James Cain: Love's Lovely Counterfeit

Ben was full of grievances, some of them, such as his resentment that Caspar called him Benny, trivial, some of them, such as his dislike of gunfire, vital. This last he tried to place in an admirable light, as though it were a matter of citizenship, not fear. He insisted that he had never wanted his job in the first place, except temporarily when a serious injury ended his football career, and cited his refusal to wear a uniform as proof of his high-toned attitude. Yet a captious eavesdropper might have reflected that upright citizens do not as a rule become chauffeurs to notorious racketeers, whether they wear a uniform or not. Lefty listened sympathetically, shaking his beer to bring up the foam, nodding, and putting in understanding comment. Then presently he said, "Well, you got it tough, you sure have. But any time it gets too tough, just take a look at me."

"Anyway, he gives you a day off."

"Sometimes."

"And he don't stick you behind the wheel of a car that's armored behind but wide open in front, and every street named Goon Street as soon as he climbs aboard."

"Oh, no?"

"You too, hey?"

"Like today."

"Say, Lefty, what's going on today?"

"I got to split a heist, that's all."

"I didn't hear about it."

"They haven't got it yet. They're pulling it this afternoon-bank over in Castleton, right after closing time, the late depositor gag. If they pull it. If that depositor ever gets in, which isn't any more than a one to five bet."

"You'll know soon. It's three-thirty."

"Castleton's on mountain time."

"That's right. I forgot."

"You ever sat in on a divvy, Ben?"

"I don't know any yeggs."

"Four wild kids, anywhere from eighteen to twenty, scared so bad the slobber is running out of their mouths, couple of them coked to the ears, their suspenders stretched double from the gats they got in their pants. And Sol takes half, see? For protection, for giving them a place to lay up, he cuts off that much. O.K., he says part goes to the cops, but that don't help me any. There's the dough, all over the bed, in a room at the Globe Hotel. And there's the kids, kissing it and tasting it and smelling it. And there's me, that never seen one of them before, that hasn't got a pal in the bunch. I got to take half and get out. And maybe Sol crossed me. Maybe he didn't take care of the cops, and they come in on me, and it's ten years till the next beer. And for all that-now here's where it gets good-Solly, he slips me a hundred bucks."

"Why do we take it, what he dishes out?"

"Well, for one thing, bucking Sol is not healthy. And me, I got to take it. I'm not what I was. I don't get calls anymore. To help on a job, I mean. I got to play along. You, of course you're different."

"In what way?"

"I figure you for a chiseler."

"What do you mean by that, Lefty?"

"That's all."

"Sounds like there might be more."

"Not unless you ask for it."

"…O.K.-shoot."

"A chiseler, he's not crooked and he's not straight. He's just in between."

"Maybe he's just smart."

"I don't say he's not. I should say I don't. He takes it where he can get it, he's willing to live and let live, he don't want any trouble. If he can only hold it, what he's got, he'll die rich, and of a regular disease, with a doctor's certificate, 'stead of a coroner's. Still, he'll never be a big operator."

"Why not?"

"A big operator, he runs it, or he don't operate."

Lefty then gave a disquisition on the use of force: so long as Sol didn't mind trouble and Ben did, Sol would run it. It was diplomatically phrased, but Ben looked sulky, and Lefty added: "Listen, no hard feelings about it. Because maybe you're the one that is smart. You're putting it by all the time, or I hope you got that little savings account tucked away somewhere. You're young, and when Sol gets it you can always get a job."

"What do you mean, when Sol gets it?"

"Oh, he'll get it."

"You mean this Swede Jansen that's running for Mayor."

"He hasn't got a chance."

"He's got Sol worried."

"You mean Mayor Maddux has."

"I don't get it."

"Well, Sol's the main beneficiary of this, our present administration, isn't he? The boys had to figure some way to make him kick in. So Maddux told him who's back of the Swede."

"You mean Delany?"

"I mean our polo-playing, whiskey-drinking, white-tie-wearing, evil young man named Bill Delany, that gets by for a gentleman jockey but he's really a hoodlum bookie, and Sol has to cut him in whether he wants to or not, because he's got the Chicago connections. And for that reason, Solly hates him so hard that all Maddux has to do is wink him in and he's there, even if he's not. Delany, he's got no more to do with the Swede than you have, but he could have. It could be the Swede that's going to knock Solly off. It could be anybody. For big enough dough, plenty guys don't mind trouble. One of them sees his disconnect button and leans on it, that's all."

"And then?"

"You're sitting pretty and I'm not."

"But till then, I'm his English setter."

"His-what did you say, Ben?"

"It's a dog, Lefty, and you ought to get next to them. They're white, with gray spots. They don't bark, they don't chase, and they don't fight. And when they point a bird, you can be sure it's a bird and not a skunk. In other words-me. Up at that meeting tonight."

"I didn't say so, Ben."

"A fine pair, we are."

"Well, when you come right down to it, nobody isn't so hot. Not really they're not. But if they're buddies, they can generally figure an angle. Me, I got one right away. Say what you will, we're prettier than Solly is."

"That's not saying much."

"It's practically not saying nothing at all. Still and all, I get a satisfaction out of it that I don't look like Solly looks."

"If it helps, then O.K."

"Two beers, Ben, and they're on you."

The bookmaking establishments to which Ben was assigned ran wide open in downtown office buildings, but with a two-hour time differential on account of Western tracks, there was nothing he could do about them until seven o'clock. Leaving Lefty, he went to the Lake City RKO to kill time. The theatre was named for the city, which had 220,000 inhabitants, a Chamber of Commerce, an airport, a war boom, and a Middle Western accent. The feature was a pleasant little item with Ginger Rogers in it, but the picture at which Ben laughed loudest and applauded most included Abbott and Costello. When he came out it was nearly six, and "he walked around to his hotel. It was called the Lucas, and had $l-$1.50-$2 on the marquee. His room, for which he paid $8 a week, was on the second floor, but he didn't bother with the elevator. He bounded up the stairs with absentminded ease, first stopping at the desk to see if there had been any calls. His room was small, and had a single bed in it, a night table, a reading lamp, two straight chairs, a small armchair, and two water colors of nasturtiums. He paid not the least attention to it. He pitched his hat on the bed, stripped off his coat and shirt, and entered the shower. There, at the hand basin, he washed his face, ears, and neck, great muscles leaping out of his arms as he did so. Then he dried himself with a face towel, putting it back on the rack in its original creases. Then he combed his hair, tucking his forelock into place lovingly, with little brush strokes of the comb, and taking more time about it than the rite seemed to warrant.

Then he stepped into the room and had a look at his shirt. He frowned when he saw the collar, and dropped it into a laundry basket that stood in a closet. Then he selected another one from a shelf at the top of the closet. He put it on, chose a necktie to go with it, and when both had been patted into place, shoved the tail of his shirt into his trousers, and tightened his belt. His motions were precise, his person clean. And yet there was something of small dimension about everything he did. In this tiny room, with his boyish face, his neat little piles of rather well-bought possessions, it was hard to realize that he weighed at least 200 pounds.