Джеймс Кейн - Root of His Evil [= Shameless]

“Yes.”

“Uncle George is the senior partner in the brokerage house of Harris, Hunt and Harris. I keep him out of the brokerage business pretty well, so that part’s all right. But I can’t keep him out of the Harris estate. He manages that, and he made mistakes. Do you want the details?”

“No.”

“They were pretty serious. George got clever, just after we got in the war and for a while it was fine, but then afterwards the Harris millions began to melt. That might be the reason Grant can’t get the money he wants to dig up those Central American Indians. And it might be the reason that George was so enthusiastic when Mama decided that Grant ought to marry Muriel. That’s all conjecture. I’m not admitted to the inner councils of the Harris estate, but this much I know: things aren’t so good. Twenty-five thousand dollars, if you take it now, is a good offer. It’s about all they can pay. If you wait too long the offer may be withdrawn. They may not be in a position to pay anything ... Carrie, take it.”

“I told you — I can’t do it.”

The next day I dressed to go out and resume preparations for starting a business. But somehow, after I got my hat on, I didn’t want to go out. I kept sitting there and all I could think of was: $25,000, $25,000, $25,000. It kept drumming through my head and I tried to get my mind off it but couldn’t. I kept telling myself that at a time like this, when all that I really wanted was to come out of it with a clear conscience, I shouldn’t let my interest in money cause me to do something which later I would be ashamed of. But I kept thinking about it and not only that, I kept calculating all the things I could do with it, for of course, with that much capital, I could start a business at once, and a much bigger business than I had had in mind when I had started my inquiries a few days before. And then I thought: Well, why not take it? Next thing I knew I had taken off my hat and was sitting there in the bedroom at the head of the bed looking at the telephone. Under it, with one corner sticking out, was Mr. Hunt’s note with his number on it. I lifted the telephone. Then I clapped my hand on the contact bar at once. For it shot through my mind: If I call him, then it’s going to be $25,000. If I don’t call him, then he may call me.

I put on my hat again and went gaily out. I felt better than I had felt in a month. I walked down to the St. Regis, went into the King Cole Room and had a martini cocktail. Then I went into the dining room and had a fine lunch. It cost three dollars without the tip, and it was worth it. I walked over to the Music Hall, saw a picture. When I got back to the apartment there was a wire notice and when I called it was from Mr. Hunt, asking me to call him. This made me feel in the humor for a nice dinner, with pleasant talk about grand opera, and literature and the capitals of Europe. I called Mr. Holden.

Next morning I was awakened by the phone ringing. I was afraid to answer for fear it would be Mr. Hunt and that they had put him through without finding out whether I wanted to talk. So I just let it ring. Then I bathed and dressed quickly and made myself some breakfast. Two or three times the phone rang and I didn’t answer, but I thought it advisable to stay in. It was a long wait, but shortly after lunch here came the ring on the buzzer and when I opened the door he was there. I had rubbed all the rouge off my face so I looked very white, and acted very sad. Also, I acted quite absent-minded, and waited at least five minutes before remembering to fix him a drink. He began practically where he had left off, telling me to take the money, that I would have to get a divorce eventually and that I was a fool to let this opportunity slip by to cash in on it for whatever I could. I listened in a very melancholy way, and then, as he got well warmed up, I buried my head in a sofa pillow and began to weep, at any rate as well as I could, though I was afraid to let him see my face for fear there wouldn’t be any tears in my eyes. But when I could feel them running down my cheeks I straightened up and let him put his arm around me and pat me and wipe them away with his handkerchief. Then I began to talk in a very desperate way about the six sleeping tablets I took last night so I didn’t wake up until one o’clock this afternoon and how I was going to take more and how if they didn’t work I was going to throw myself from the window, and then I wept very loud and said: “After all she’s done to me — and she thinks — she can — get rid of me — for twenty-five thousand bucks.”

He made no reply to this but I could feel him sitting there beside me on the sofa and he was silent so long I decided to peep and see what was the matter with him. He was looking at me with one eye shut and the other eye open, in so comical a way that I had to burst out crying again to keep from laughing. He got up, stood in front of me for a moment, then kicked my foot. “Carrie, every time I see you I like you better... I’ll borrow your bath for a moment.”

He disappeared, then came back. “Funny thing, I couldn’t find any sleeping tablets in that cabinet.”

“I feel just terrible.”

“In other words, they’ve got to up it?”

In reply to this I merely moaned, “Twenty-five thousand bucks!”

He drained his highball, picked up his hat, said, “I’ll see what I can do,” and walked out. I neglected to fasten the door after him, so it was most unfortunate when he popped back in again, to get his stick, and found me doing cartwheels in the middle of the floor. He came over to me, gave me a little kiss on one cheek, winked, and left.

Next day he was back, and I wept and bawled a great deal louder, and I let him take a bottle of sleeping tablets away from me just as I was about to swallow them all. He argued with me a great deal, but came up to $30,000. But I still held out.

The next day I had a very bright idea, which was to sue Mrs. Harris for $1,000,000, charging alienation of Grant’s affections. I thought if I got a lawyer and actually did this it might be a pretty good weapon against her and that if she settled I could withdraw the suit afterwards. But that would mean more newspaper publicity, for which I felt nothing but horror. So when Mr. Hunt came I contented myself with talking about it. I howled that I had changed my mind about killing myself, that I only wanted justice and that I was going to air the whole thing in court and tell all about her designs on Muriel, as well as everything else I knew about her. And in addition to that, I was going to sell the signed story of my life to the newspapers which had made me offers. He argued with me just as solemnly as he had before, but the next day when he came back he was up to $40,000. It went on for two or three days after that and he roared at me just as though he was my bitter enemy, and I roared back in the same way, and all this I am sure was so he could go back to Mrs. Harris with a full account of what had been said. But when he got up to $50,000, and we were roaring louder than we ever had before, he suddenly put his arms around me, lifted the hair from over my ear with one finger and whispered: “Take it.”

“Is it the most I can get?”

“If you get a lawyer you can blackjack a bigger settlement. But how much she pays and when she pays it and how much the lawyer takes, I wouldn’t like to say. And remember, the lawyer gets his first. This is cash, and it’s all yours — $50,000, clear of your expenses to Reno, court costs, and whatever the lawyers charge for the divorce.”

“I’ll take it.”

So then I made him a drink and I had a little one, and we laughed and he said unquestionably it was the best bargain I could have made, looking at it from what I would get out of it. From what he had let drop about the family finances I thought it was too, and anyway, I had said yes, so there was no use wondering any more.