A. Fair - Spill the Jackpot

We had dinner. The night was warm. Insects buzzed around the street lights in spinning circles. Doors and windows were all open. The natives and a goodly sprinkling of the tourists went around in shirt sleeves. You weren’t aware of perspiration — except when you leaned back against a cushion so the air couldn’t get to you. Then you’d feel your shirt was damp when you pulled away. Other times, the dry air evaporated perspiration just as fast as it formed.

Whitewell did the honors with the check. While he was waiting for change, Philip said to me, “Lam, I have a lot of confidence in you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll find Corla?”

“Your dad’s the one who’s employing us,” I said.

“But I don’t understand. He wants you to find Corla. Don’t you, Dad?”

Whitewell said, “Yes, Philip, if it can be done with a reasonable expenditure of time and money.”

“But don’t you see, Dad? It can’t be a matter of money. There’s something back of it, something sinister, something terrible—”

“Well, let’s not discuss it while our dinner is digesting, Philip.”

“But you’ll promise me that you’ll keep Mr. Lam— That is, Mrs. Cool and Mr. Lam on the job?”

“That, Philip, you’ll have to leave to my judgment.” He looked across at me. “Lam, if you could find that letter and if that letter showed definitely that Corla had-left voluntarily, I think Philip and I would be willing to accept that as a completion of your employment.”

“I take it, you wouldn’t want any ideas I might have about the letter?”

“I think the letter would speak for itself.”

“But, Dad, you can’t let it go at that. We must find Corla. We must!”

The waitress came with the change. Whitewell gave her an even ten percent tip, put the remaining money in his pocket.

“You didn’t eat nearly as much as usual. Your appetite all right?” I asked Bertha.

“Yes. I just didn’t feel as hungry. Not that I haven’t a good appetite; but I just don’t have that ravenous, all-gone feeling I had when I was — heavier.”

Whitewell said to his son, “Ever seen one of these gambling casinos, Philip?”

“No,” he said, craning his neck.

Whitewell looked at Bertha significantly. “Would you,” he asked, “care to join us in a little gambling, or would you prefer to go to the hotel and have a conference with your assistant?”

Bertha caught his eye. “We’re going to the hotel,” she said.

As nearly as I could remember afterwards, it was then about eight o’clock. We went up to Bertha’s room. She closed and locked the door. “Donald,” she said, “you’d better let me have that letter.”

I looked at my watch. “Don’t you think it would be a lot better to have me complete my investigations?”

“About what?”

“About the letter.”

“Donald, what the devil are you up to? What in the world do you want to go to Los Angeles for?”

“Various reasons. If you’re going to stay here on account of the climate, someone should be running the Los Angeles office.”

She let her little eyes glitter at me. “Damn you, Donald. You don’t need to play them so close to your chest with me. Why do you want to get out of here?”

“It was just a suggestion.”

She sighed. “All right, you obstinate little devil, go take your damn train.”

“When will I see you?”

“I don’t know. I like it here.”

“The climate?”

“Of course, the climate. What else would I be sticking around this dump for?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I guess you wouldn’t. Go ahead and get your train.”

“Don’t tell the Whitewells where I’ve gone until after the train leaves.”

“What will I tell them?”

“Tell them I’m out making another investigation. I’ll!eave a note at the desk for you, telling you I have decided to take the train to Los Angeles, and you can wait here for me. I’ll leave word to have the note delivered at nine-thirty, or you can ring up the office and ask if I left any message for you when I don’t show up.”

She said, “Mr. Whitewell may not like this.”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “He may not.”

She stared at me again as though trying to read my mind, then turned away with a gesture of irritation.

I unlocked the door, walked quickly down to my room, and tossed my wardrobe into a light handbag. Experience with Bertha had taught me the advisability of being able to travel with nothing more bulky than one light bag. I still had half an hour to kill. I killed it studying the letter and thinking back over conversations.

The train pulled in on time. I climbed aboard and had fifteen minutes to wait. I had a lower berth. The cars were air-conditioned. It was still warm in the depot and after the desert heat, the air-conditioned cars seemed chilly. There wasn’t anything else to do, so I undressed while the train was still in the depot, slid into my berth, found that a single blanket didn’t feel at all uncomfortable, and dropped off to sleep. I didn’t even know when the train pulled out.

Somewhere along the road, I dreamed there was a big earthquake. The track had twisted and turned like a tortured snake trying to crawl off a hot iron. The train buckled in the middle, slewed sideways. Cars were rolling over and over—

A voice kept saying in a hoarse whisper, “Lower nine — lower nine — lower nine,” and I realized the earthquake was caused by hands tugging at the blanket.

I knuckled my eyes and said, “What is it?”

“Ge’mman has to see you right away.”

“What the devil,” I said, fighting against the sense of unreality and a growing irritation.

“Turn on the light in there,” a voice said.

I sat up in the berth, and pulled the curtains aside.

Lieutenant Kleinsmidt was standing in the aisle with the white-coated, big-eyed porter at his side.

The car was rolling slowly along — gathering speed. Far up ahead I could hear the mellowed whistle of the locomotive drifting back across the roofs of the air-conditioned cars. The aisle was a dim mist of green curtains swaying with the motion of the train. Here and there, heads stuck out as curious passengers wondered what the commotion was about.

I stared at Kleinsmidt. “What’s the idea?” I asked.

“You’re going back, Lam.”

“Back where?”

“To Las Vegas.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

I said, “Guess again. I’m going to be in Los Angeles at exactly eight-thirty in the morning.”

He looked at his watch. “I got on at Yermo at two-thirty,” he said. “We stop briefly at Barstow at three-ten. You’re going to be dressed and off the train then.”

“This is the kind of co-operation I get in return for giving you a break, I suppose.”

He started to say something, changed his mind, said instead, “Start getting dressed, Lam,” and added, “This is an official visit, and I’m talking in my official capacity. I mean it.”

“How’d you get here)” I asked, accepting the situation and wriggling out of my pajamas.

He stood with one elbow propped against the lower part of the upper berth, looking down at me. “Airplane. There’s a car following the train. We’ll go back and—”

A man’s voice from the upper berth asked irritably, “Why don’t you get a ship-to-shore telephone?”

“Sorry,” Kleinsmidt said.

The porter moved up “Beg pand’n, ge’mmen, if you all don’t mind.”

“It’s all right,” I told him. “We’ll be quiet.”

I dressed in silence. Kleinsmidt’s big hand reached in and took my bag as I finished packing.

He led the way down to the men’s washroom. “What do you want out, Lam?” he asked.