Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

Max tipped Gruber, turned out the light and lay down on the cot, an ashtray on his stomach. He watched the pattern of the car lights across the ceiling for a time. Then he butted the cigarette, rolled over and was immediately asleep. He dreamed of someone coming up the stairs and it woke him up. He went into the bedroom, dug under the shirts, found the Jap automatic. Back in the living room, he went near the window and, in the glow of the streetlights, he jacked a slug into the chamber, clicked the safety on. With it under his pillow, he slept better.

When the knock sounded on his door, he opened his eyes, squinting against the morning sun. His watch said eight-thirty. He shucked on his robe, transferred the gun to the pocket of his robe and opened the door.

Dr. Morrison said, “How did she sleep?”

“Fine, as far as I know. Come take a look.” He led the doctor into her room.

Marylen had changed position and her breathing was much softer. When Morrison lifted her wrist to take her pulse, she opened her eyes. She looked around the room, her puzzlement showing on her face. Bewilderment began to be mixed with fear. Behind Morrison, Max put his finger to his lips and made exaggerated gestures for her to be quiet. She saw him and her eyes widened.

“Don’t sit up, please,” Morrison said. He opened his bag, took out a little thing like a flashlight. He held her eyelid back, shone the thin beam into her eye. Then he did the same with the other eye. He gently touched her behind the ear.

“Hurt?” he asked.

“Yes, Doctor,” she said in a small voice.

Morrison straightened up. “Try to rest, today. You took a bad beating. I’ll leave these pills. One every three hours, please.”

Max went with him to the door. Morrison said, “She’s tougher than she looks. Sturdy girl. Keep her quiet today.”

Max paid him and hurried back to the bedroom. Marylen looked up at him.

“You told me to be still. Why? Who are you? Was it a train wreck?”

“Train wreck!”

She sat up, holding the covers up around her throat. “Yes. Last night I went to sleep in the berth. Who are you? Where are we?”

Max sat down heavily on the straight chair and said, “Concussion.”

“What?”

“Marylen, you have a concussion. Or had one. I am — or used to be — a reporter. I know how concussions work. They kick your memory back to a time before the accident.”

“Where’s Jerry?” she said, her voice rising in fear. “Is he hurt?”

Max held up his big hand. “Now shut up a minute. Let me start from the beginning. My name is Max Raffidy. I was sitting in a bar.”

Slowly he went through it, with her wide eyes fastened on him. He left out her description of Jerry doubling over and falling to the concrete floor. He left out his own guesses about Jerry. But he did report the phone call to Jerry’s apartment.

When he was quite through she said, “And I thought you were Jerry?”

“I was beginning to think that was my name.”

She looked at him speculatively. “You are a little like him. But not much. Mr. Raffidy, this must have been very difficult for you. I’m very grateful to you. I’ll—”

“What? Call Jerry? He’s out of town. You haven’t got a dime and you’ve got only the clothes I found you in. You haven’t even got a lipstick and you don’t know a soul in town. You came here, met Jerry, and somehow you two got separated and you were beaten up.”

“I can’t stay here, though!”

“Marylen, I’m no hero. I’m a reporter out of a job. Jobs are tight in this town right now. They won’t hire me cold, but if I can walk in with a fat yarn, an exclusive, then I stand a chance.”

Her lips were tight and she had a frightened look. “But — you sound as though something awful might have happened to Jerry!”

“I’m no alarmist, Marylen. But it could happen.”

“I could go right to his apartment and talk to the man you talked to over the phone.”

“I found out last night that some unsavory types are hunting for you, baby.”

She sank back against the pillow. She looked blindly at the ceiling and said, “But I don’t understand!”

“How did you meet this Jerry?”

“A year ago I went to a party with one of the girls who worked in the same office. I wouldn’t have gone, but I was bored. I don’t care for her. She’s too loud. It was a cocktail party at a hotel. I met Jerry there. He’s — very nice. He travels around, selling machinery and seeing that it’s installed properly. He acted very... well, worldly, but he was funny and sweet and shy with me.”

“He came down to see you?”

“Five times. The last time he proposed. He said he had certain details to clean up, business details. He said that we’d go out to the West Coast and that he’d have a little capital to start a business of his own with. He would come down and get me and we’d be married and go West together. Then he phoned me. He sounded nervous, said things weren’t working quite right. He wanted me to come up here. I agreed. He wanted to send me money for the trip, but I said I had enough. He always seems to have plenty of money.”

It was beginning to shape a bit more clearly. Max thought for a while and then said, “Trust me, Marylen. You stay right here. I’ll whip up some breakfast for you. Then I’m going to go to the place where Jerry worked. I’ll see what I can find out...” As she sipped her coffee, he said, “This is a gun, baby. To fire it, you shove this little gimmick down and then pull on the trigger. Every time you pull it will fire, up to eight times.”

“But I don’t—”

“Somebody beat you up, honey, and they might want to try again. If someone knocks on the door, keep quiet. If they try to force the door, let them know you are in here with a gun. If they keep it up, shoot at the door. Okay?”

“If you say so, Max.”

“That’s what I want to hear.”

She called, just as he reached the door, “Please get me an orangy shade of lipstick and a hairbrush and toothbrush and toothpaste.”

The waiting room was paneled in honey-blond wood, with the combination receptionist-switchboard operator behind a square glass window. Latest magazines were on the low tables. Framed pictures on the wall were color photographs of snow scenes.

The girl said, “Mr. Walch will see you now, Mr. Raffidy.”

He went to the door. She touched the release and he pushed it open. Walch had the first office on the left.

He met Max at the doorway. He said, “Max, I was damn sorry to hear about the Chronicle. Tough break, fella. Maybe I can give you a note to a friend of mine.”

“No, Bill. Thanks anyway. This is something else.”

Bill slapped him on the shoulder. “Sit down, boy. Sit down.” Walch went behind the desk, sat down, nibbled the end of a cigar and spat in the general direction of the wastebasket.

Max said, “This is pretty delicate, Bill. A couple of days ago I landed a job fronting for a group of citizens who want to open up a club well outside the city. I contacted a man named Norma. I was told he could get me the stuff my clients want for their club. I talked with Norma about an order of about a hundred thousand. He wanted a guarantee of good faith. I went back to my people and got fifteen hundred cash. Naturally I couldn’t expect a receipt. Norma said we had to have a conference about a percentage cut after he talked to his principals. I was to meet him last night at five. He didn’t show. I called his apartment.”

Walch broke in. “I wondered who made that call.”

“It was your boy Max. Now he’s out of town and I’m in a spot. My clients want to hold off from making any definite commitment for a month or two. Lease trouble on the property they want. They want the fifteen hundred back. I promised it today. I look pretty sick, Bill. I’ve been around enough to know that you people can’t use written records. So you have to go along on faith. What do I do next? I’d hate like hell to spread the word that your outfit had rattled me for a lousy fifteen hundred.”