Джеймс Чейз: There’s Always A Price Tag

On a hot night in June I happened to be lounging outside one of those lush Hollywood niteries that have no free table unless you have a five-figure income, when a tall man in a tuxedo came through the revolving doors as if shot out of a gun.

I could see by his rigid stare and the stiffness of his facial muscles that he was plastered to the hairline. He was a middle-aged bird with a complexion like an overripe plum, raven black hair with a white streak in it and a moustache not much bigger than a well-fed caterpillar. Before his complexion had turned sour on him, he must have been handsome, but that raw mauve skin spoilt any claim he might now have had to a Hollywood Adonis.

He came down the six shallow steps that led from the nightclub as if they didn’t exist, and headed towards the main street that was loaded with fast-moving traffic.

I should have minded my own business and let him walk to his death. If I had done so I should have kept out of a lot of trouble, but instead, just as he reached the kerb, still going fast, and just as a big Packard, going a lot faster, would have nailed him if he had taken another step forward, I reached out, grabbed his arm and jerked him back.

The Packard went past with a swish of tyres. The driver, a dark, fat man with sideboards and Latin eyes, showed by the way he bared his teeth and by the way his eyes popped out that he knew how close he had been to a manslaughter rap, but he didn’t stop.

The drunk leaned against me, his knees buckling.

‘Gee, kid!’ he said, ‘that was too damned close. Where did that jerk spring from?’

I shoved him off, steadied him and got ready to move on, then I paused. I was impressed by the cut of his tuxedo, his gold wristwatch and the rest of his trappings that reeked of money. If there’s one thing that has an irresistible fascination for me besides a lovely woman, it’s the reek of money.

So I paused, and as he swayed towards me, I put out a hand and steadied him.

‘You saved my life,’ he said. ‘That car would have had me if you hadn’t been so quick. It’s something I won’t forget.’

‘Do you know where you are going?’ I asked, taking most of his weight on my outstretched arm.

‘Of course I know where I am going. I’m going home if I can find my car.’

‘Are you driving?’

‘Certainly I’m driving.’ He blinked at me, then grinned. ‘Okay, so I’m a little high, but who cares?’

‘You can’t drive the way you are,’ I said.

‘Maybe you’ve got something, but I can’t walk, can I? So what do I do?’ He drew away from me, swayed uncertainly, caught his balance and gave me a wide, charming smile. ‘Now look, kid, see this thing through. Be a pal. You saved my life. Now help me find my car. It’s a cream-and-blue Rolls: a convertible and hand built, and I’m not kidding.’

I looked up and down the street, but there was no cream-and-blue convertible Rolls in sight.

‘Where is it?’

‘Somewhere around the back. Let’s steady each other and go and look for it.’

I gave him my arm, and we went around to the parking lot at the back of the nightclub in short, jerky rushes. He nearly had me over once, and he did fall himself, but we finally reached the car.

The Rolls, cream-and-blue, its hood down, looked very, very lush. It took the colour out of my bile just to look at it. For what it was, for the care and loving attention the builders had lavished on it, whatever it cost was a give-away price.

‘Come home with me,’ the drunk said, moving like a sleepwalker around to the driving seat. ‘Come and have a drink. It’s the least I can do for a guy who saved my life.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, ‘but you’re not driving. You’re not going to knock the gloss off this beauty.’

There was something in my voice that made him stare, then he laughed.

‘You think she’s sweet, don’t you? Well, so do I. Can you handle her?’

I told him I could handle her.

‘Okay, kid, then take me home.’ He weaved his way around to the off-side door, opened it and poured himself into the seat. ‘256 Hill Crest Avenue: second on the left off Sunset Boulevard.’

I opened the heavy coach-built door and eased myself on to what felt like a small, suspended cloud. By the time I had started the engine, he had passed out. As soon as his head touched the padded headrest, his eyes snapped shut and life ceased to exist for him.

There was a licence tag on the wheel. I took a look at it. I learned his name was Erle Dester and that he did live at 256 Hill Crest Avenue: one of the plushiest residential districts in Hollywood. You couldn’t live on that avenue unless you had a lot of folding money.

As I edged the Rolls through the parking lot exit, I had the half-formed thought that I wasn’t wasting my time.

The Rolls drove itself. We went up Sunset Boulevard with no more noise nor commotion than a leaf driven before a wind. I took the second turning on the left as directed and swept up the steep avenue for a couple of miles while I watched the number plates outside the various plush estates clicking up to the two hundreds.

‘The gate by that street lamp,’ Dester said, lifting his head. The short drive in the warm night air seemed to have done him some good.

I slowed down, swung the car through the gateway, up a long twisting drive, lined with French poplars and on to an open tarmac by the side of an ornate Spanish-style house with an overhung balcony and wrought-iron lanterns at the front door. It was too dark to see much of the house, but what I could see of it told me it was in keeping.

I cut the engine and waited, my hands on the steering wheel, while I looked at the lighted lanterns and wondered what the next move was going to be.

Dester heaved himself upright, opened the car door and got out. I got out too.

‘Well, here we are, kid,’ he said, propping himself up against the car. ‘Who did you say you were?’

‘My name’s Glyn Nash,’ I said.

‘Glyn Nash? I reckon to know most people in Hollywood, but that’s a new one on me. Never mind, I know it now. I’m Erle Dester. Maybe it’s a new name to you. Well, come on in, Mr. Nash. This should be lots of fun. When I tell my wife that but for you she’d be a widow now, she’ll be all over you.’ He laughed, throwing back his head. ‘This should be something.’

He started off unsteadily, climbed the steps to the front door more by luck than judgment and produced a key. After two unsuccessful attempts to find the keyhole, he handed the key to me.

‘You try. I bet you’re smarter at this than I am.’

I unlocked the door, pushed it open and followed him into a dimly lit hall. The modern wall clock told me it was five minutes after one o’clock a.m.

‘My wife may have gone to bed,’ Dester said. ‘She reads in bed. Do you care for reading?’

‘I can take it or leave it,’ I said.

‘Me... I leave it, but Helen reads all the time.’ He led the way into a long, low-ceilinged lounge that was big enough to accommodate fifty or sixty people and still leave room for a few more. The decor was modern: the lounging chairs and sofas were in cream leather; the carpet and drapes were maroon. There was a television projection set; an elaborate radio and gramophone combination with a six-foot high corner horn, and a built-in bar before which stood a dozen high, cream-leather stools.

Dester headed for the bar like a homing pigeon, reached for a bottle of Vat 69, made two highballs and set them on the bar counter.

‘Are you in the movie business, Mr. Nash?’ he asked, cautiously climbing on a stool and resting his elbows on the bar.