James Chase - Tell It to the Birds

This is it, he thought. There is a time when every man worth a nickle must make up his mind what to do with his life.

I’ve put off my decision long enough. I’ll never get anywhere without money. With Meg to help me and with fifty thousand dollars to get me started, I’ll reach up and take the sun out of the sky.

But he knew he was kidding himself. He knew in a year, probably less, the fifty thousand dollars would be gone. He had never been able to hold onto money. He knew Meg was an exciting sexual plaything, but nothing more, and she would never help him. She was a slut: shiftless and worthless, and like him, money loving.

Well, all right, he said shrugging, the money may not last long, but well have a fine time while it does last. He lay back on the pillow, nursing the gun and thinking again of Meg.

Harry Weber had been working the night shift at the Caltex Service station for the past two years. It was a soft job, and Harry liked it. He was an avid reader and the job gave him the opportunity to indulge himself.

After one o’clock a.m. he considered himself busy if he had to service more than three cars up to the time he came off duty

which was at seven o’clock a.m. He sometimes wondered why the Service station kept open all night, but as he could relax and read, it was no skin off his nose if they were willing to pay him good money just to sit on his backside and soak himself in the paperbacks on which he spent most of his wages.

A few minutes to four, Harry made himself a jug of coffee. Cup in hand, he settled back in his chair to continue a James Bond story when the glass door to the office swung silently open.

Harry looked up, stiffened, then very slowly set down his cup of coffee on the desk. The paperback slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor.

The man facing him was wearing an odd looking topcoat and Swiss style hat. The lower part of his face was hidden by a white handkerchief. In his right hand he held a vicious looking gun that he pointed to Harry.

For a brief moment the two men stared at each other then the gunman said quietly, “Don’t act like a hero! I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to. Get that safe open and pronto!”

“Sure,” Harry said, badly shaken. He got slowly and unsteadily to his feet.

The gunman came into the office and crossed to the toilet, his gun still covering Harry. He pushed open the door and backed into the dark little room.

“Get the safe open!” he said, standing in the doorway. “Hurry it up!”

Harry pulled open the top drawer of the desk. Lying by the safe key was a .45 automatic supplied by the Service station for just such an emergency as this. He looked down at the gun and hesitated. Could he grab the gun and shoot before this gunman shot him?

Watching him, Anson saw his hesitation and a warning instinct told him there was a gun in the drawer. “Don’t move!" he yelled. “Get back… get your hand up!” The note in his voice frightened Harry. Cursing himself for hesitating and yet glad of it, he lifted, his hands and backed away.

Anson moved forward, reached into the drawer, took out the gun and then stepped back into the toilet. He put the gun on the floor at his feet.

“Get the safe open!” he said, a snarl in his voice. “Start, acting like a hero and I’ll kill you!”

Harry took the key and opened the safe.

Anson glanced anxiously through the wide windows and out on to the dark highway.

“Get over against the wall!” he ordered. “Face the wall and don’t move.” Harry obeyed. Anson knelt before the safe and pulled out a large steel cash box. It was unlocked. He opened it. The pile of bills in the box made his eyes gleam. As he began stuffing the bills into his topcoat pockets, he heard the unexpected sound of an approaching motor cycle engine.

His heart skipped a beat. This could only be a traffic cop coming. Would he stop or would he pass the Service station?

Working frantically, Anson stuffed the rest of the bills into his pockets, threw the cash box back into the safe and slammed the safe door shut. He stepped back into the toilet.

“Sit at the desk,” he said to Harry, his voice tense and vicious. “Quick! Give me away and you’ll get it first!”

Harry was moving towards the desk as the beam of the motor cycle headlight flashed across the office. A moment later the sound of the motor cycle engine spluttered to silence.

A trickle of cold sweat ran down Anson’s face. The cop had stopped. He would be coming in!

“If there’s any shooting,” Anson said, “remember, you’ll get it first,” and he pushed the door of the toilet so it stood ajar.

He could only see part of the office now and it worried him he couldn’t see Harry.

As the toilet door pushed to, Harry picked up a pencil and quickly wrote on a check pad: Hold up. Gunman in toilet.

The office door swung open, and a big red faced cop walked in. He often passed at this time and Harry always had a cup of coffee ready for him.

“Hi, Harry,” the cop said cheerfully. “Got any Java for your old pal?”

Anson looked around the dark little toilet for a way of escape but he saw immediately he was trapped. The window was too high and too small for him to use.

He heard Harry say, “I’ve just made some, Tom.”

The cop pulled off his gauntlet gloves and as he dropped them on the desk, Harry who was now standing, pointed to the written message.

The cop wasn’t bright. He frowned down at the message, saying “What’s this? Something you want me to read?”

Hearing this, Anson knew he had been betrayed. Again he was surprised how calm he felt. Silently, he opened the door of the toilet room.

Harry saw him and went white. The cop, frowning, was staring at the written message, then he looked round and saw the masked gunman.

“Hold it!” Anson exclaimed, his voice unnaturally high. He lifted the gun so it pointed directly at the cop.

The cop’s small eyes widened with shock, then he recovered and slowly he straightened. He looked enormous and threatening to Anson.

“Get back against the wall,” Anson said. “Go on… the pair of you!”

Harry hurriedly moved back until his shoulders were flat against the wall, but the cop didn’t move.

“You can’t get away with this, punk,” he said in a hard, gritty voice. “Give me the rod. Come on… you can’t get away with it.”

Anson had a sudden feeling of sensual excitement. This stupid hunk of meat was going to be brave. He watched as the cop held out an enormous hand. He heard him say again, “Hand it over… come on!” As if he were talking to a circus dog.

Anson didn’t move. His finger steadily took up the slack of the trigger. Then as the cop began a brave and slow advance, Anson became aware that there was no more slack to take up. The bang of the exploding gun and the kick of it in his hand startled him. He stepped back, drawing in a quick gasping breath. He watched the red of the cop’s face suddenly drain from under the coarse weather-beaten skin and the massive legs buckle as if the bones had turned into jelly.

Anson stood motionless, the handkerchief covering the lower part of his face was wet with sweat. He watched the bulky body slide to the floor. One massive hand feebly caught the edge of the desk, spilled off it and then the cop was lying face down at Anson’s feet.

Anson started towards the door, paused, grabbed the telephone and wrenched it from the wall. He threw it viciously at Harry who had his hands covering his head, his nerve broken by the shooting.

Anson ran out into the night. With the weight of the money in his pockets flapping against his legs, he fled towards his car.

The following morning, immediately after he had had breakfast, Anson went into the writing room of the hotel and wrote a cheque for $ 1,045 in favour of Joe Duncan. He put this cheque into an envelope with a curt note saying he would no longer bet with Duncan, sealed the envelope, and then, leaving the writing room, he went to one of the telephone call boxes and telephoned Meg.