Джеймс Чейз - One Bright Summer Morning

The rest of the day passed very slowly for Moe. The magic words “a quarter of a million dollars” burned into his brain.

Around four o’clock, Moe returned to his bed-sitting-room.

He had two clear hours before returning to the restaurant. He moved like a man in a desperate hurry. He tore off his greasy clothes and washed himself. He ran an electric razor over his dark, sprouting beard. He put on a clean shirt and his best suit. While he was changing he was aware of the strident sound of a transistor radio blaring offbeat music in the apartment below.

He paid no attention to the noise, but hurriedly completed his toilet. He ran down the four flights of stairs and into the hot street. A quick walk brought him to the trolley-bus stop. On the way, he had paused to buy a small bunch of violets. Every day, he bought the violets for Doll. They were her favourite flower.

The trolley-bus took him to the door of the hospital. He climbed the steps, walked along the corridors until he finally reached the long, depressing ward full of ageing women, ill or dying, who watched his long walk down the polished aisle until he reached the bed in which his mother was lying.

He was always shocked when he saw her again. She seemed to be shrinking. Her handsome, strong face was turning the colour of old ivory. Pain had made deep lines around her mouth, and now for the first time, he saw a look of defeat in her eyes.

He sat on the hard chair at her side and held her hand. She told him she was getting along pretty well and there was nothing for him to worry about. In a couple of weeks she would be up and about, then she would see what she could do to fix Captain Capshaw. There was still a faint fighting light in her eyes, but Moe had a horrible feeling that she would never set her big, firm feet on the floor again.

He told her about the telephone call he had had from Kramer.

“I don’t know what it’s all about,” he said, “but you know Big Jim... he’s never steered me wrong.”

Doll drew in a long, slow breath. The grinding pain in her left side became as nothing at this news. She had always admired Big Jim who had often come to her houses, brutally treating her girls, and then drinking half a bottle of Scotch with her before leaving. He was a man! Shrewd, clever and very, very smart! A man who had got out of the rackets with four million dollars, and now he wanted her son!

“You see him, Moe,” she said. “Big Jim’s never made a mistake! A quarter of a million! Think of it!”

“Yes... if Big Jim says a thing, he means it.” Moe shifted uneasily. “But, Momma, I can’t go looking this way... he wants me to fly down there. I haven’t got the money. I–I told him I was doing fine... owned my own restaurant. You know Jim. I couldn’t tell him the mess we’re in.”

Doll realized the sense of this and she nodded.

“I’ve got the money, Moe,” she said. “When you go down there, you’ve gotta go in style.” She reached into her bedside locker and took from it a black crocodile bag, one of her very few remaining possessions she had managed to hold on to. She took from it an envelope and gave it to him. “Use this, Moe. Get yourself a good suit: fit yourself up. You’ll want pyjamas, shirts and stuff like that. Get yourself a good-looking suitcase. Big Jim notices things like that.”

Moe peered into the envelope. His eyes widened when he saw it contained ten one-hundred dollar bills.

“For Pete’s sake, Momma! Where did this come from?”

Doll grinned.

“I’ve had it some time. It’s my emergency money, son. Now it’s yours. Spend it carefully. There’s nothing to follow.”

“But you need it, Momma!” Moe was still staring at the money as if hypnotized. “I can’t take it. You’ll need every dime you can scrape up if you’re going to get well.”

Doll pressed her hand to her side. The grinding pain was back again and making her sweat.

“You’re going to make a quarter of a million, stupid,” she said. “We’ll have all the money we need after you’ve talked to Jim. Take it.”

Moe took the money. He went back to the restaurant and told Fransioli he was quitting. Fransioli shrugged. Waiters, he said, came a dime a dozen. He didn’t offer to shake hands with Moe at the parting and this upset Moe: these days Moe was easily upset.

He spent all Wednesday buying the things he needed. Then he returned to his sordid little room and spent some time packing the pigskin suitcase he had bought and putting on his new suit. He had had a haircut and a manicure. Staring at himself in the mirror, he scarcely recognized the prosperous-looking man who stared back at him.

Carrying the suitcase, he hurried to the hospital, not forgetting to buy some violets on the way. The Ward Sister told him curtly his mother wasn’t receiving visitors this day. She was in a little pain, and it was better not to disturb her.

Moe stared at the slim, blonde girl, a sense of utter desolation and fear clutching at his heart.

“There’s nothing badly wrong, is there?” he asked timidly.

“Oh no. She is a little uncomfortable. She is resting. You’ll probably be able to see her tomorrow.” Nodding, the nurse walked away, casually adjusting her belt, her mind obviously occupied with other things.

Moe hesitated, then slowly walked towards the exit. It wasn’t until he reached the street that he realized he was still carrying the bunch of violets. He walked back to the flower seller and gave her the violets.

“Momma isn’t so good today,” he said. “You have them. I’ll get some more tomorrow. She would like you to have them.”

Back in his room, he sat on the bed and rested his face in his hands. He remained like that until the shadows lengthened and the room grew dark. He had forgotten how to pray, but he tried. All he could mutter over and over again was, “Sweet Jesus, look after Momma. Take care of her: stay with her. I need her.”

It was the best he could do.

When the transistor in the apartment below began its strident noise, he went down to the telephone booth across the street and called the hospital.

A woman’s impersonal voice told him his mother was still a little uncomfortable. When he asked to speak to the doctor in charge, he was told he wasn’t available.

Moe spent the rest of the evening in a bar. He drank two bottles of Chianti wine and when he finally returned to his room, he was a little drunk.

On Thursday morning while Kramer was eating ham and eggs and Helene, who never ate breakfast, was pouring him his second cup of coffee, he said casually, “Moe Zegetti is flying down to see me this morning, sweetheart. He’ll be staying for lunch.”

Helene slopped the coffee as she turned to stare at her husband.

“Who?”

“Moe Zegetti. You remember him, don’t you?” Kramer said, not looking at her. He reached for a piece of toast and began to spread butter on it.

“You mean that — that crook? He’s just out of jail, isn’t he?”

“He’s been out close on two years,” Kramer said mildly. “He’s a good guy. You used to like him, Helene.”

Helene sat down abruptly. She had gone a little pale.

“What’s he want?”

“Nothing. He’s running his own business now,” Kramer said, stirring his coffee. “He telephoned me yesterday. He’s coming to Paradise City on business. Knowing I was here, he thought he would look me up. Nice to see him again. He’s a good guy.”

“He’s a crook!” Helene said fiercely. “Jim! You promised to stay clear of those hoods. You’ve got to remember our position! Suppose someone found out an ex-convict has been calling here?”

Kramer controlled his rising temper with difficulty.