James Chase: Just Another Sucker

‘Is that a fact?’ he said. ‘Well, okay, if that’s what he says.’

I just stood there like a dummy. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t have spoken even if I had known what to say.

‘Anything of value in the bag, lady?’ the barman asked.

‘Oh, yes. It was stupid of me to have forgotten it.’

She had a clear, hard voice. I wondered vaguely if her eyes, hidden behind the sun goggles, were as hard.

‘Hadn’t you better check to see if anything is missing?’ the barman said.

‘I suppose I’d better.’

I wondered if one quick punch would get me out of this. I decided it wouldn’t. The barman looked as if he had taken a lot of quick punches in his day, and he looked as if the diet had agreed with him.

She moved past me into the booth and picked up the bag.

I watched her, my heart scarcely beating. She stepped out of the booth, opened the bag and looked inside. With slim fingers, the nails painted silver, she moved the contents of the bag about, her face expressionless.

The barman breathed heavily. He kept glancing at me and then at her.

She looked up.

Here it comes, I thought. In half an hour from now, I’ll be in a cell.

‘No, there’s nothing missing,’ she said. She turned her head slowly to look directly at me. ‘Thank you for taking care of it for me. I’m afraid I am very careless with my things.’

I didn’t say anything.

The barman beamed.

‘Okay, lady?’

‘Yes, thank you. I think we might celebrate.’ She looked at me. The round green globes of her goggles told me nothing. ‘May I buy you a drink, Mr. Barber?’

So she knew who I was. It wasn’t all that surprising. The day I had been released, the Herald had run a photograph of me, saying that I had been released from jail after spending a four-year stretch for a manslaughter charge. They hadn’t forgotten to mention that I had been drunk at the time. It had been a good photograph and it had been on the front page where no one who read the Herald could miss it. Just a sweet trick that Cubitt would dream up.

There was a steely quality in her voice that told me it might be healthier for me to accept the invitation, so I said, ‘Well, it isn’t necessary, but thanks.’

She turned to the barman.

‘Two highballs with lots of ice.’

She moved past him to the table when I had been sitting and sat down.

I sat down opposite her.

She opened her handbag, took out the gold cigarette case, opened it and offered it to me.

I took a cigarette. She took one too. She lit mine with the gold lighter, then her own: by this time the barman had come back with two highballs. He put them on the table, then went away.

‘How does it feel, Mr. Barber, to be out of prison?’ she asked, letting smoke drift down her nostrils.

‘All right.’

‘I see you are no longer a newspaper man.’

‘That’s correct.’

She tilted the high glass, making the ice cubes tinkle and she regarded the glass as if it interested her more than I did.

‘I’ve seen you come in here quite often.’ She waved silver nails to the window. ‘I have a beach cabin across the way.’

‘That must be nice for you.’

She picked up her drink and sipped a little of the highball.

‘Do these frequent visits to this bar mean you haven’t fixed up a job yet?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you hope to get fixed up pretty soon?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It can’t be easy, of course.’

‘That’s right.’

‘If employment was offered to you, would you be interested?’

I frowned at her.

‘I don’t get this. Are you offering me employment?’

‘It is possible. Would you be interested?’

I reached for the highball, then changed my mind. I had had more than enough to drink.

‘Doing what?’

‘It would be very well paid, very confidential and with a small element of risk. Would that worry you?’

‘You mean it would be illegal?’

‘Oh no… it wouldn’t be illegal… nothing like that.’

‘That doesn’t tell me anything. Where does the risk come in? I’m ready to do any job so long as I know what I am doing.’

‘I understand.’ She took another sip from the highball. ‘You’re not drinking, Mr. Barber.’

‘I know. What’s this job you want done?’

‘I’m a little pressed for time right now, besides this is scarcely the place to discuss a confidential proposition, is it? Could I telephone you some time? We could meet somewhere more convenient.’

‘I’m in the book.’

‘Then I’ll do that. Tomorrow perhaps. Will you be in?’

‘I’ll make a point of it.’

‘I’ll settle the check.’ She opened her purse, then she paused, frowning. ‘Oh, I was forgetting.’

‘I wasn’t.’

I took the roll of money from my pocket and dropped it into her lap.

‘Thank you.’ She flicked the fifty off, drew a five from under it and put the five on the table, then she dropped the roll into her bag, closed it and stood up.

I stood up too.

‘Then tomorrow, Mr. Barber.’

She turned and walked out of the bar. I watched the heavy, sensual roll of her hips as she crossed the street. I went to the door and watched her walk leisurely to the car park. She got in a silver and grey Rolls Royce and she drove away, leaving me staring after her, but not so startled as to forget to memorise her car number.

I went back to the table and sat down. My knees felt weak. I drank a little of the highball, then I lit a cigarette.

The barman came over and collected the five-dollar bill.

‘Some dish,’ he said. ‘Looks loaded with dough. How did you make out with her? Did she give you a reward?’

I stared at him for a long moment, then I got up and walked out. Just for the record, that was the last time I ever went in there. Even when I had to pass it, the sight of the place gave me a cold, sick feeling.

Across the way was the branch office of the A.A.A. The clerk in charge was a guy I had known well while I had worked for the Herald. His name was Ed Marshall. I crossed the road and went into the office.

Marshall was sitting at a desk, reading a magazine.

‘Why, for the love of Mike!’ he exclaimed, starting to his feet. ‘How are you, Harry?’

I said I was fine and shook hands with him. I was pleased to get such a welcome: most of my so-called friends had given me the brush off when I had looked them up, but Marshall was a decent little guy: we had always got along together.

I sat on the edge of his desk and offered him a cigarette.

‘I’ve given them up,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This lung cancer has me scared. How’s it feel to be out?’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘You can get used to anything, even living out of jail.’

We talked of this and that for ten minutes or so, then I got around to the real reason why I had called on him.

‘Tell me, Ed, who owns a grey and black Rolls. The number is SAX1?’

‘You mean Mr. Malroux’s car.’

‘Do I? Is that his number?’

‘That’s right: a honey of a car.’

Then the nickel dropped like a chunk of lead.

‘You don’t mean Felix Malroux?’ I said, staring at him.

‘That’s him.’

‘You mean he lives in Palm Bay? I thought he lived in Paris.’

‘He bought a place here about two years ago. He came here for his health.’

I was now aware that my heart was thumping, and I had trouble in keeping and looking calm.

‘We are talking about the same man? Malroux: the zinc and copper millionaire? He must be one of the richest men in the world.’

Marshall nodded.

‘He is. He’s a pretty sick man from what I hear. I wouldn’t swop places with him for all his dough.’