James Chase - You've Got It Coming

“Don't you think it would be safer for us to do what we originally planned? Don't you think we should go to London, away from Borg? He wouldn't follow us to London.”

“To hell with Borg!” Harry said, and got out of bed. “He won't come here, so stop yapping about him. We're not going to London. I've better things to do with my money. Right now I'm going for a walk. I've things to think about. And look, Glorie, I'd better see Joan on my own this morning. This is business. You'd only be in the way. Why don't you get some more sleep? You look washed out. I’ll be back for lunch.”

He snatched up his clothes and went out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A few seconds later, she heard him singing under the shower.

You'd only be in the way. You look washed out. Why didn't he say what he meant? I'm bored with you. I've found someone who doesn't look old, worn out and second hand.

Why didn't he say it? That's what he meant and that's how she felt.

It was only when she tasted salt in her mouth that she realized she was crying.

IV

Afew minutes after twelve noon, Harry saw the big blue-and-grey Bentley coming along the beach road. He got up from the shade of a palm tree under which he had been sitting and waved.

When he had left the motel, he had taken the bus into town and had had a walk around. He had had an expensive breakfast at one of the smart eating joints on the sea front, then he had bought himself a pair of swimming trunks and had spent an hour in the sea. Later, after an hour or so sun bathing, he had visited two or three of the smart bars in town to kill further time, then at half-past eleven he telephoned Glorie.

“I may be hung up,” he said. “Don't wait lunch for me. You'll be all right, won't you?”

She said she would be all right in a quiet, flat voice that irritated him and he said good-bye and hung up.

He took the bus to the top of the beach road and sat down under a palm where he could watch for the Bentley.

He had thought a lot since he had left the motel. Glorie had been right. If Joan really meant business, he would have to be careful what he told her of his background: in fact the less he could tell her, the better. Her father would certainly make enquiries about him, and if Graynor found out why he had been sacked from the C.A.T.C. he would be sunk.

Then there was the problem of Glorie. Joan was calling her Mrs. Griffin, and that meant the dim-brain had told Joan she was married to him. Or was she being all that stupid? Glorie was smart. There was no doubt about that. Probably she took one look at Joan's beauty and had decided the competition wasn't a fair one and had come out with the Mrs. Griffin line as a form of defence—He's mine, hands off! Well, that wouldn't get her anywhere. He wasn't too bothered about Glorie. He could handle her. He had decided, not without a little qualm, that they must part. He refused to admit that Joan had anything to do with the decision. For all he knew, he told himself, Joan wouldn't show up. He might never see her again. It would be better for Glorie and him to part mainly because if Borg was after them it would be safer for both of them to split up. Anyway, she couldn't expect their association to go on forever. After all, she was five or six years older than he was. He told himself she couldn't object. He would put his cards on the table and tell her the truth. They had had fun, but now it would be safer and better for them to part. She must see that. He'd give her some dough to carry her over until she found something to do: five thousand should hold her. Five thousand? He frowned. Perhaps that was being a bit too generous. Five thousand would make a hole in his capital and if Joan did mean business he would need every nickel to put in the partnership. Perhaps two thousand would hold her.

Anyway, he would talk to her and explain the position. She would understand. She always had understood. That was the big thing about Glorie: you could talk to her. He felt she was the least of his difficulties. The C.A.T.C. was the biggest snag, and then there was Borg.

He didn't know quite what to do about Borg. He could only hope the fat thug had lost him. If he picked up his trail and came after him, he might have to stop running and fight.

The thought made Harry grimace. It was all very well to think like that now when Borg was a thousand miles away, but it wouldn't be quite so simple when Borg was within gun shot.

Harry remembered his fear when he thought Borg was hiding somewhere on the airfield. Borg was a professional killer. Harry didn't fancy his chances against him. But something had to be done about him. He wasn't going to stop Harry's plans. Maybe once he got his hands on some big money he would be able to afford a bodyguard who would take care of Borg. Harry brightened at the thought. That was an idea! Some tough, quick-shooting thug who'd handle Borg.

Then he saw the Bentley coming and he jumped to his feet.

So she had come! Did that mean she meant business? He approached the car, giving her his best and widest smile.

“You look a peach,” he said. “I apologize for being so personal, but I've got to say it. You really look good enough to eat.”

And she did too.

She was wearing a blue-and-white terylene frock with short sleeves. Her straw-coloured hair was caught back by a strip of blue ribbon. She looked as immaculate as if she had just stepped out of cellophane wrapping, and her big eyes were as alive and as bright as quicksilver.

“I'm glad you approve. But where is Mrs. Griffin?”

Harry opened the car door.

“May I get in?”

“Of course.”

He got in beside her and closed the door.

“Isn't your wife coming?”

Harry half turned so he could look directly into her eyes.

This was something that had to be explained and explained quickly.

“I hope I'm not going to shock you,” he said, “but she isn't my wife. It was stupid of her to say she was. The truth is I picked her up in Los Angeles. She was in trouble. She had no money and was on the verge of suicide. I was sorry for her. For the moment I'm landed with her, but not for long. I want her to find her feet, get well again and then we're parting.”

Joan looked at him. Her searching gaze disconcerted him.

“I see,” she said.

“I was at a loose end,” he went on, speaking hurriedly. “I wanted a vacation. I thought I'd take her along with me. There's nothing between us. She doesn't mean a thing to me.”

Joan lifted her eyebrows. A jeering expression came into her eyes.

“You're like a big, protecting brother to her, is that it?”

Harry flushed.

“Well, maybe it's hard to believe, but that's more or less how it is.”

“More or less. I was under the impression she doted on you.”

Harry took out his pack of cigarettes and offered it.

“Well, you're wrong. Of course she's grateful, but I tell you there's nothing more to it than that.”

“If I had known that I wouldn't have taken you to that motel. They only have one-room cabins and they are strictly for married couples,” Joan said and laughed.

Harry grinned uneasily.

“Look, could we skip this? I wanted you to know I'm not married. The rest is my affair, isn't it?”

“Of course. I think it is very kind of you to let me know you're not married.”

He looked sharply at her.

“Do you have to rib me?” he said irritably. “All right, if you want the truth she and I used to live together, but we're washed up and we're parting.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “I always prefer the truth.”

There was a pause while Harry lit their cigarettes, then he said, “How about looking at that land you were talking about last night—where an airfield could be built.”