James Cain - The Cocktail Waitress

“No maybe about it.”

“On my way up.”

Once he arrived, I called Room Service and had them read me the dinner menu, repeating each item to him. Maybe because of the day we had ahead of us, we were both hungry-we took salad with French dressing, chicken fricassee, baked potato, peas, ice cream, and coffee. Presently, a man rolled our order in on a metal table, served us and left, telling us: “When you’re done, put the table out in the hall-I’ll come for it later.” When we finished the meal I poured the coffee, taking mine black, while Tom took two lumps and cream. “This feels awfully domestic,” he said. “Like playing man and wife.” He was right, it did-friendly, warm and comfortable. But his putting it that way suddenly got me nervous.

“… Let’s get on to tomorrow,” I told him.

We went through it all one more time. I’d help him put on his face in the morning, and the wig, then we’d drive to the airport separately. We discussed where he’d sit and where I would, what he’d do if he saw them together and what he’d do if he saw one of them alone. We ran through it all twice.

“What if the Airport Police ask you what you’re doing there?” he asked.

“Why would they?”

“If they do.”

“I’m waiting for a friend who’s bringing our tickets.”

“O.K. Fine.”

“And what if they ask you?”

“Same, I guess. Or maybe I can whisper to them I’m there to help grab a rat who jumped his bail.”

“Maybe-but don’t.”

“No.”

“… Tom? You realize, don’t you, that this will be the end of any chance you might have with Lacey for that help you wanted, with his cousin. All that work you put into him, getting close to him, doing errands for him-like covering for his son that day.”

“Well, I’m glad I did that one, for other reasons entirely.”

We both smiled. But I said, “I’m serious.”

“Yes I do realize it.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Yes I mind. But he can’t get away with what he’s trying here. If my house hadn’t been in hock to a bank, it would be me he was doing this to, and I’d be on the street. The only reason it’s you is because you know me and wanted to do me a kindness. So-if I lose him, I lose him. There are always other ways to a goal, and I’ll find one.”

“If you lose him? Tom, how could you not?”

“I am going to be wearing that wig you got me, and the glasses. Who knows, maybe he won’t tip to who it was turned him in.”

I saw then why he’d been so insistent on the wig. But I thought back to how quick Mr. Schwartz had seen through it, and didn’t have the heart to be too encouraging on the point.

“Well-I thank you,” I said.

After a moment in which neither of us seemed to know what to say, Tom set down his coffee cup and stood. “… So, I guess that covers that,” he said. “Time we were getting to bed.”

My stomach clutched-but he simply blew me a kiss and left.

Next morning I took great care with his face, putting three fine lines, like crow’s feet, at the corner of each eye, and one heavier slanting line on each cheek beside his mouth, doing it careful so they followed actual grooves in the skin and didn’t look like makeup even seen from close up. I did the same with the lines on his forehead. I kept telling myself, “Don’t overdo it,” and didn’t. I realized when I pulled the wig on that he was sixty years old at a distance of more than six feet, and the plan was for him to stay that far away from anyone. He slipped on the jacket and glasses we’d bought and blinked at me, then put on his old-man gait as he headed for the door to my suite. It was strange seeing him go, as I did have a flash, just for an instant, of what it would be like if I married Mr. White, seeing him off in the morning and welcoming him home each night. I shivered.

Once he was gone I dressed myself in a quiet and practical outfit like you might wear for a plane trip, and went down to breakfast, first buying a magazine, the Ladies Home Journal, at the newsstand. Tom was across the room, finishing his own breakfast, and let his eyes cross mine, but we didn’t speak to each other. He left before my food came. I ate quickly, paid my check, and went at once to my car, which I had parked in sight of the door. When I got to the airport I parked on their lot, added a pair of dark glasses to my ensemble, and walked to the main building.

The waiting room was huge but I marched myself slowly down it, from the foot of the stairs to the restaurant, past the ticket offices of the various airlines, to the far end. I didn’t see Mr. Lacey, but did see Mr. Christopher, and then, on the bench facing him, Mr. Schwartz. I saw them each nod slightly when they spotted me, and Mr. Schwartz inclined his head in the direction of the corner of the room. I took a seat there, facing United Airlines, but also commanding a view of the entrance. I opened the magazine, holding it down by my lap in such way as to let me look over the top. The clock said 10:30, which meant it was getting up tight, as with the plane leaving at twelve o’clock, passengers were expected to show by eleven, and while Lacey might take a chance, and wait till the last minute, he ran the risk of being paged under the Barnaby name, and in that way calling attention to himself. But there was nothing to do but wait, and I did, getting more nervous by the minute.

At 10:55 a man bumped my legs going by and blocked my view of the entrance. I craned my neck to look around him. He was an old man, white haired and leaning on a cane, and he was slow going past. I cursed silently to myself-Lacey might be coming through right now and I would miss him, all because of this guy-

Then I took a closer look at the old man. He had his face turned away from me so all I caught was a portion of his profile, but I knew it at once. That angular nose, the jowls hanging down beneath his chin-it was Lacey! He’d had the same notion we had, only he’d gone us one better, shaving part of his skull bare to make himself bald on top, all except for a fringe around that he’d powdered white. Add a cane and a stoop and you had a harmless granddad that no one would think was Jim Lacey if they didn’t look carefully, and then only if they were as near to him as I was sitting.

He hadn’t noticed me, or hadn’t recognized me, at least-that was to the good. But he’d passed me by now and was heading in his slow, measured way toward the gate at the end of the room, and I could see, looking around desperately, that none of Tom nor Mr. Christopher nor Mr. Schwartz had noticed or recognized him either. I wanted to get up and point, or shout, or do something-but then the game would be up, since Lacey had nothing on him but the cane in one hand and a light topcoat over his other arm. The money was surely with his girlfriend, and if I raised the alarm, she would bolt.

Where was she? Where-? I scanned the room left and right, looking for any female figure that looked out of place. But there was no reason, I knew, for her to look out of place. She’d be a woman, traveling alone, carrying a heavy case-but the room was packed, at the very height of the noon rush, and there must have been two dozen women traveling alone, every one of them with a heavy case in hand.

Then I looked over toward the gate. There were several women standing there, but one in particular caught my eye. She was holding a big dispatch case by her side and wearing dark glasses like mine. Neither of these facts was a guarantee of anything, of course. But as I watched, Lacey glanced at her and I saw her chin dip minutely in a nod.

Or had I imagined it? Had she been nodding at someone else? But no: he was heading straight for her, and though I couldn’t see her eyes behind the shadowed lenses, she was facing him directly, her lips were drawn tight, and looking down I saw the toe of one of her feet tap impatiently.