Paul Cain: Fast One

She said: “Me too — an’ ham and eggs.”

Borg had slid low in the seat. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were closed. He asked, “Got any buttermilk?” without moving or opening his eyes.

The man shook his head.

Kells said: “Give him a whiskey sour, too — and give all of us ham and eggs. Fresh eggs.”

He raised his head, called to the driver: “Is that all right for you?”

A dance orchestra blared suddenly out of the radio. The driver turned his head, smiled, nodded.

Jake went back into the kitchen.

Granquist called to the driver: “See if you can get Louie Armstrong.”

Jake stuck his head through the door, said: “He don’t come on till eleven.” His head disappeared.

Kells grinned at Granquist.

She said: “Let’s dance.”

“Don’t be silly.” He glanced down at his leg.

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” Her face was suddenly serious, concerned. “How is it?”

He shook his head without looking at her, was silent; after a minute or so he watched Jake come in with four tall glasses on a scarred tin tray.

Jake put the tray on the table, spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Turn ’er down to ten — that’s KGPL, the police reports to the radio cars.” He went back toward the kitchen. “Last night they held up the gas station down on the corner an’ we knew it here, right away. I went downstairs an’ saw the bandit car go by — sixty miles an hour.” He jerked his head violently up and to the left, an unspoken “By Crackey!”

The driver turned the dial, then came to the booth and took one of the tall glasses. He sat down on the table directly across the narrow room, said, “Here’s mud in your eye,” drank.

It was quiet a little while, except for the hiss of frying eggs in the kitchen.

Then the radio hummed slowly, buzzed to words:

“KGPL–Los Angeles Police Department... Calling car number one thirty-two — car number one three two... At Berkeley and Gaines streets — an ambulance follow-up... That is all... Gordon”

Granquist held her glass in both hands, her elbows on the table. She tipped the glass, drank, said: “Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”

Kells raised his head, called: “Bring out the bottle, Jake.”

Borg opened his eyes, stared gloomily at his drink.

The radio sputtered to sound: “KGPL... Attention all cars — attention all cars... Repeat as of eight-fifteen on Crotti killing... Persons wanted are: Number One — Gerard A Kells. Description: six foot one — a hundred an’ sixty pounds — about thirty-five — red hair — sallow complexion — wearing a dark blue suit, black soft hat — walks with a limp, recent leg wound...”

Jake came out of the kitchen carrying a bottle of whiskey by the neck. He put it on the table and Kells took out the cork and tipped the bottle, sweetened Granquist’s, Borg’s and his own drink. He waved the bottle at the driver. The driver slid off the table and came over and held out his glass and Kells poured whiskey into it. The driver went back and sat down on the table and Jake went back into the kitchen.

He said, “Ham an’ eggs coming up,” over his shoulder as he went through the door.

The radio droned on: “Number Two — a woman, thought to be Miss Granquist — first name unknown — also wanted in connection with Bellmann murder. Description: five eight — a hundred an’ twenty pounds — twenty-seven — blonde — high color... Number Three — Borg — Otto J. Description: five six — a hundred an’ ninety pounds — forty — sandy complexion... Particular attention cars on roads out of Los Angeles: these people are probably trying to get out of town... Don’t take any chances — they’re dangerous... That is all... Gordon.”

The driver put his glass down, slid off the table. He said, “I forgot to turn off my lights,” started toward the door.

Borg said: “Sit down.” He had not raised his head or straightened up in his feet. The heavy snub-nosed revolver glittered in his left hand.

Kells stood up slowly, squeezed out of the booth and limped back to the kitchen door. He stood in the doorway and said: “You can put that phone down and bring out our ham and eggs now.”

He continued to stand in the doorway until Jake came out past him with four orders of ham and eggs on a big tray. Jake’s nose and forehead were shiny with sweat. He put the tray on the table and stood wiping his hands on his apron.

The driver turned and went back and sat down on the table. He was very pale and there was a weak smile on his face. He picked up his drink.

Borg gestured with his head and Jake went over and sat down in the booth with the driver. Kells went into the kitchen.

Granquist’s eyes were hard, opaque. She took one of the plates of ham and eggs off the tray, sat staring down at it.

Kells’ voice came from the kitchen: “Madison two four five six... Hello — Chronicle?... City desk, please... Hello — is Shep Beery there?...” Then he lowered his voice and they could not hear. He called another indistinguishable number, talked a long time in a low voice.

Granquist ate mechanically. Borg finished his drink, got up and handed the driver’s plate across to him. The driver sat down beside Jake, sliced the fried ham into thin strips.

After a while Kells came in and sat down. He pushed his plate away, poured whiskey into the glasses on the table. He said quietly: “They’ve picked up Shep.”

No one said anything. Granquist tipped her glass and Borg stared expressionlessly at Kells.

“And they’ve been tipped to our reservations on the Chief tomorrow night — they’re watching all trains, all roads — they’ll ride that train to Albuquerque.” Kells drank. He looked at Granquist, then slowly turned his head and looked at Borg. “And they’ve tied us up with Abner here — or his bus.” He moved his head slightly toward the cab driver.

Borg said: “Beery’s talked.”

“No.” Kells shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t think so.

Granquist put down her glass. “Don’t be a sap, Gerry,” she said — “he has.”

Kells leaned across the table and slapped her very sharply across the mouth.

She stared at him out of wide, startled eyes and put her hands up to her face, slowly. Kells looked at her mouth, and his face was very white, his eyes were almost closed.

Borg was sitting up very straight.

Kells’ hand was lying palm-up on the table. Granquist put out one hand slowly and touched his and then she said, “I’m sorry,” very softly.

Kells shook his head sharply, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked down at the table. He said: “I’m sorry too, baby.” He patted the back of her hand.

He stood up and leaned against the back of the booth, stared a long minute at Jake and the driver.

The driver looked up from his plate, said: “Ain’t we goin’ on to San Berdoo?”

Kells didn’t show that he had heard. His eyes were blank, empty. He spoke sidewise to Borg: “I’m going back into town and find out what it’s all about.”

Granquist stood up swiftly. Her eyes were very bright and her face was set and determined. She said: “So am I.”

Kells bent his head a little to one side. “You’re going to stay here — and Fat is going to stay here. If I don’t make out, I’ll get a steer to you over the radio — or some way.” He moved his eyes to Borg. “You snag a car and take her to Las Vegas or some station on the UP where you can get a train.”

Borg nodded.

“I’m going to find out what happened to the immunity we were promised by Beery’s pal, the captain,” Kells went on. “He’s supposed to have the chief of police in his pocket — and the DA is his brother-in-law.” He poured a drink. “Now he puts the screws on us for knocking over Crotti. Public Enemy Number One.” He drank, smiled without mirth. “God! That’s a laugh.”