Peter Rabe - Murder Me for Nickels

“To save you the trouble?” and he poked his finger at the cat.

This cat had been made very nervous by now. She whipped at the finger and dug in fast, so when the big one yanked back he did most of the work himself. He let out a terrible yowl and his finger had two smart, red lines in it, deep and straight, with a lot of blood.

The cat jumped off the jukebox, made way station on top of the guy’s head, catapulted across to the bar from there, and disappeared. It was very funny.

“Yes sir,” I said, “You got to watch those gray ones,” and on that note I was meaning to leave.

When the big one jumped me.

He tried to, at any rate. But if nothing else, I am fast, and-of no less importance-the bartender tripped him. The big one clattered all over the floor and while I stepped back some three pack members jumped up from the table.

I was badly worried, wishing quickly that I were the cat, until I got the picture. The other three piled all over the big one, yanked him up, bundled his arms, sweated and strained, and then when the big one relaxed a little the one on the right said, “You better get out, St. Louis. While the gettin’ is good.”

The big one looked choked and much more dangerous now than before.

“You don’t know Paul when he gets this way,” said the one on the right. “Walk, while the walking’s good.”

I walked. I knew it did not make a good impression but neither did anything else. The whole West Side set-up stunk and I had to find Folsom.

I never did. He had been and gone in a couple of places, checking, they told me, and making everyone nervous. Nothing else had been happening. I went back to the club to see how the headman would feel about this.

Upstairs, in the room, there was just the kid with his do-it-yourself book and the telephone next to him. There had been no calls and I was interrupting him. Lippit, he said, was getting a work-out.

I went downstairs and looked for Lippit. Why should he have to pay for his work-out when he could get it for free, just running his business this particular morning?

I got routing instructions at the desk and went on my way.

The first door said “Physical Culture.” There was a long guy ahead of me, with the big feet of the thin type and the loose sweatshirt to round out the bony structure. He went in before I got there and when I got there a transformed type came out. This one was tall, too, but he groaned with muscle. I felt that my jacket was much too loose.

“That was fast,” I said to him. “This is a miraculous place.”

He didn’t understand a word of what I said and just grunted. The next door said “Members Only.”

It had a pneumatic gadget on top which made the door very hard to open. The door jumped out of my hand and another muscle man came out. My jacket felt like a tent.

“How long have you been a member?” I asked.

“I just joined, sir.”

“Miraculous place.”

He didn’t understand a word of what I said, either.

The next door said “Shoes Off,” so I took my shoes off. I figured, what the hell, it might have said “Heads Off.”

An athlete walked by, springy as a cat, and he looked me up and down.

“What’s the matter,” he said. “You ashamed of your toes?”

“I certainly am not ashamed of my toes, and why…”

“Take your socks off. Around here, we all take our socks off.”

I took my socks off and wondered how many more doors there would be and what I would do with an armful of clothes once I went through the last one.

Then it said “Massage.”

I figured, what the hell, I’ll first try it with clothes on. There was a bald Finn with large, hairless arms, and now he looked me up and down.

“What are you trying to do, sir,” he said. “Are you trying to give somebody athlete’s foot?”

I explained I was trying to find Mister Lippit, nothing else.

“Around here you will please wear clomps,” he said. “We all do.”

He gave me a pair of clomps which was a wooden shoe-type effect which went “clomp” when you tried to walk.

I figured, what the hell, this one at least didn’t ask me to take off anything.

“And Mister Lippit,” he said, “is in the swimming pool.”

So, the next door said “Swimming Pool.”

I walked in and an Australian with glistening skin and a whistle around his neck came over and looked me up and down.

“What are you trying to do, crush somebody’s toes?” he said.

“I’m looking for Mister Lippit. All I…”

“Please take off those watchamercallems.”

“Clomps?”

“Yes.”

I now carried two socks, four shoes, and felt unsteady on the wet tiles. There had been entirely too much talk about feet I was getting self-conscious, as if I were bare-toed in a bowling alley.

“Mister Lippit,” said the lifeguard, “is working out in Lane Five.”

My toes curled temporarily and then I went to the other side of the pool. Lippit was swimming along the edge.

He had a breast stroke which kept his head above water and which pushed him along at a go-stop-go clip. I waited for him at the end of the pool. He saw me stand there and touched the rim.

“Hi. Okay?” Swish.

He made a very smart turn, a big wave, and I saw the back of his head taking off in the other direction.

It was now a matter of walking along the side of the pool, timing the conversation to his go-stop-go cycle, and to keep holding on to all the socks and shoes I was carrying. My fingers felt twisted.

“Walter. You can hear me?”

“Yes. Okay?”

“Yes. It went okay. Equipment is all shot to hell.”

“My turn is what I meant. Was okay?”

“Very smart. Walter?”

“I can hear you. Don’t yell.”

“You haven’t heard from Folsom.”

“I know that.”

“What I mean is, why haven’t you heard from Folsom?”

“Huh?”

“Why!”

“He hasn’t called.”

It was time for the turn which was just as well because I felt like starting the conversation over. The first one hadn’t been any good.

There were two swimmers standing at the edge of the pool and they were watching. They weren’t watching Lippit and his smart turn, but me.

“You’re going to crush one of those toes any minute,” said one of them. “You got a clomp slipping.”

At this point I had more slipping than a clomp. I nodded at them, rearranged my fingers, and went after Lippit again.

“Walter?”

“I can hear you. Wasn’t so good, was it?”

“Very smart. Listen, Walter. I don’t like what goes on the West Side.”

“What goes?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen Folsom. Just some of his friends.”

“I haven’t seen him either. I just told you.”

Somebody walking by knocked into me at that point, so Lippit thought all the cursing was about that. He tried to look up at me but it was the wrong angle. He kept swimming as before.

“Jack?” he said.

“I hear you.”

“You got crazy looking toes, did you know that?”

“No. I didn’t. I really didn’t, Walter.”

“What I mean is, from this angle. They’re probably all right, any other angle.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong.”

“God forbid. When are you coming out, Walter?”

“Two more laps. Watch this turn, will you please?” and he touched, swiveled, ducked under, pushed off.

“Okay?”

“Very smart. Listen. I want you to come out and talk this thing over. I don’t like what goes on.”

“You said nothing is going on. What’s the matter with you today, Jack?”

“I don’t like those men Folsom’s got working for him.”

“I’m getting all out of breath talking to you, Jack.”