James Cain - The Cocktail Waitress

“… You could be busy, you say?” asked Tom. “Doing what, like?”

“Well the customer, he can get lonely.”

“And you keep him company?”

“Something along that line.”

I didn’t much care for her, and couldn’t resist the temptation to ask her: “Still wearing that bikini bottom? Or do you take it off?”

“It all depends.”

Then, looking me straight in the eye: “Like, for a guy with a girlfriend that don’t put out and he wants some help of me, I take it off-it unhooks easy as pie. See?” She unhooked it, to give Tom a glimpse of fuzz, and then, continuing to me: “So, if you want me to help you out, put your light on, just press the button once, and I’ll do what I can. Something else you want to know?”

“No-beat it.”

That was Tom, and she said: “On my way,” and left.

“Well,” I said, “that was making it plain.”

“Drumming up trade, I’d say.”

“Though, I have to admit she’s pretty.”

“I didn’t notice.”

He was quite solemn as he said it, and I guess I made a face. He didn’t say anything, but suddenly blew out the candle. Once more, we could hear the waltz going. Pretty soon, in the half dark, he said: “… Well? Where were we?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Were we anywhere?”

“Yeah, we were somewhere. I recall your making me apologize for it. Maybe we can begin where we left off.” And with that, first putting his arm around me, he slid his other hand right where he’d put it that night, and I locked my legs, in exactly the selfsame way. But he kept sliding his hand higher, up, up, up, stroking with his index finger as he went-until his hand was inside my hot pants, and then working its way across. And then, almost before I knew it, it was in a woman’s most intimate spot, and I was turning to water. Instead of clamping tight to resist, I was quite limp, and have to admit, enchanted his hand was there. It had been a time, not just since Ron’s death but for nearly a year before, and I forgot how much I missed it. Sitting there with Tom’s strong hands on me, I felt like my ribs might crack from the force of my heart’s pounding behind them. Then he suddenly took his hand away, and began unbuttoning my pants, at the placket on one side, and I was wriggling to help, to shuffle them off. My blouse came next, and his shirt, and then he was pushing me back, back against the pillow, his weight pressing down on me, his bare chest against mine.

Then, then at last, I thought of Mr. White, and how important the plans were that I’d made for him, and how it could all go in the soup if I let this thing happen with Tom. And I thought of Ethel, and her charge that I was doing with my customers exactly what I was about to do; and of Private Church, who’d been blessedly silent for weeks, but might not remain so if he got wind of this, a lover after all, even if it wasn’t Joe Pennington. I thought of all of them, and fighting every instinct I had I got my hands clear and pushed, pushed Tom up and away. He fought me, playfully, and I fought him, to mean it, and at last bit him on the cheek. He began to growl, and I pushed some more, until I could sit up. My pushing reached the table, and suddenly it toppled over into the curtain. I jumped up, banging him in the face accidentally with my knee, got clear, slipped around, grabbed my coat, and raced through the nightclub, out the door, and over the lot to my car. I’d left my pants and blouse in the booth; I ran in just my panties, clutching my coat haphazardly in front of my breasts. Then I remembered my bag-and found it under my arm, how it got there I don’t know, I don’t remember grabbing it. Then into my car, snapping the safety catch down and winding the window up. In the bag I found my car key, but by that time Tom was there, shirt hanging loose, belt unbuckled, banging on the window and grunting: “Goddam it, Joan, open that door!”

I didn’t open. I turned the key, stepped on the pedal, and when the motor spoke went into gear and backed. But to get off the lot, I had to turn and go forward. He raced to block me off, standing in front of the car and holding his hands up, like some kind of traffic cop. I ran straight at him, so he jumped up on the bumper and sprawled on the hood as I kept right on. Then I suddenly stopped so he toppled off. I swerved to miss driving over him and then kept right on, going straight home, the coat fallen into my lap, my body exposed by each passing streetlight so that anyone looking in might have seen. But I didn’t stop so I could put the coat on; I didn’t even slow down. I just said a silent prayer that no one would see me, and as far as I could tell, no one did.

When I turned in my drive, the dash clock said three o’clock in the morning. “One of the great waltzes,” I thought, climbing out, unlocking the door, and going in.

In bed, I lay there terrified, for fear the doorbell would ring, and that if Tom was there, I would let him in. It didn’t, and at last I slept. Next day, I was able to put on my uniform, as I had the extra pair of hot pants Liz had bought me and my own substitute blouse, and so I was able to go down to work as usual. It was Liz’s week on the set-ups, so I got in just before five, and when I came out, after putting my coat and bag in my locker, there was Mr. White, at his regular place. I went over and asked: “The usual?”-but instead of the friendly nod he always gave me, he didn’t look at me. He just sat there, his face in a scowl, so I knew something was wrong. However, I went to the bar, where Jake had his order all ready, took it over and served it. “Will there be something else?” I asked, taking no notice how he was acting.

“… No-nothing,” he said.

“Nice weather we’re having,” I remarked, on purpose trying to sound idiotic, and all too well succeeding.

Then at last he looked up. “How could you do that to me?” he asked, his voice half choked. “How could you? How could you?”

“Do what, Mr. White? Why don’t you explain yourself?”

“You know what I mean, don’t stand there pretending you don’t. How could you go to that place? That-Wigwam? That whorehouse?”

“How do you know where I went?”

“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t. You were seen, going into it with a man, at two o’clock in the morning.”

“Was I seen coming out?”

“Answer me! I asked how could you?”

“Answer me, Mr. White. Apparently, you had a spy following me, a CIA man maybe, or someone in your pay. Well you should dock him for not sticking around, because if he had stuck around, for no more than fifteen minutes, he’d have seen me come out, and he couldn’t have stuck around, because if he’d seen me he’d have remembered it. I came out running, I’ll have you know, holding a coat in front of me to cover what was bare-which is to say everything, or nearly so, since I had a struggle inside with a fellow who thought he could have me if only he got my clothes off. But he couldn’t-I assure you I got out of there with everything else intact, what we might laughingly call my honor. I agree it’s kind of a whorehouse, but I didn’t know that until after I went in, I thought I was being taken to a place to have a quiet drink. Now I do know what it is, it’s a place I’ll stay away from. Is there something else you want to know?”

“… Are you telling me the truth?”

“Your man didn’t report my exit?”

“… No.”

“Well then he must have walked away or he would have-I’m supposed to be quite an eyeful with no clothes on, if my departed husband can be believed, and your man surely would have told you about it if he’d seen the sight. Perhaps even shown you pictures. And now, if you’ll excuse me-?”