James Chase - Strictly For Cash

I licked my dry lips.

“Go ahead and tell me.”

“There was a car smash on the night of July 29th, a few miles outside Pelotta. Two cars going in opposite directions and travelling at high speed nudged each other and both turned over. One of them was a black Bentley which caught fire. The driver of this car was a guy named Johnny Farrar, a boxer. He was killed.”

That really got me going. I struggled up.

“Are you crazy?” I shouted. “I’m Farrar! I’m Johnny Farrar! What are you trying to do? Send me nuts or something?”

He patted my arm.

“Take it easy, boy. You and me have got to work this out together. Give me a chance, will you? You’ll see where I’m heading if you’ll let me tell you without getting excited.”

I dropped back on the pillow. I was sweating and scared and shaking.

“The accident was fully reported in the local papers,” he went on. “They gave every detail. You can see the report in a moment. It’s obvious to me you must have read about that smash in the paper. It made an impression on your mind. Five weeks later you get into a smash yourself. You get concussion. You have a brain injury. Unconsciously you have identified yourself with Farrar. When you recovered consciousness you are sure you are Farrar. You’re sure it was you who had the smash on July 29th. Do you get the idea? It’ll take a few weeks for you to get over this delusion, but you will. The doc says so, and he ought to know. All you’ve got to do is to take it easy and rest. It’ll come back the way it happened if you don’t worry about it. But what you’ve got to get out of your mind is you’re Farrar. You aren’t. You weren’t in that smash with the other car on July 29th. You’re not a boxer, and you never fought the Miami Kid. Get that through your head and you’re three-quarters home.”

“Do you think for one moment I believe a yarn like that?” I said through clenched teeth. “I know I’m Farrar! I did fight the Kid! I’ve got friends who can prove it! There is a guy in Pelotta who knows me. Bring him here and let him identify me. His name is Tom Roche. He owns a café.”

“That’s right,” Riskin said. “I’ve talked to him. His name was in the paper. He and his wife, Alice, and a guy named Solly Brant, identified the body. Because you read about them, you’re imagining they are your friends.”

I clutched hold of his arm.

“Identified what body?”

“Farrar’s body. Here, take a look at this. You’ll find it all there, just as I told you.”

He took a newspaper out of his pocket and gave it to me. It was all there, just as he had told me, but there was one thing he had missed out. It said in the paper that I had stolen the Bentley, and the owner hadn’t come forward to claim it.

I threw the paper on the floor. I felt I was suffocating.

“I’ve tried to trace the Bentley,” he went on, “but the licence plates are phoney. I have traced the Buick.”

“You have! Who does it belong to?” I asked in a strangled voice.

“To you, boy. Your name is John Ricca, and your address is 3945, Apartment 4, Franklin Boulevard, Lincoln Beach.”

“You’re lying!”

“I wish you’d take it easy,” he said. “I told you it’d take a little time for you to accept what I’m telling you. You’ve been identified.”

It only needed that.

“Who identified me?”

“Your cousin. That’s why you’re in this private room. As soon as he found out who you were, he arranged for you to have the very best treatment.”

“I haven’t a cousin, and my name’s not Ricca!” I cried, pounding the sheet with my fist. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“He’s your cousin all right. He took a look at you last night when you were asleep. He identified you right away. The car’s registration clinches it.”

“I don’t believe a word of it!” I was shouting at him. “I haven’t a cousin, I tell you! Do you hear me! I’m Farrar!”

He scratched his ear while he looked at me. There was that exasperated but kindly expression on his face people get when they are talking to lunatics.

“Well, look, boy, try to take it easy. Maybe you’d better see him. Maybe you’ll know him when you see him.”

My heart skipped a beat, then began to race.

“Him? Who do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“Your cousin, Ricca. He’s waiting outside.”

He came into the room as silently as a ghost: a short, fat man with a potbelly and short, thick legs. His face was round and fat, and small, purple veins made an unsightly network over his skin. He had snake’s eyes, flat and glittering and as lifeless as glass. He was going bald, and had taken pains to spread his thinning black hair over the bald patches without much success. His thick, red lips were set in a meaningless, perpetual smile.

One thing I was certain of: I’d never seen him before in my life.

Everything about him shrieked of money: his clothes, his linen, his personal jewellery were the best money could buy. He had a diamond ring on his little finger: the stone was as big as a pigeon’s egg.

He came silently across the room: his feet making no sound on the parquet floor. In his right hand he carried a large bunch of blood-red carnations, carefully wrapped in tissue paper.

He came to the foot of the bed and stood looking at me. Riskin stepped aside: a benign expression on his wrinkled face.

“Hello, Johnny,” the fat man said. He had a soft, fruity voice as if it came from a throat well cushioned with fat.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. It was as if I had been pitchforked into a horrible nightmare.

“He looks fine, doesn’t he?” the fat man went on, smiling at Riskin. “Jeepers, Johnny, you gave me a scare. I’ve been looking all over for you. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know you,” I said, and my voice was husky. “Get out of here!”

“Take it easy, boy,” Riskin said mildly. “Give him a chance to talk to you. You want to get well, don’t you? We’ve got to get this mind of yours working again.”

“I tell you I don’t know him!”

The fat man put the carnations down on the bedside table.

“You’ve taken a pretty bad knock, Johnny,” he said. “The doc thinks I can help you. I want to help you. You know that.”

I was scared of him. In spite of his smile there was something about his eyes that warned me he was as dangerous as a rattlesnake.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

He puffed breath at me, and his diamond flashed in the sunlight coming through the open window.

“Come on, Johnny, let’s try to get on top of this thing,” he said. “There’s Ginny to think of. You haven’t forgotten Ginny? You can imagine how she is feeling. She wants to see you, Johnny.”

Was there no end to this? I found myself clutching hold of the sheet again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t want you in here. Get out!”

“You don’t remember Ginny — the girl you’re going to marry?” He looked over at Riskin, raising his fat shoulders. “I can’t believe that. Would you like to see her? Is that what you’d like?”

I just lay there, staring at him while a cold wind blew through my mind.

“You two get together,” Riskin said. “I gotta go. Take it easy, boy. It’s going to work out all right, only you’ve got to be receptive.”

I wanted to tell him to stay. I wanted to tell him to take this fat horror out of here, but no words came. He went off, scratching his ear and shaking his head.

There was a long pause after he had gone. The fat man puffed gently, his smile remained fixed, and his snake’s eyes watched me.

“You get out, too,” I said.