Джеймс Чейз - Do Me a Favour Drop Dead

That took care of the introductions.

‘Yes, Mrs. Marshall,’ I said.

Her black eyes flickered over me, then she walked down the steps and as she passed me, I got a smell of her: a very faint, sexy body smell that was so faint I could have imagined it, but I knew I hadn’t.

I remained on the top step and watched her because I wanted to see her walk. The dress, of course, did nothing for her, but it couldn’t hide her elegant legs and the hint of an exciting body that moved with confident arrogance. Mrs. Beth Marshall, I decided, would be a hell of a woman when stripped off.

As I started after her, she was already in the driving seat so I went around, opened the off-side door and slid in beside her.

She was looking at the controls.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she said curtly. She turned the ignition key and pressed down on the gas pedal. The motor fired. Before I could stop her, she had shifted into drive and the car surged forward. I managed to yank on the handbrake before we hit a tree.

‘I should have gone into reverse,’ she said as if to herself. ‘I’ll try again.’

I reached over her, my arm brushing against a small breast. I turned off the motor and removed the ignition key.

‘I’m hired to teach you to drive, Mrs. Marshall,’ I said, turning to look at her. ‘I’m not here to watch you make dangerous experiments.’

‘Dangerous experiments?’ She continued to examine the controls. ‘Any idiot can drive... look at the idiots who are driving.’

‘And you are no idiot,’ I said.

She turned her head slowly and her black, glittering eyes surveyed me. A spooky feeling, like a cold dead finger crept up my spine as we looked at each other.

Leaning forward, she took the ignition key from me.

‘I haven’t driven for over a year,’ she said. ‘Do me a favour, will you, please? Fold your teaching tent, and let me do my thing.’

What kind of language is that? I asked myself, but that cold, dead finger still moved up my spine. The car was insured and I could jump out if it came to a crunch and she seemed very sure of herself so I said, ‘Okay. We can always die together.’

This was a joke that wasn’t appreciated. She gave me a cold, hostile stare, then started the motor, shifted into reverse, backed out onto the dirt road without knocking down the gatepost, braked, shifted into drive and away we went: a shade too fast for safety, but not so fast as to make my hair ends rise.

At the end of the dirt road that led directly to the highway, she stopped the car and sat staring through the windshield while her long, slim fingers played a muted tune on the steering wheel.

I waited.

Finally, she said in that deep, sexy voice, ‘I’m not driving into Wicksteed so all those jerks can stare. I haven’t been to Frisco in years. That’s where we’ll go.’

‘Look, Mrs. Marshall,’ I said, knowing I was wasting my breath.’ I think you should have a little more practice...’

She could have been deaf. She shifted into drive and we were out on to the highway.

At this hour the traffic was as congested as a kicked over ant hill. I sat still, sweating, as she moved the car into the fast lane. Then, just keeping within the legal speed limit, she held her own with the outgoing cowboys.

I said nothing. She said nothing. From time to time, I looked at her. There was a faint, amused smile hovering around her mouth. Although I expected at any moment to shut my eyes, shove my foot through the floorboards, perhaps even scream, I didn’t.

Approaching the outskirts of Frisco, she moved into the slow lane and leaving the highway, she filtered expertly to a secondary road.

I came to the conclusion that there was nothing I could teach her about handling a car. If her driving had ever been rusty, the rust had now gone.

She seemed to know where she was going which was more than I did. After a ten-minute drive, she slowed and pulled into a parking lot of a restaurant-cum-motel. She drove into a vacant parking bay and stopped, then she turned and regarded me.

‘After that experience, Mr. Devery, you could use a drink.’

I shook my head.

‘The first half hour was scarey, but after that, I enjoyed it. All the same I could use a hamburger or something. Could you?’

She nodded. We got out of the car and walked over to the restaurant. As we approached the swing door, she said, ‘I used to work here,’ then leading the way, she walked into the big, airy restaurant, across to the bar where a short fat man, wearing a chef’s hat, was making sandwiches. When he saw her, he stiffened, dropped his knife and his eyes popped wide open.

‘For God’s sake! Beth!’ he exclaimed.

‘It’s been quite a time, Mario,’ she said, her voice impersonal. ‘We were passing. This is Mr. Devery. He is teaching me to drive.’

The fat man’s eyes swivelled to me and he offered his hand. I shook hands with him.

‘Teaching her to drive?’ he said blankly.

‘She doesn’t need much teaching,’ I said.

He burst into an uneasy laugh.

‘You can say that again.’

‘We’re pressed for time, Mario. What’s the special for today?’ There was a cutting edge to her voice that wiped the smile off Mario’s fat face.

‘Tenderloin and it’s good.’ His voice had become servile.

She looked at me.

‘Okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Then let’s have that, Mario.’

‘Sure. Pronto. Beers?’

Again she looked at me.

‘Fine.’

She nodded to him, then walked across to a table away from the bar and sat down. I took the seat opposite her and looked around. It was early, but there were some twenty people already eating. None of them paid us any attention.

‘Well, Mr. Devery, do you think I can drive?’ she asked.

‘Have you a driving licence?’

‘I have it.’

‘Then you don’t need lessons from me. You can drive your husband to the station tomorrow.’

She opened her handbag and took out a pack of cigarettes. She shook out a cigarette, lit it and blew smoke towards me.

‘And suppose I don’t want to drive him to the station, Mr. Devery?’

Again the spooky cold dead finger.

‘Then, unless you want to make him mad at you, you’ll have to have more driving lessons.’

She nodded.

‘That’s what I was hoping you would suggest. That’s why I agreed to take lessons.’

‘He doesn’t know you can drive?’

‘No.’

Mario came over with two plates of food. He set them before us and stood back, looking anxiously at her.

‘How’s that, Beth?’

She regarded the food, touched her plate and shrugged.

‘You don’t improve, Mario.’

He lifted his hands helplessly.

‘The meat’s the best.’

‘That’s something. Where’s the beer?’

‘Pronto.’

As he hurried away, I said, ‘You’re a little rough with him, aren’t you? This looks good.’

‘Eat it before the fat congeals.’

So we ate.

Mario brought the beers, smirked at me and went away.

She was right. Before we were half-way through, the plates were a mess of white fat. We both pushed them away and both lit cigarettes.

‘Some people never learn. I’ve told him, shown him, yelled at him, but he never will learn that hot plates are as important as good cooking. He’ll never learn. Still, we’re not poisoned. Coffee?’

‘Sure.’

She snapped her fingers and Mario, back to cutting sandwiches, nodded.

There was a pause, then he came hurrying over with two cups of coffee. He looked at the half-finished meal, grimaced, gathered up the plates and went away.

‘That false start you made when you went into drive instead of reverse was an act?’ I said as I stirred sugar in my coffee.