Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

“Oh, no can do, no can do!” cried the Chinese, agonized, pounding a fist against each side of his head.

“Sure can do,” Lyons said, mimicking his way of speech. “In fact, better can-do while the can-doing’s good or can-do the hell without anything at all.”

The Chinese clasped his hands prayerfully before his face and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Make up your mind,” Lyons said remorselessly. “I’ve got to get back to my pussy cat outside.”

The Chinese submitted, spreading his hands out in mute helplessness and letting his head droop forward forlornly.

But, as though the transaction weren’t already one-sided enough, a tricky afterthought had occurred to Lyons by this time. “I only have two-fifty on me,” he said glibly. “The rest is in my room in the hotel.”

“All right, I hold for you, you come back with rest tomorrow,” suggested the Chinese, but only halfheartedly.

“Hold, nothing!” flared Lyons, raising his voice in pretended anger at the reflection on his integrity. “I either take it with me now or not at all. Don’t crowd your luck. I change very quickly. I may not be in the mood to buy it anymore by tomorrow. I’m at the Victoria, the best hotel in town.” He took out his room key and showed it to him, tag first. “There’s my room number on it, see, right there.” His hand pistoned in and out a number of times in quick succession. “Here’s your two-fifty. You come round tomorrow and pick up the rest.”

“What time?” said the Chinese, who was an outsmarted man and knew it.

“Not too early. I’m expecting to do quite some howling tonight,” Lyons told him. His ship for Nagasaki sailed at nine, he knew. “Make it about eleven. Just come up and knock at the door.”

“Oh, and by the way,” he added, bringing out an additional five-dollar bill. “Got a bottle of perfume or some such around? My little lady friend outside doesn’t need to know what I’ve just bought in here. First thing you know she’ll expect me to give it to her. Or maybe even try to help herself while I’m dozing between tackles.”

When he brought the neatly packaged perfume bottle out and handed it to her, she exclaimed: “Aow, I sye, is that for me? Haow nice. What’s it caahled?”

“Spanish Fly,” he said irreverently.

John Lyons’ little house in Azabu-ku was a Western-type job. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t flimsy, only that it was less flimsy than its native counterparts. It was mainly of wood, white-painted, with a very small amount of stonework around the base and a slanting red-tile roof. It had its own garden at the back and sides, and he rented the whole thing for thirty-seven-fifty American a month. Which was good value for preoccupation Tokyo. It was even furnished, although, in truth, somewhat scantily, with the Japanese idea of Western furniture. Chairs and tables all with legs too short for the average lanky Occidental build. And in addition, they had a girl come in who worked from seven to seven, for only seven a week more. Finally, he even had a beat-up ’34 Chevy to go around in. He’d bought it second-hand and it was only held together with spittle and a hairpin, but he was a good mechanic, and it got him where he wanted to go.

The whole thing fitted nicely into the framework of the hundred and fifty a month he got from the Acme Travel Agency, Fifth Avenue and Forty-eighth, New York. Also Market Street, San Fran, but no Tokyo office. His check came in regularly on about the 15th of each month, and made a lot of yen when it was converted.

Where else, he used to tell Ruth when she got her periodic homesick — blues — about every second week, it seemed — could they live as well as this for the same amount of money?

“This is living?” she’d answered once.

She didn’t like it here, he knew. They had no children. When they’d first married, it was the Depression that kept them from having any. They couldn’t afford them. Now he found he didn’t want them anymore, anyway. He liked it better this way. His tendencies had become completely wolflike, and it was too late to change. In fact, he didn’t want to change, wasn’t going to. He liked running around to bars and clubs every night, meeting his men friends. He never took her with him, so time hung heavy on her hands. She didn’t know what to do with herself.

And it was worse when he made those quick flying trips in and out, to Manila, Hong Kong, places like that, which he did regularly every two or three months. No wonder she was lonely here, didn’t like the place.

The taxi that had brought him home from the railroad station let him out in front of the house. Before that there’d been the train from Nagasaki, before that the ship, before that the Hong Kong hotel room. He’d been away a total of five days this time. Just there, turn around, and back.

He was tall and lean, lanky would almost be the word. He had a thatch of dingy-colored hair, actually a lifeless light-brown shade, with scarcely any recession along the hairline. His eyes had a piercing quality to them, and were spaciously shadowed underneath from too many drinks and too many girls. His cheeks were on the gaunt side, probably for the same reason. He was not at all a bad-looking man, but the first telltale traces of fast living were beginning to leave their marks on his face. He looked about forty; actually he was thirty-five.

He had a herringbone topcoat slung over one arm — it was warm in Tokyo for October — and was carrying a small overnight case with the other.

Ruth must have seen him drive up before the house. She had the door open and ready for him before he could get at it with his key.

She was just as tall as he was. Red of hair, blue of eye and with a nice, frank American-girl face. A few freckles on it instead of face powder.

“How’s the girl?” he said offhandedly.

She put her arms to his shoulders and held up her face. He touched his mouth to hers.

“Hello, Johnnie,” she said then.

He squeezed his eyes shut in distaste. “There goes that name again.”

“Is that going to start again?” she said. “Something new.”

“No, it isn’t. I never could stand it, even as a kid. Little girls in pigtails—” He mimicked ferociously. “John-eee! John-eee!” After a moment he added, “It makes me feel like I’ve never grown up at all.”

“Have you?” she countered.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I’ve always called you that, all our married life.”

“And I still don’t like it.”

“Is it the name itself you don’t like to be called,” she said with momentary insight, “or is it me you don’t like to have say it?”

“Let’s drop it, shall we?”

“All right, John,” she agreed with a slight cutting edge to her voice. “How was the trip?”

“Same as usual,” he answered carelessly.

She gave him an unfathomable look. Then they went inside together and closed the door.

Once he’d nearly sent her in his place. “Do you want to go instead of me?” he’d asked, giving her a keen appraising look. As though thinking it was about time she’d started to make herself useful, instead of moping around all day.

“Why can’t we both go?”

“That’s out,” he told her flatly. “Somebody has to stay and watch the store.”

“What’s there to watch? You don’t even have an office.”

“We both can’t go at once, and that’s all there is to it. Do you want to go or don’t you?”

All right,” she said finally. “I’ll go. What do I have to do?”

But he wasn’t satisfied yet. “Do you promise to do exactly as I tell you?” he asked her. “And not ask any questions?”

“Yes, of course, if that’s what you want.”

The night before she was to have gone, as she was undressing for bed, he came into the room and handed her a tiny tight-packed roll of something wrapped in waterproof material, either oil-silk or plastic, she could not be sure which. It was about the diameter of a cigarette, but not nearly as long as one.