can’t afford $180. Mr. Successful…” She laughed. “Mr. Cheapie, I would say.”

The car slowed and Tom pushed down on the accelerator. The car continued to slow, not answering to the extra gas.

“Do you mind?” Sheila said, heavy sarcasm in her voice. “I would like to get home. You may like this dreary scenery, but I don’t. Couldn’t we go a little faster?”

The engine gave a splutter and died. They were going downhill and Tom quickly shifted the automatic gear stick into neutral. They continued to coast down the road as he cursed under his breath.

“What’s the matter now?” Sheila demanded, rounding on him.

“The engine’s packed up.”

“It only wanted that. What do you expect with a cripple like this? So what are you going to do?”

As the road began to climb, the car slowed and stopped. Tom stared into the pools of light made by the car’s headlights. Then, shrugging, he took a flashlight from the glove compartment, got out of the car and opened the hood. He had had a thorough training in servicing G.M. cars and it took him only a few minutes to find the gas pump had packed up. There was nothing he could do about this. He slammed the hood shut as Sheila got out of the car.

“We’re stuck,” he said. “The pump’s gone. It’s a five-mile walk down to the highway. I might be lucky to catch the last bus. You had better stay here.”

“Stay here?” Sheila’s voice went shrill. “I’m not staying here on my own!”

“Well, okay, then you better come with me.”

“I’m not walking five miles!”

Tom regarded her, exasperated.

“So what do we do?”

“You and your lousy car! What a vacation!”

“Will you shut up about our vacation? I’m sick and tired of you complaining.”

“So we spend the night here. Get the sleeping bags out.”

Tom hesitated, then went to the back of the car. He got the sleeping bags off the rear seat and found the picnic basket. He was hungry, tired and depressed. He locked the car, then threw the beam of his flashlight to right and left. Seeing a narrow path facing him, he went ahead, and found himself in a tree- surrounded glade.

“Sheila! This will do. We can sleep here. Come on. You want something to eat?”

Maisky, lying in his cave, heard Tom’s voice. He sat up, his body stiff with apprehension.

Sheila joined Tom in the glade, muttering as she picked her way over the rough ground. Tom had put down the sleeping bags and was opening the picnic basket.

She sat on one of the sleeping bags, took out a cigarette and lit it.

“The end of a perfect vacation,” she said. “Oh, boy! Is this something for my memory book! I’ve enjoyed every minute of it!

Tom found some dry slices of ham, a half loaf of bread that was brick hard and a half a bottle of whisky.

He poured two big drinks. He gave Sheila some of the ham and half the loaf. She promptly threw the food into the bushes.

“I’d rather starve than eat that muck!” she said furiously and drank the whisky at a gulp.

“Okay… starve,” Tom said. “I’ve had about all I want from you tonight.” Turning his back on her, he began munching the dry ham.

Leaving his bed of blankets, Maisky crawled to the entrance of the cave. He peered through the branches down into the glade. It was too dark to see anything, but he could hear voices although he was too far away to distinguish what was being said.

He lay on the cold, damp floor of the cave, listening. His body trembled with weakness. Who were these people? What were they doing down there? How long would they stay?

Tom finished his meal, then taking off his windcheater and his shoes, he got into his sleeping bag. Sheila was already in hers.

“Will you try not to snore?” she said. “It only wants you to snore to make this really perfect.”

“Just go to hell!” Tom said bitterly, then trying to make himself comfortable, he closed his eyes.

Sergeant Patrick O’Connor, known in the police force as Gutsey O’Connor, was sixty-one years of age. He had been in the Paradise City police force now for forty odd years. Six feet three, with an enormous belly that had earned him his nickname, a brick-red face and thinning, sandy hair, he was one of the less- liked sergeants attached to the force.

In another year, he planned to retire. He hadn’t done so badly during his service career. He had made a nice slice of money putting the bite on the prostitutes, the pimps, the pushers and the queers who lived in his district. For a $10 bill, he was always ready to look the other way, and although his graft was small over a period of forty years it had totalled up to a respectable sum.

When Beigler told him to take Patrolmen Mike Collon and Sam Wand and search five hundred bungalows in the hope of finding the missing Casino robbers, O’Connor stared at Beigler as if he couldn’t believe his ears, and when Beigler told him to go to the Armoury where he would be issued with tear-gas grenades and automatic weapons, Gutsey O’Connor’s red face turned a purplish white.

He had heard all about the Casino robbers. They were desperate, dangerous men — one of them was a Mafia killer!

O’Connor plodded down to the Armoury thinking that this was just his luck. In another year, he would be free of this kind of caper. He would own his own bungalow, his own car and he planned to grow roses. Now he might very easily get himself killed on this goddam assignment.

He found Mike Colon and Sam Wand waiting for him in the Armoury. Both these patrolmen were young and keen. Colon was big, dark and tough looking with a growing reputation for being smart, and with a number of arrests in his book. Wand was shorter, fair, with steel-grey eyes. He too was keen and ambitious. The kind of punks, O’Connor thought sourly, he would get landed with.

“Okay, fellas,” he said, “get your weapons and let’s go.” He drew an automatic rifle and ammunition from the Sergeant Armourer who grinned unfeelingly at him.

“Watch that big belly of yours, Gutsey,” he said. “You don’t want anyone to make a hole in it. I reckon there’d be enough gas out of that to light the City for a week.”

“Shut your trap!” O’Connor snarled. “All very well for you… you just hand out a gun. I’ve got to use it!”

He stamped out of the Armoury. Collon and Wand exchanged winks. They followed him to the waiting police car and they all piled on. Wand took the wheel.

“North Shore,” O’Connor said, “and snap it up.”