Curtis Cluff - Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 31, No. 1 — January, 1948)

He could see that without looking. He raised the hood and, with the rag wrapped around his hand, removed the radiator cap. It was steaming, but not dangerously so.

“Needs water,” he said. He waited a minute while the steam spurted away.

“C’mon, c’mon,” the woman growled. “Shake it, will you!”

The attendant looked hurt. “I’m sorry, Miss, have to wait until the steam’s gone. Guess it’s O.K. now, though.”

“Snap it up!” she said.

He picked up the small water hose at his feet and filled the radiator, replaced the hood. He went around and wiped the rear window and took a careless flick at the blob of snow that partially covered her California plate.

“Anything else, Miss?” he asked politely.

Her fingers prowled inside a worn looking handbag and then withdrew suddenly as another car slid to a stop on the other side of the pumps.

“No,” she said hastily. Then: “Yes. Where can a gal get some food?”

The attendant took a good look at her rumpled beret, her near-white wool shortie; her faded blue levis. He noticed her hands which looked like she’d done a few oil change jobs.

“There’s a stand down the street a ways,” he said. “Carlo’s Beanery. You won’t miss it. Neon.”

She curled a lip in what might have been a smile and whined her skidding wheels out into the thin Christmas Eve traffic.

The neon was covered with lazy looking snow and for that reason she almost did miss Carlo’s, but at the last minute she caught it out of the corner of one eye and slithered her coupe into the curb.

She got out, reached back in to yank out the key from the ignition, and entered the small restaurant.

There was just one customer at the long counter — a seedy character who sat hunched over a hot cup of coffee. He was blowing on it. The girl came in, stamping snow from her feet. He didn’t bother to look up.

A young kid with chicken feathers for hair and a white apron three sizes too big was sweeping under the few tables in the place. He dropped the broom and hurdled the low counter. He shook the chicken feathers out of his eyes.

“What’ll it be, sister?” he wanted to know.

“Hamburger. No onion. And coffee.”

The guy sipping the coffee down at the end of the counter looked over her way, looked back again. He took a wary gulp at the coffee, took another. The next try drained it. He put the cup down with a clatter, tossed a dime on the counter and shuffled out.

The kid flipped the hamburger, reached up a hand to push the feathers back over his forehead.

“Christmas Eve. Guess we’re the only ones not home tonight. Me, I gotta work till ten.”

The woman said nothing. The kid scooped up the burger, tossed it at a roll, placed it before the woman, and drew a cup of coffee. He slid that over and leaned his elbows on the counter.

She wasn’t a bad looking gal, he decided. A little rough at the moment but clothes would fix that. Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. Couple of years older than himself. What the hell?

“You could stick around I’ll stand you to a couple of quick ones when I get off,” he said, looking at her.

The woman raised her eyes, chewed for a moment. “You’re sweet,” she said.

The kid grinned. “You’re kinda sweet yourself, sister. What’s your name?”

“Call me Candy,” she said.

“Candy? Haw, haw! Yeah, O.K., Candy. Call me Sugar Lump, I’m rationed.”

The girl looked at him again. Longer this time. Finally she reached for the coffee. It was cool enough now. She drank it quickly. She reached in her faded black handbag, took out a dull, blunt .32 automatic, slid off the safety.

“Empty the register, Sugar Lump,” she said, a half grin around her lips.

The kid’s eyes owled at her. His mouth dropped open, closed again. “Huh?”

The automatic played little circles in the air. The half grin faded from the woman’s lips. “You’re taking awful chances, sad pants,” she said coldly. “Empty the register!”

The kid gulped. “Look, lady, a joke’s a joke, but that thing might go off...”

The gun flicked jerkily at him. It seemed to drive him to action. “Why you cheap...” he sneered, grabbing for the woman’s wrist. He should never have tried that.

The automatic coughed once, twice. Then it was silent.

The youth slid down a little and rested over the counter. His right hand fell clumsily off the counter, dropped to the hot steam table at his side. He didn’t seem to notice. His feathered hair fell over his face like a blanket. After that he didn’t move again.

The girl stared at him. “Sorry as hell about that, Sonny,” she whispered. “I was saving it for someone else, but you had to play smart.”

She dropped the automatic into her handbag, went to the register. She poked the ‘no sale’ key and stood away to let the drawer spring out.

She stuffed her bag with a handful of silver dollars. Then she filled a red leather wallet with fives, tens and twenties. About two hundred dollars in all. She closed the bag, shut the register drawer.

On the way out she took a look at the kid. He hadn’t moved. He never would again. “Merry Christmas from Candy,” she said.

The woman slid her coupe around in a tight ‘U’ turn and headed out Virginia Street till she came to the row of motels just at the entrance to the city. The first one she looked at had a vacancy sign on it — which was unusual at this time of night.

She removed two overnight bags from the coupe, entered cabin eighteen, grinning. She’d signed the register Candy Smith.

She stripped, took a hot shower and carefully scrubbed her hands. Removing a strawberry-red pleated wool suit from one of the bags, she dressed again. She took a neat black chesterfield from the coupe and put it on.

She locked the car, threw the key at a cluster of poplars, went back inside, wadded up the beret, shortie coat and levis, stuffed them into a corner and grabbed up her two bags.

She left the cabin, walked carefully out through the snow-covered court and down to the nearest corner. When the Virginia Street bus came along, she hailed it. The driver was a nice guy who’d been raised right. He politely got out from behind the wheel and helped her on with the bags.

“Name me a hotel downtown,” the woman asked him.

Paul Barda put the whiskey bottle down on the small table with long tapering fingers — the fingers of a gambler.

“Soda?” he asked.

A girl on a big parrot-colored davenport across the room stared moodily at the fire. Her mouth pouted like a little kid’s. “O.K.,” she said.

Paul Barda brought over the two drinks, handed the girl one of them.

“There’s just one sensible way to look at it, Sherry,” he said decisively.

Sherry Halloran raised her eyes to his. Her tapered red-lacquered fingernails clicked around the stem of the glass.

“Sensible,” she repeated dully.

Paul Barda squeezed his white teeth together impatiently. “We’ve been over it before,” he said in a bored tone. “Sooner or later your husband’s going to fit the pieces together. Call it a Merry Christmas and forget me.”

Sherry Halloran gasped and lurched to her feet. Her knee hit the small coffee table, upsetting her drink.

“Paul!”

“Oh, cut it out, Sherry! We’ve gone through all of this mess before. It’s quits, understand? I was crazy to come here tonight anyway. Of all nights, Christmas Eve!” He shook his blond Head. He was a little annoyed at himself.

The girl’s eyes balled with dismay. She believed it now. She’d been believing it for some time, but not till now had it come clean in her consciousness.

“All right, Paul,” she said quietly. She walked across the room to a tiny rosewood desk, opened the miniature drawer in its exact center. Then she turned again to face the blond man. Her hand held a .25 caliber revolver. She extended her hand.