The Grifters

He had a drink, stretching it out as he glanced occasionally at the clock. At twenty minutes to one, he got up from his stool and went back through the entrance.

The Sunday southbound was always crowded, carrying not only the civilian traffic but the swarms of Marines and sailors returning to their duty stations at Camp Pendleton and San Diego. Roy watched as they streamed through the numbered gates and down the long ramps which led to the trains. A little nervously, he again checked the time.

Ten minutes until one. That was enough time, of course, but not too much. The station was more than a block in depth, and the train ramp was practically a block long. If Moira didn't get here very quickly, she might as well stay home.

Five minutes until one.

Four minutes.

Sourly, Roy gave up and started back to the bar. She wouldn't do this deliberately, he was sure. Probably, she'd been caught up in a traffic jam, one of the Gordian-knots of snarled-up cars which afflicted the city's supposedly highspeed freeways. But, damnit, if she'd ever start any place a little early, instead of waiting until the last minute-!

He heard his name called.

He whirled and saw her coming through the entrance, trotting behind the redcap who carried her baggage. The man flashed a smile at Roy as he passed. "Do my best, boss. Just you stay behind me."

Roy grabbed Moira and hurried her along with him.

"Sorry," she panted. "Darned apartment house! Elevator stuck, an'-"

"Never mind. Save your breath," he said.

They raced the marble-floored length of the building, passed through the gate and on down into the seemingly endless stretch of ramp. At its far end a trainman stood, watch in hand. As they approached, he pocketed the watch, and started up the short sideramp to the loading platform.

They followed him, passed him.

As the train pulled out, they caught the last car.

A train porter escorted them to their seats. Breathless, they slumped into them. And for the next thirty minutes, they hardly stirred.

At last, as they were pulling out of the town of Fullerton, Moira's head turned on the white-slipped seat back and she grinned at him.

"You're a good man, McGee."

"And you're a good woman, Mrs. Murphy," he said. "What's your secret?"

"Underwear in the chowder, natch. What's yours?"

Roy said his derived from inspirational reading. "I was reading a wonderful story just as you came in. Author named Bluegum LaBloat. Ever hear of him?"

"Mmm, it does sound slightly familiar."

"I think this is the best thing he's done," Roy said. "The setting is the men's washroom in a bus station, and the characters are a clean old man and a fat young boy who live in one of the coin toilets. They ask little of the world. Only the privacy incident to doing what comes naturally. But do they get it? Heck, no! Every time they begin to function-you should excuse the language-some diarrheal dope rushes up and drops a dime in the slot. And in his coarse surrender to need, their own desire is lost. In the end, fruition frustrated, they gather up the apple cores from the urinals and go off into the woods to bake a pie."

Moira gave him a severe look.

"I'm going to call the conductor," she declared.

"I couldn't buy your silence with a drink?"

"The silence I'll buy-a couple of hours of it, after that. You buy the drink, and be sure you rinse your mouth out with it."

Roy laughed. "I'll wait for you if you like."

"Go," Moira said firmly, closing her eyes and leaning back against the seat. "Go, boy, go!"

Roy patted her on the flank. Rising, he walked the two cars to the bar-lounge. He was feeling good again, back in form. The brooding introspectiveness of recent days had slipped from him, and he felt like swinging.

As he had expected, the lounge was crowded. Unless he could squeeze in with some group, which was what he intended to do, there was no place to sit.

He surveyed the scene approvingly, then turned to the attendant behind the small bar. "I'll have a bourbon and water," he said. "Bonded."

"Sorry, sir. Can't serve you unless you're seated."

"Let's see. How much is it, anyway?"

"Eighty-five cents, sir. But I can't-"

"Two dollars," Roy nodded, laying two bills on the counter. "Exact change, right?"

He got his drink. Glass in hand, he started down the aisle, swaying occasionally with the movement of the train. Halfway down the car, he allowed himself to be swayed against a booth where four servicemen sat, jolting their drinks and slopping a little of his own on the table.

He apologized profusely. "You've got to let me buy you a round. No, I insist. Waiter!"

Vastly pleased, they urged him to sit down, squeezing over in the booth to make room. The drinks came, and disappeared. Over their protests, he bought another round.

"But it ain't fair, pal. We're buyin' the next time."

"No sweat," Roy said pleasantly. "I'm not sure I can drink another one, but…"

He broke off, glancing down at the floor. He frowned, squinted. Then, stooping, he reached slightly under the booth. And straightening again, he dropped a small dotted cube on the table.

"Did one of you fellows drop this?" he asked.

The tat rolled. The bets doubled and redoubled. With the deceptive swiftness of the train, the money streamed into Roy Dillon's pockets. When his four dupes thought about him later, it would be as a "helluva nice guy," so amiably troubled by his unwanted and unintended winnings as to make shameful any troubled thought of their own. When Roy thought about them later-but he would not. All his thinking was concentrated on them, the time of their fleecing; in keeping them constantly diverted and disarmed. And in the high intensity of that concentration, in fueling its white-hot flames, he had nothing of them left for afterthoughts. They enjoyed their drinks; his were tasteless. Occasionally, one of them went to the toilet; he could not. Now and then, they looked out the window, remarking on the beauty of the passing scenery-for it was beautiful with the snowy beaches, the green and gold of the groves, the blue-gray mountains and the white houses with red-tiled roofs: strikingly reminiscent of the South of France. But while Roy chimed in with appropriate comments, he did not look where they looked nor see what they saw.

At last, swarming up out of his concentration, he saw that the car had emptied and that the train was creeping through the industrial outskirts of San Diego, the terminus of the rail trip. Rising, wringing hands all around with the servicemen, he turned to leave the bar-lounge. And there was Moira smiling at him from its head.

"Thought I'd better come looking for you," she said. "Have fun?"

"Oh, you know. Just rolling for drinks," he shrugged. "Sorry I left you alone so long."

"Forget it," she smiled, taking his arm. "I didn't mind a bit."

17

Roy rented a car at San Diego, and they drove out to their La Jolla hotel. It sat in a deep lawn, high on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Moira was delighted with it. Breathing in the clean cool air, she insisted on a brief tour of the grounds before they went inside.

"Now, this is something like," she declared. "This is living!" And sliding a sultry glance at him. "I don't know how I'll show my appreciation."

"Oh, I'll think of something," Roy said. "Maybe you can rinse out my socks for me."

He registered for them, and they followed the bellboy upstairs. Their rooms were on opposite sides of a corridor, and Moira looked at him quizzically, demanding an explanation.

"Why the apartheid bit?" she said. "Not that I can't stand it, if you can."

"I thought it would be better that way, separate rooms under our own names.Just in case there's any trouble, you know."

"Why should there be any trouble?"

Roy said easily that there shouldn't be any; there was no reason why there should be. "But why take chances? After all, we're right across from each other. Now, if you'd like me to show you how convenient it is…"

He pulled her into his arms, and they stood locked together for a moment. But when he started to take it from there, she pulled away.

"Later, hmm?" She stooped before the mirror, idly prinking at her hair. "I hurried so fast this morning that I'm only half-thrown together."

"Later it is," Roy nodded agreeably. "Like something to eat now, or would you rather wait for dinner?"

"Oh, dinner by all means. I'll give you a ring."

He left her, still stooped before the mirror, and crossed to his own room. Unpacking his bag, he decided that she was curious rather than peeved about the separate rooms, and that, in any case, the arrangement was imperative. He was known as a single man. Departing from that singleness, he would have to use an assumed name. And where then was his protective front, so carefully and painfully built up through the years?

He was bound to the front, bound to and bound by it. If Moira was puzzled or peeved, then she could simply get over being puzzled or peeved. He wished he hadn't had to explain to her, since explanations were always bad. He also regretted that she had seen him operating in the club car. But the wish and the regret were small things, idly reflective rather than worrisome.

Anyone might do a little gambling for drinks. Anyone might be cautious about hotel registrations. Why should Moira regard the first as a professional activity, and the second as a cover for it-a front which must always accrue to him like a shadow?

Unpacked, Roy stretched out on the bed, surprisingly grateful for the chance to rest. He had not realized that he was so tired, that he could be so glad to lie down. Apparently, he reflected, he was still not fully recovered from the effects of his hemorrhage.

Lulled by the distant throb of the ocean, he fell into a comfortable doze, awakening just before dusk. He stretched lazily and sat up, unconsciously smiling with the pleasure of his comfort. Salt-scented air wafted in through the windows. Far off to the West, beneath a pastel sky, an orange-red sun sank slowly into the ocean. Many times he had seen the sun set off the Southern California coast, but each time was a new experience. Each sunset seemed more beautiful than the last.

Reluctantly, as the phone rang, he turned away from its splendor. Moira's voice came gaily over the wire.

"Boo, you ugly man! Are you buying me dinner or not?"

"Absolutely not," he said. "Give me one good reason why I should."

"Can't. Not over the phone."

"Write me a letter, then."

"Can't. No mail deliveries on Sunday."

"Excuses," he grumbled. "Always excuses! Well, okay, but it's strictly hamburgers."

They had cocktails on the hotel's patio bar. Then, driving farther on in to the city, they ate at a seafood restaurant jutting out over the ocean. Moira had declared an armistice with her diet, and she proved that she meant it.

The meal opened with a lobster cocktail, practically a meal in itself. Served with hot garlic-bread and a fresh green salad, the main course was a sizzling platter of assorted seafoods bordered by a rim of delicately-browned potatoes. Then came dessert-a fluffy cheesecake- and pots of black, black coffee.

Moira sighed happily as she accepted a cigarette. "As I said earlier, this is living! I honestly don't think I can move!"

"Then, of course you don't feel like dancing."

"Silly," she said. "Whatever gave you an idea like that?"

She loved dancing, and she danced very well; as, for that matter, did he. More than once, he caught the eyes of other patrons on them; seeing them also, Moira pressed closer to him, bending her supple body to his.

After perhaps an hour of dancing, when the floor became oppressively crowded, they went for a moonlight drive up the coast, turning around and heading back at the city of Oceanside. The mounting waves of the night tide foamed with phosphorus. They came rolling in from the distant depths of the ocean, striking against the shore in a steady series of thunder-like roars. On the rocky outcrops of the shore, an occasional seal gleamed blackly.

It was almost eleven when Roy got them back to their hotel, and Moira was suppressing a yawn. She apologized, saying it was the weather, not the company. But when they again stood in front of their rooms, she held out her hand in good night.

"You don't mind, do you, Roy? It's been such a wonderful evening, I guess I just wore myself out."

"Of course you did," he said. "I'm pretty tired myself."

"You're sure now? You're sure you don't mind?"

"Beat it," he said, pushing her through her door. "It's okay."

But of course it wasn't okay, and he minded a great deal. He entered his own room, restraining an angry urge to slam the door. Stripping out of his clothes, he sat down on the edge of the bed; puffed surlily at a cigarette. A hell of a holiday, this was! It would serve her right if he walked out on her!

The phone tinkled faintly. It was Moira. She spoke with repressed laughter.

"Open your door."

"What?" He grinned expectantly. "What for?"

"Open it and find out, you fathead!"

He hung up and opened his door. There was a sibilant, "Gangway!" from the door opposite his. And he stood back. And Moira came skipping across the hail. Her black hair stood in a sedate pile on her head. She was completely naked. Gravely, a finger under her chin, she curtsied before him.

"I hope you don't mind, sir," she said. "I just washed my clothes, and I couldn't do a thing with them."

Then, gurgling, choking with laughter, she collapsed in his arms. "Oh, you!" she gasped. "If you could have seen your face when I told you good night! You looked s-so-so-ah, ha, ha-"

He picked her up and tossed her on the bed.

They had a hell of a time.

18

But afterward, after she had gone back to her own room, depression came to him and what had seemed like such a hell of a time became distasteful, even a little disgusting. It was the depression of surfeit, the tail of selfindulgence's kite. You flew high, wide, and handsome, imposing on the breeze that might have wafted you along indefinitely; and then it was gone, and down, down, down you went.

Tossing restlessly in the darkness, Roy told himself that the gloom was natural enough and a small enough price to pay for what he had received. But as to the last, at least, he was not convinced. There was too much of a sameness about the evening's delights. He had been the same route too many times. He'd been there before, so double-damned often, and however you traveled-backward, forward, or walking on your hands-you always got to the same place. You got nowhere, in other words, and each trip took a little more out of you.

Still, did he really want anything changed? Even now, in his misery, weren't his thoughts already reaching out and across the hall?

He flung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat up. Lighting a cigarette, pulling a robe around his shoulders, he sat looking out into the moonlit night. Thinking that perhaps it wasn't him or them-he or Moira-that had brought him to this gloomy despair. Perhaps it was a combination of things.

He didn't have his strength back yet. He'd used up a lot of energy in catching the train. And grifting after so long an idleness had been unusually straining on him. Then there'd been a lot of little things-Moira's curiosity about the separate rooms, for example. And that heavy dinner, at least twice as much as he needed or wanted. Then, after all that…

His mind went back to the dinner now, the enormous quantity and richness of it. And suddenly the cigarette tasted lousy to him, and a wave of nausea surged up through his stomach. He ran to the bathroom, a hand over his mouth, cheeks bulging. And he got there barely in time.

He rid himself of the food, every miserable mouthful of it. He rinsed out his mouth with warm water, then drank several glasses of cold. And immediately he began vomiting again.

Bending over the sink, he anxiously studied his stomach's washings, and to his relief he found them clear. There was no tell-tale trace of brown that would signify internal bleeding.

Shivering a little, he tottered back to bed and pulled the covers over him. He felt a lot better now, lighter and cleaner. He closed his eyes, and was promptly asleep.

He slept soundlessly, dreamlessly; seeming to compress two hours of sleep in one. Awakening at about six-thirty, he knew he'd had his quota and that further sleep was out of the question.

He shaved, showered and dressed. That took no more than a half-hour, drag it out as he would. So there it was, only seven o'clock in the morning, and he as much at loose ends as if he was back in L.A.

Certainly, he couldn't call Moira at such an hour. Moira had indicated last night that she intended to sleep until noon, and that she would cheerfully murder anyone who awakened her before then. At any rate, he was in no hurry at all to see Moira. It was labor enough to pull himself together again, without the necessity of entertaining her.

Going down to the hotel coffee shop, he had some toast and coffee. But he only did it as a matter of discipline, of virtue. Regardless of nights-before, a man ate breakfast in the morning. He ate, hungry or not, or else he inevitably found himself in trouble.

Strolling down a white-graveled walk to the cliff above the ocean, he let his eyes rove aimlessly over the expanse of sea and sand: The icy-looking whitecaps, the blinking, faraway sails of boats, the sweeping, constantly searching gulls. Desolation. Eternal, infinite. Like Dostoevski's conception of eternity, a fly circling about a privy, the few signs of life only emphasized the loneliness.

At this hour of the morning, a very little of it went a long way with Roy Dillon. Abruptly, he turned away from it and headed for the rented car.

The coffee and toast hadn't set at all well with him. He needed something to settle his stomach, and he could think of only one thing that would do it. A bottle of good beer, or, better still, ale. And he knew it was not to be found, so early in the day, in a community like La Jolla. The bars here, the cocktail lounges, rather, would not open until shortly before lunch. If there were morning drinkers in the town, and doubtless there were, they had their own private bars to drink from.

Turning the car toward San Diego, Roy drove out of the southerly outskirts of La Jolla and into the more humble districts beyond, slowing occasionally for a swift appraisal of the various drinking establishments. Many of them were open, but they were not the right kind. They would have only the West Coast beers, which, to Roy's way of thinking, were undrinkable. None of them, certainly, would have a good ale.

Nearing San Diego, he drove up Mission Valley for a mile or so; then, swinging up a long hill, he entered Mission Hills. There, after some thirty minutes of wandering about, he found what he was looking for. It wasn't a fancy place at all; not one of those glossy cocktail lounges where drinks were secondary to atmosphere. Just a good solidlooking bar, with an air that immediately inspired confidence.

The proprietor was counting cash into his register when Roy entered. A graying, wiry-looking man, with a tanned smile-wrinkled face, he nodded a greeting in the back-bar mirror. "Yes, sir, what'll it be?"

Roy put a name to it, and the proprietor said that certainly he had good ale: if ale wasn't good it was slop. "Give you imported or Ballantine's." Roy chose Ballantine's, and the proprietor was pleased at his gratified reaction.

"Good, huh? Y'know, I think I'll just have one myself."

Roy took an immediate liking to the guy, and the feeling was reciprocated. He liked the look of this place, its unassuming honesty and decency; the quiet pride of its owner in being its owner.

Within ten minutes they were on a first-name basis. Roy was explaining his presence in town, using his holidaying as an excuse for off-hour drinking. Bert- the proprietor-revealed that he also shunned the pre-noon drink; but he was going on vacation tomorrow, so what was the harm, anyway?

Two men came in, downed a double-shot each, and hurried out again. Bert looked after them with a touch of sadness, and came back to Roy. That was no way to drink, he said. Occasionally, even the best of men needed a drink or two in the morning, but they shouldn't drink it that way.

As he left to wait on another customer, he brushed against a back-bar display stand of salted nuts, moving it slightly out of its original position. And staring absently in that direction, Roy saw something that made him frown. He stood up a little from his stool for another look, making sure of what he had seen. He sat down again, puzzled and troubled.

A punchboard! A punchboard in a place like this! Bert was no fool, either in the con or the everyday sense, but a punchboard was strictly a fool's item.

Back at the time Roy was just starting out, there were still a few teams working the boards, one man planting them, the other knocking them over. But he hadn't seen any in years. Everyone had tipped long ago, and trying to plant a board now was the equivalent of asking for a busted jaw.

Of course, some small merchants and barkeeps still bought boards on their own, punching out the winning numbers at the start and thus giving the suckers no chance at all. But Bert wouldn't do that. Bert

Roy laughed wryly to himself, took a foamy sip of the ale. What was this, anyway? Was he, Roy Dillon, actually concerned about the honesty or dishonesty of a barkeep or the possibility that he might be swindled?

Another customer had come in, a khaki-clad workman, and Bert was serving him a coke. Coming back down the bar with two fresh bottles of ale, he refilled their glasses. And Roy allowed himself to "notice" the board.

"Oh, that thing." The proprietor retrieved it from the back-bar and laid it in front of him. "Some fellow walked out and left it here three or four months ago. Didn't notice it until after he was gone. I was going to throw it away, but I get a customer now and then who wants to try his luck. So…" He paused tentatively. "Want to have a try? Chances run from a cent to a dollar."

"Well…" Roy looked down at the board.

Affixed to the top were five gold-colored imitation coins, representing cash prizes of five to one hundred dollars. Under each of them a number was printed. To win, one had only to punch out a corresponding number or numbers from the thousands on the board.

None of the winners had been punched out. Bert, obviously, was as honest as he looked.

"Well," said Roy, picking up the little metal key which dangled from the board, "what can I lose?"

He punched a few numbers, laying them out for Bert's inspection. On his sixth punch, he hit the fivedollar prize, and the proprietor smilingly laid the money on the counter. Roy let it lay, again poised the key over the board.

He couldn't tell Bert that this was a chump's gimmick. To do so would reveal knowledge that no honest man should have. Most certainly, and even though someone else was bound to do it, he couldn't take the man himself. The grift just wasn't for him today-or so he rationalized. There just wasn't enough at stake.

If he knocked off every prize on the board, the take would be under two hundred dollars. And naturally he'd never get away with knocking them all off. The pros of the racket had always gone for the big one and left the others alone. He, however, had already hit the five, so…

He punched out the ten-dollar number. Still smiling, pleased rather than disconcerted, Bert again laid money on the counter. Roy brought the key up for another punch.

This was the way to do it, he'd decided. The way to get the board out of circulation. One more prize-the twenty-five-and he'd point out that something must be screwy about the board. Bert would be obliged to get rid of it. And he, of course, would refuse to accept his winnings.

He punched out the third "lucky" number. Properly startled, he cleared his throat for the tip-off. But Bert, his smile slightly stiffened now, had turned to glance at the coke customer.

"Yes, sir?" he said. "Something else?"

"Yes, sir," the man said, his voice grimly light. "Yes, sir, there's something else, all right. You got a federal gambling-tax stamp?"

"Huh! What-"

"Don't have one, huh? Well, I'll tell you something else you don't have; won't have it long, anyway. Your liquor license."

"B-but-" Bert had paled under his tan. California liquor licenses were worth a small fortune. "B-but you can't do that! We were just- "

"Tell it to the state and Federal boys. I'm local." He flipped open a leather credential-case; nodded coldly at Roy. "You're pretty stupid, mister. No one but a stupe would knock a chump off for three balls in a row."

Roy looked at him evenly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "And I don't like your language."

"On your feet! I'm arresting you for bunco!"

"You're making a mistake, officer. I'm a salesman, and I-"

"You giving me a hard time? Huh? Hah? Why, you grifting son-of-a-bitch-!"

He grabbed Roy by the lapels, yanked him furiously to his feet and slammed him up against the wall.

19

First, there was the search; the turning out of pockets, the probing and slapping of garments, the hand brought up on either side of the testicles. Then came the questions, the demanded answers that were immediately labeled lies.

"Your right name, goddamn you! Never mind them phony credentials! All you hustlers got 'em!"

"That is my right name. I live in Los Angeles, and I've worked for the same company for four years-"

"Stop lying! Who's working the boards with you? How many other places you pulled this gimmick?"

"My health has been bad. I came down to La Jolla last night-a friend and I-on a holiday."

"All right, all right! Now, we're gonna start all over again and, by God, you better come clean!"

"Officer, there are at least a hundred businessmen here in town who can identify me. I've been selling to them for years, and-"

"Drop it! Drop that crap! Now, what's your right name!"

The same questions over and over. The same answers over and over. Now and then, the cop turned to the wall telephone to pass his information on for checking. But still, the information checking out, he would not give up. He knew what he knew. With his own eyes, he had seen the bunco worked, a punchboard swiftly knocked for three prizes. And Roy's perfect front notwithstanding, how could the clear evidence of grifting be ignored?

He was on the phone again now, his heavy face sullen as he got the answers to his questions. Roy sidled a glance at the bar owner, Bert. He looked at the punchboard on the counter fixedly, and again raised his eyes to Bert. Nodded to him ever so slightly. But he couldn't be sure that Bert got the message.

The cop slammed up the phone. He stared at Roy sourly, rubbed a meaty hand over his face. Hesitating, he tried to form the words which the situation called for, the apology which outraged instinct and flouted the evidence of his own eyes.

From up the bar, Roy heard a dull grinding sound, the garbage disposal.

He grinned quietly to himself. "Well, officer," he said. "Any more questions?"

"That's all." The cop jerked his head. "Looks like I maybe made a mistake."

"Yes? You slam me around and insult me, and treat me like a criminal. And then you say you maybe made a mistake. That's supposed to smooth everything over."

"Well-" mouth tight, choking over the words. "Sorry. 'Pologize. No offense."

Roy was content to settle for that. Savagely, the cop turned on Bert.

"All right, mister! I want the number of your liquor license! I'm turning you in for-for-Where's that punchboard?"

"What punchboard?"

"Damn you, don't you pull that crap on me! The board that was right there on the counter-the one that this guy was playing! Now, you either hand it over or I'll find it myself!"

Bert picked up a rag, and began mopping the counter. "I usually clean up this time of day," he said. "Clear up all the odds and ends of junk, and throw 'em down the garbage disposer. Now, I can't say that I remember any punchboard, but if there was one here…"

"You threw it away! Y-you think you can get away with that?"

"Can't I?" Bert said.

The cop stammered in furious incoherence. He said, "You'll see, by God, you'll see!" And turning savagely to Roy, "You too, mister! You ain't got me fooled a damned bit! I'm gonna be on the lookout for you, and the next time you hit this town-!"

He whirled and stalked out of the place. Grinning, Roy sat back down at his stool.

"Acts like he's sore about something," he said. "How about another ale?"

"No," Bert said.

"What? Now, look, Bert. I'm sorry if there was any trouble, but it was your punchboard. I didn't-"

"I know. It was my mistake. But I never make the same mistake twice. Now, I want you to leave and I don't want you to come back."

Another customer came in, and Bert began to wait on him. Roy arose and walked out.

The dazzling sunlight struck against his face, its strength doubled with the contrast of the cool and shadowed bar. The cold ale-how much had he drunk, anyway?-roiled in his stomach, then uneasily settled back. He wasn't drunk, by any means. He never got drunk. But it wasn't smart to start back to La Jolla without eating.

There was a small restaurant around the next corner, and he had a bowl of soup there and two cups of black coffee. Startled, he noticed the time as he left, five minutes after one, and he glanced around for a telephone. But the place apparently had none; no public phone, at any rate, so he went on out to his car.

It was probably best not to call Moira, he decided. The police would have called her, and he didn't want to make explanations over the phone.

He went back down the long hill to Mission Valley, then took the road left toward the coast. It was about twenty minutes' drive to La Jolla, twenty-five minutes at the outside. Then, he would be back at the hotel with Moira, lightly explaining the cop trouble as a-

A case of mistaken identity? No, no. Something more ordinary, something that might logically evolve from an innocent circumstance. This car, for example, was a rented car. The last driver might have been involved in a serious traffic violation; he had fled, say, from the scene of an accident. So when the police spotted the car this morning…

Well, sure, there were inconsistencies in the story: the police would have known it was a rented car by the license number. But that wasn't up to him to explain. He'd been the victim of a police booboo; who could figure out their mistakes?

A hell of a morning, he thought. It was Bert's punchboard. Why should he get tough with me? What the hell do I care what a barkeep thinks?

Near the intersection with Pacific Highway, the traffic about him thickened, and at the Highway itself it was stalled in a four-lane tangle which two cops were struggling to undo. That didn't jibe with the normal pattern of Monday in San Diego. Traffic wasn't this bad even during the shift-changes at the aircraft plants, and it was the wrong hour for that.

The cars crept forward slowly, Roy's car moving with them. Almost an hour later, near Mission Beach, he turned off the highway and into a filling station. And here he learned the reason for the congestion.

The horses were running at Del Mar. It was the beginning of the local racing season.

In another thirty minutes, the traffic had thinned, and rejoining it, he reached La Jolla some twenty minutes later. So he was very late, and entering the hotel he called Moira's room from the lobby. There was no answer, but she had left a message for him with the clerk.

"Why, yes, Mr. Dillon. She said to tell you she'd gone to the races."

"The races?" Roy frowned. "You're sure?"

"Yes, sir. But she was only going to stay for part of the day's program. She'll be back early, she said."

"I see," Roy nodded. "By the way, was there a call from the police about me a couple of hours ago?"

The clerk admitted delicately that there had been, also revealing that there had been a similar call to Mrs. Langtry. "Naturally, we spoke of you in the highest terms, Mr. Dillon.It was, uh, nothing serious, I hope?"

"Nothing, thanks," Roy said, and he went on up to his room.

He stood for some time before the French windows, staring out at the sun-sparkled sea. Then, eyes hurting a little, he stretched out on the bed, letting his thoughts roam at will; piercing them together with hunch and instinct until they formed a pattern.

First there was her curiosity about the way he lived, the job he held. Why did he stay on, year after year, at a place like the Grosvenor-Carlton? Why did he cling, year after year, to a relatively small-time commission job? Then, there were her subtle complaints about their relationship: they didn't really know each other; they needed to "get acquainted." So he had arranged this excursion, a means of getting acquainted, and how did she use the time? Why, by putting him on his own, at every opportunity. And then sitting back to see what happened.

So now she knew; she must know. Her actions today proved that she did.

The police had called her about him, yet she had not been concerned. She had known that he would be all right, that just as his front had held up for years, it would continue to hold up in this trouble whatever that trouble was. So, having found out all that she needed to, she had gone off to the races.

The races…

Abruptly, he sat up scowling, his mild annoyance with her turning to anger.

She had stalled on coming to La Jolla. After being so anxious for the trip, she had unreasonably found reason to postpone it-until this week.

Because this was the beginning of the Del Mar meet. And the tracks in the L.A. area were temporarily inactive.

Or… maybe not. He couldn't be absolutely sure that she was nosing into Lilly's business as she had nosed into his. It might be that she was simply sore at him for leaving her alone so long, and that she had gone to the races as a way of expressing her displeasure.

Moira returned to the hotel around four o'clock. Fretting humorously over the discomforts of her cab ride; pretending to pout at Roy for going off without her.

"I just thought I'd teach you a lesson, you big stinker! You're not mad, are you?"

"I'm not sure. I understand that the police called you about me."

"Oh, that," she shrugged. "What was the trouble, anyway?"

"You wouldn't have any idea?"

"Well…" She began to draw in a little bit. Coming over to the bed, she sat down gingerly at his side. "Roy, I've been wanting to talk to you for a long time. But before I could, I wanted to make sure that-"

"Let it ride a little," he said carelessly. "Did you see Lilly at the races?"

"Lilly? Oh, you mean your mother. Isn't she living in Los Angeles now?"

Roy said that she was. "But the L.A. meets closed last week. So she'd be down here at Del Mar, wouldn't she?"

"How do I know? What are you getting at, anyway?"

She started to get up. He held her, taking a grip on the front of her dress.

"Now, I'll ask you again. Did you see Lilly at the Del Mar track?"

"No! How could I? I sat in the clubhouse!"

Roy smiled thinly, pointing out her blunder. "And Lilly wouldn't be in the clubhouse, hmm? Now how did you know that?"

"Because I-I-" She colored guiltily. "All right, Roy, I saw her. I was snooping. But-it's not like you think! I was just curious about her, wondering why she'd come to Los Angeles. And she was always so nasty to me! I knew she was knocking me to you every chance she got. So I just thought who is she to be so high and mighty, and I talked with a friend of mine in Baltimore and-and-"

"I see. You must have some very knowledgeable friends."

"Roy," she begged. "Don't be angry with me. I wouldn't do anything to hurt her any more than I would you."

"You'd better never try," he said. "Lilly travels in some very fast company."

"I know," she nodded meekly. "I'm sorry, dear."

"Lilly didn't see you today?"

"Oh, no. I didn't hang around, Roy. Honest." She kissed him, smiling into his eyes. "Now, about us. – ."

"Yes," he nodded. "We may as well go back to Los Angeles, hadn't we? You've found out what you wanted to know."

"Now, honey. Don't take it like that. I think I must have known for a longtime. I was just waiting for the right opportunity to talk to you."

"And just what do you know about me, anyway?"

"I know you're a short-con operator. A very good one, apparently."

"You talk the lingo. What's your pitch?"

"The long end. The big-con."

He nodded; waited. She snuggled close to him, pressing his hand against her breast. "We'd make a hell of a team, Roy. We think alike; we get along well together. Why, darling, we could work for two months out of the year and live high for the other ten! I-"

"Wait," he said, gently pushing her away. "This isn't something to rush into, Moira. It's going to take a lot of talking about."

"Well? So let's talk."

"Not here. We didn't come here on business. We don't talk it here."

She searched his face, and her smile faded a little. "I see," she said. "You think it might be hard to give me a turndown here. It would be easier on the home grounds."

"You're smart," he said. "Maybe you're too smart, Moira. But I didn't say I was turning it down."

"Well…" She shrugged and stood up. "If that's the way you want it…"

"That's the way I want it," he said.

20

They caught the six o'clock train back to Los Angeles. It was crowded, as the train coming down had been, but the composition of the crowd was different. These passengers were largely business people, men who had put in a long day in San Diego and were now returning to their Los Angeles homes, or those who lived in San Diego and were due in Los Angeles early in the morning. Then, there were those few who had overstayed their weekends, and faced reproaches-or worse-when they arrived in the California metropolis.

The holiday spirit was definitely absent. A kind of moodiness pervaded the train, and some of it enveloped Moira and Roy.

They had a drink in the half-empty lounge. Then, discovering that the train carried no diner, they remained in the car for the rest of their ride. Seated in the cozy closeness of a booth, her thigh pressed warmly against his, Moira looked out at the aching loneliness of the sea, the naked and hungering hills, the houses closed firmly to all but themselves. The idea that she had propounded to him, something that was merely desired, became a tigerish must-a thing that had to be. It was either that or nothing, and so it had to be that.

She could not go on as she had the past few years, eking out her capital with her body, exchanging her body's use for the sustenance it needed. There were not enough years left, and the body inevitably used more than it received. Always, as the years grew fewer, the more rapidly the flesh depleted itself. So, an end to things as they had been. An end to the race with self. The mind grew youthful with use, increasingly eager with the demands of its owner, anxious and able to provide for the body that gave it shelter, to imbue it with its own youth and vigor or a reasonable facsimile thereof. And thus the mind must be used from now on. The ever-lucrative schemes which the mind could concoct and put into practice. Her mind and Roy's, the two working together as one, and the money which he could and must supply.

Perhaps she had pushed her hand a little too hard; no man liked to be pushed. Perhaps her interest in Lilly Dillon had been a blunder; every man was sensitive about his mother. But no matter. What she suggested was right and reasonable. It would be good for both of them.

It was what had to be. And damn him, he'd better-!

He made some casual comment, nudging her for a response, and seething with her own thoughts she turned on him, her face aged with hatred. Startled, he drew back frowning.

"Hey, now! What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just thinking about something." She smiled, dropping the mask so swiftly that he was not sure of what he had seen. "What was it you said?"

He shook his head; he couldn't remember what it was now. "But maybe I should know your name, lady. Your right one."

"How about Langley?"

"Langley…" He puzzled over it for a moment. Then, "Langley! You mean, The Farmer? You teamed with Farmer Langley?"

"That's me, pal."

"Well, now…" He hesitated. "What happened to him, anyway? I heard a lot of stories, but-"

"The same thing that happens to all of 'em, a lot of them I mean. He just blew up; booze, dope, the route."

"I see," he said. "I see."

"Now, don't you worry about him." She snuggled closer to him, misreading his attitude. "That's all over and done with. There's just us now, Moira Langtry and Roy Dillon."

"He's still alive, isn't he?"

"Possibly. I really don't know," she said.

And she might have said, And I don't care. For the knowledge had come to her suddenly, though unsurprisingly, that she didn't care, that she had never really cared about him. It was as though she had been hypnotized by him, overwhelmed by his personality as others had been; forced to go his way, to accept his as the right and only way. Yet always subconsciously resisting and resisting, slowly building up hatred for being forced into a life-and what kind of life was it, anyway, for an attractive young woman?-that was entirely foreign to the one she wanted.

It was nothing clear, defined. Nothing she was consciously aware of or could admit to. But still she knew, in her secret mind, knew and felt guilty about it. And so, when the blowup came, she had tried to take care of him. But even that had been a means of striking back at him, the final firm push over the brink, and subconsciously knowing this she had felt still more guilty and was haunted by him. Yet now, her feelings brought to the surface, she saw there was not and had never been anything to feel guilty about.

The Farmer had got what he deserved. Anyone who deprived her of something she wanted deserved what he got.

It was pine-fifteen when the train pulled into Los Angeles. She and Roy had a good dinner in the station restaurant. Then they ran through a light rain to his car, and drove out to her apartment.

She threw off her wraps briskly, turned to him holding out her arms. He held her for a moment, kissing her, but inwardly drawing back a little, subtly cautioned by something in her manner.

"Now," she said, drawing him down onto the lounge, "Now, we get down to business."

"Do we?" He laughed awkwardly. "Before we do that, maybe we'd better-"

"I can scrape up ten grand without much trouble. That would leave twenty or twenty-five for your end. There's a place in Oklahoma now, wide open if the ice is right. As good as Fort Worth was in the old days. We can move in there with a wire store, and-"

"Wait," said Roy. "Hold it, keed!"

"It would be perfect, Roy! Say, ten grand for the store, ten for the ice, and another ten for-"

"I said to hold it! Not so fast," he said, angering a little now. "I haven't said I was going to throw in with you."

"What?" She looked at him blankly, a slight glaze over her eyes. "What did you say?"

He repeated the statement, softening it with a laugh. "You're talking some tall figures. What makes you think I've got that kind of money?"

"Why, you must have! You're bound to!" She smiled at him firmly; a teacher reproving an errant child. "Now, you know you do, Roy."

"Do I?"

"Yes. I watched you work on the train, as slick an operator as I ever saw. You don't get that smooth overnight. It takes years, and you've been getting away with it for years. Living on a Square John income and taking the fools for-"

"And I've been doing some taking myself. Twice in less than two months. Enough to put me in the hospital here, and in San Diego today-"

"So what?" She brushed the interruption aside. "That doesn't change anything. All it proves is that it's time you moved up. Get up where there's big dough at stake and you don't have to stick your neck out every day."

"Maybe I like it where I am."

"Well, I don't like it! What are you trying to pull on me, anyway? What the hell are you trying to hand me?"

He stared at her, not knowing whether to laugh or be angry, his lips twitching uncertainly. He had never seen this woman before. He had never heard her before.

The rain whispered against the window. Distantly, there was a faint whirring of an elevator. And with it, with those sounds, the sound of her heavy breathing. Labored, furious.

"I'd better run along now," he said. "We'll talk about it some other time."

"We'll talk about it now, by God!"

"Then," he said quietly, "there's nothing to talk about, Moira. The answer is no."

He stood up. She jumped up with him.

"Why?" she demanded. "Just tell me why, damn you!"

Roy nodded, a glint coming into his eyes. He said that the best reason he could think of was that she scared the hell out of him. "I've seen people like you before, baby. Double-tough and sharp as a tack, and they get what they want or else. But they don't get by with it forever."

"Bull!"

"Huh-uh, history. Sooner or later the lightning hits 'em, honey. I don't want to be around when it hits you."

He started for the door. Wild-eyed, her face mottled with rage, she flung herself in front of him.

"It's your mother, isn't it? Sure, it is! One of those keep-it-in-the-family deals! That's why you act so funny around each other! That's why you were living at her apartment!"

"Wh-aat?" He came to a dead stop. "What are you saying?"

"Don't act so goddamned innocent! You and your own mother, gah! I'm wise to you, I should have seen it before! Why, you rotten son-of-a-bitch! How is it, hmm? How do you like-"

"How do you like this?" Roy said.

He slapped her suddenly, catching her with a backhanded slap as she reeled. She leaped at him, hands clawed, and he grabbed her by the hair and flung her, and she came down sprawling on the floor.

A little wonderingly he looked at her, as she raised her smudged and reddened face. "You see?" he said. "You see why it wouldn't do, Moira?"

"You d-dirty bastard! You're going to see something!"

"I'm sorry, Moira," he said. "Good night and good luck?"

21

At the curb outside her apartment house, he lingered briefly before entering his car; relishing the rain against his face, liking the cool, clean feel of it. Here was normality, something elemental and honest. He was very glad he was out here in the rain instead of up there with her.

Back at his hotel, he lay awake for a time, thinking about Moira; wondering at how little sense of loss he felt at losing her.

Was tonight merely a finalizing of something that he had long intended to do? It seemed so; it had the feeling about it of the expected. It might even be that his strong attraction for Carol had been a reaction to Moira, an attempt to attach himself to another woman and thus be detached from her.

Carol…

He fidgeted uncomfortably, then put her out of his mind. He'd have to do something about her, he decided. Some day soon, somehow, he'd have to smooth things over with her.

As for Moira…

He frowned, on the point of falling asleep, then relaxed with a shake of his head. No, no danger there. She'd gotten sore and blown her top, but she was probably regretting it already. At any rate, there was nothing she could do and she was too smart to try. Her own position was too tenuous. She was wide open for a smacking-down herself.

He fell into a deep sleep. Having slept so little the night before, he rested well. And it was after nine when he awakened.

He sprang out of bed, feeling good and full of energy, starting to plan the day's schedule as he reached for a robe. Then slowly, drearily, he sat back down. For here he was again as he had been last week. Here he was again, still, confronted by emptiness. Barred from his selling job, barred from any activity. Faced with a day, an endless series of days, with nothing to do.

Dully, he cursed Kaggs.

He cursed himself.

Again, hopefully hopeless, as he bathed and shaved, as he dressed and went out to breakfast, he sought some way out of the impasse. And his mind came up with the same two answers-answers which were wholly unacceptable.

One: He could take the sales manager's job-take it without further stalling around-and give up the grifting. Or, two: He could jump town and go to another city; begin all over again as he had begun when he first came to Los Angeles.

Breakfast over, he got into his car and began to drive, aimlessly, without destination; the most tiresome way of driving. When this became unbearable, as it very shortly did, he pulled in to the curb and parked.

Peevishly, his mind returned to the impossible problem.

Kaggs, he thought bitterly. That damned Perk (for Percival) Kaggs! Why couldn't he have left me alone? Why did he have to be so damned sure that I-

The futile thinking interrupted itself. His frown faded, and a slow smile played around his lips.

Kaggs was a man of snap judgment, a man who made up his mind in a hurry. So probably he would unmake it just as fast. He would take no nonsense from anyone. Given sufficient reason, and without apology, he would snatch back from the sales manager's job as promptly as he had proffered.

Roy called him from a nearby drugstore. He was still forbidden to work for a while (the doctor's orders), he said, but perhaps Kaggs would like to have lunch with him? Kaggs said that he seldom took time for lunch; he usually settled for a sandwich in his office.

"Maybe you should start going out," Roy told him.

"Oh? You mean on account of my ulcers? Well-"

"I mean on account of your disposition. It might help you to get along better with people."

He grinned coldly, listening to the startled silence that poured over the wire. Then, Kaggs said equably, "Well, maybe it would at that. Twelve o'clock suit you?"

"No, it doesn't. I'd rather eat at one."

Kaggs said, fine, that was better for him, too. "One o'clock then. The little place across the street."

Roy hung up the phone. He considered the advisability of showing up late for the appointment, and decided against it. That would be simply rudeness, crudeness. It would do nothing but arouse Kaggs' suspicions.

Already, perhaps, he had pursued the line of brusqueness too far.

He arrived at the restaurant a little before one. They ate at a small table in the rear of the place, and somehow the meeting went pretty much as the first one had. Somehow, and much to Roy's annoyance, the feeling of empathy grew between them. Toward the end of the meal, Kaggs did a surprising thing- surprising, that is, for him. Reaching across the table, he gave Roy a shy slap on the shoulder.

"Feeling lousy, aren't you, boy? Like you could bite nails."

"What?" Roy looked at him startled. "What makes you think that?"

"You'd just have to; I know I would. A man can idle around so long, and then it begins to drive him nuts. Why don't you come back to the office with me for a while? Sort of look the setup over."

"Well, I-you're busy, and-"

"So I'll put you to work, too." Kaggs stood up, smiling. "I'm kidding, of course. You can just look around; take a gander at the salesmen's file, if you like. Do what you want to, and pull out when you want to."

"Well…" Roy shrugged. "Why not?"

The question was rhetorical; he could think of no valid reason to decline. Similarly, finding himself in Kaggs' office at Sarber & Webb, he was forced to accept the file which Kaggs shoved in front of him. To show at least a semblance of interest in its various cards.

Resentfully, he saw himself a victim of Kaggs' highhandedness. Kaggs had taken charge of him again, as he had on that first day. But that wasn't really true. More accurately, he was his own victim, his own slave. He had made personality a profession, created a career out of selling himself. And he could not stray far, or for long, from his self-made self.

He riffled through the cards, unseeing.

He began to see them, to read the meaning in them. They became people and money and life itself. And thoughtfully, one at a time, he took them out of the file and spread them out on the desk.

He picked up a pencil, reached for a lined pad of scratch paper…

As he worked, Kaggs gave him an occasional covert glance, and a smug smile tightened his thin lips. A couple of hours passed, and Kaggs arose and strolled over to his desk.

"How are you doing?"

"Sit down," Roy said, and as the other man obeyed, "I think this record system is all wrong, Perk. I don't want to tread on anyone's toes, whoever set it up, but-"

"Tread away. Nothing's sacred around here."

"Well, it's misleading, a waste of time. Take this man here. His gross sales for the week are six hundred and fifty dollars. His commission, over in this column, totals eighty-one dollars. What's his percentage of the week's sales?"

"I'd have to figure it up. Roughly, eight per cent."

"Not necessarily. Depending on what he sold, he might have some twenty-five per cent stuff in there. The point is, just what the hell was it that he sold? How much of it was practically loss-leader stuff, items that we have to sell in order to compete?"

Kaggs looked at him sharply; hesitated. "Well, of course, there's his sales slips; that's what his commissions were figured from."

"But where are the sales slips?"

"Accounting gets a copy, inventory gets a copy, and of course the customer gets one at the time of purchase."

"Why does inventory need a copy? The stuff is checked off at the time it leaves the shop, isn't it? Or at least it could be. You've got some duplicate effort if it isn't. Where you need a copy is here in the salesman's file."

"But-"

"Not in a file like this, of course. There isn't enough room. But it doesn't have to be like this. We don't have so many salesmen that we couldn't set up a separate file on each one, give each man a section in one of the filing cabinets."

Kaggs scratched his head. "Hmm," he said. "Well maybe."

"It ought to be done, Perk. It just about has to be if you're going to have a clear picture of what's going on. Tie the sales slips to the salesmen, and you know which men are selling and which are running a milk route. Ordertakers. You know what items are moving and which need pushing, and which should be dropped entirely. Of course, you'll know all that eventually, anyway. But waiting can cost you a hell of a lot of money and-"

Roy broke off abruptly, suddenly abashed by his tone and his words. He shook his head, dismayed, like a man coming into wakefulness.

"Just listen to me," he said. "I come in here for the first time, and I start kicking your system to pieces."

"So kick it some more. Kick the crap out of it!" Kaggs beamed at him. "How are you feeling, anyway? Getting tired? Want to knock off for the day?"

"No, I'm okay. But-"

"Well, let's see, then." Kaggs skidded his chair closer, and reached for a pencil. "What would you say to…"

An hour went by.

Two hours.

In the outer offices, one of the clerks turned a startled stare on her neighbor. "Did you hear that?" she whispered. "He was laughing! Old Picklepuss Kaggs laughed out loud!"

"I heard," said the other girl, grimly, "but I don't believe it. That guy never learned how to laugh!"

At five-thirty that evening, the telephone operator plugged in her night numbers and closed her board. The outer offices darkened and became silent, as the last of the office employees filed out. And at six, the downstairs workers departing to the muted clanging of the time- clock, the silence and the dimness became absolute.

At eight o'clock-

Perk Kaggs removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He looked around, blinking absently, and a bewildered look spread over his face. With an amazed curse, he jumped to his feet.

"My God! Look at the time! Where the hell did the day go to?"

"What?" Roy frowned. "What's the matter, Perk?"

"Come on, you're getting out of here! Right this minute, damnit! My God-" Kaggs swore again. "I ask you to drop in for a few minutes and you put in a day's work!"

They had a late dinner together.

As they said good night, Kaggs gave him a sharp searching glance. "Level with me, Roy," he said quietly. "You do want this job, don't you? You want to be sales manager?"

"Well…" Roy hesitated for a flicker of a second.

There it was. Here was his chance to refuse. And he knew suddenly that he could refuse, without apology or explanation. He could say simply no, that he didn't want it, and that would be that. He could go back to his old life where he had left it. For something had happened between him and Kaggs, something that made them friends. And friends do not question each other's motives.

"Why, of course, I want it," he said firmly. "What gave you the idea that I didn't?"

"Nothing. I just thought that-nothing." Kaggs returned to his usual briskness. "To hell with it. To hell with you. Go home and get some sleep, and don't show up at the shop again until the doctor says you're ready!"

"You're the boss," Roy grinned. "'Night, Perk."

Driving back to the hotel, he started to rationalize his decision, to find some devious reason for doing what he had done. But that passed very quickly. Why shouldn't he take a job that he wanted to take? Why shouldn't a man want a friend, a real friend, when he has never before had one?

He put the car away and entered the hotel. The elderly night clerk hailed him.

"You had a phone call this morning, Mr. Dillon. Your mother."

"My mother?" Roy paused. "Why didn't you leave word for me where I work?"

"I was going to, sir, but she said not to bother. Didn't have time to wait, I guess."

Roy picked up a house phone, put in a call to Lilly's apartment. He hung up a moment or two later, puzzled, uneasy.

Lilly was gone. She had checked out of her apartment this morning, leaving no forwarding address.

He went upstairs. Frowning, he shucked out of his clothes and lay down on the bed. He tossed and turned for a while, worrying. Then, gradually, he relaxed and began to doze.

Lilly could take care of herself. There could be- must be-an innocent reason for her sudden move.

Del Mar… She might have moved there for the race meet. Or she might have found a more desirable apartment here in town that had to be taken immediately. Or perhaps BoboJustus had suddenly recalled her to Baltimore.

He fell asleep.

After what seemed only an instant, he came awake.

Sunlight flooded the room. It was late in the morning. He was conscious that the phone had been ringing for a very long time. It was now silent, but its din was still in his ears. He started to reach for it, his senses dull, not fully free of the stupor of sleep, and there was a knock on the door, a steady knocking.

He crossed to it, opened it enough to look out. He blinked at the man there; then, the man identifying himself, stating his business with professional regret-apologizing for the errand that had brought him here-Roy let the door open wide.

And he stood shaking his head as the man came inside.

No, he shouted silently. It wasn 't true! It was some stupid mistake!Lilly wouldn 'tbein Tucson! Why-why-

He said it aloud, glaring at his visitor. The latter pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"You didn't know she was in Arizona, Mr. Dillon? She didn't tell you she was going?"

"Of course, she didn't! Because she didn't go! I- I-" He hesitated, some of his caution asserting itself. "I mean, my mother and I weren't very close. We went our own ways. I hadn't seen her for almost eight years until she came here a few weeks ago, but-"

"I understand," the man nodded. "That jibes with our information, such as it is."

"Well, you're wrong, anyway," Roy said doggedly. "It's someone else. My mother wouldn't…"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Dillon. It was her own gun, registered to her. The proprietor of the tourist court remembers that she was very distraught. Of course, it does seem a little odd that she'd use a gun with a silencer on it for -. – for something like that. But-"

"And she didn't! It doesn't make sense!"

"It never does, Mr. Dillon. It never makes sense when a person commits suicide…"

22

The man was slightly bald, heavy-set, with a plump, honest face. His name was Chadwick, and he was a Treasury Department agent. Obviously, he felt a little awkward about being here at such a time. But it was his job, distasteful though it might be, and he meant to do it. He did, however, lead into his business circuitously.

"You understand why I came rather than the local police, Mr. Dillon. It really isn't their affair, at least at this point. I'm afraid there may be some unpleasant publicity later on, when the circumstances of your mother's death are revealed. An attractive widow with so much money in her possession. But-"

"I see," said Roy. "The money."

"More than a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, Mr. Dillon. Hidden in the trunk of her car. I'm very much afraid-" delicately. "I'm afraid she hadn't paid taxes on it. She'd been falsifying her returns for years."

Roy gave him a wry look. "The body was discovered this morning; about eight o'clock, right? You seem to have been a very busy little man."

Chadwick agreed simply that he had been. "Our office here hasn't had time to make a thorough investigation, but the evidence is indisputable. Your mother couldn't have saved that much out of hen reported income. She was a tax evader."

"How terrible! Too bad you can't put her in jail."

"Please!" Chadwick winced. "I know how you feel, but-"

"I'm sorry," Roy said quietly. "That wasn't very fair. Just what do you want me to do, Mr. Chadwick?"

"Well… I'm required to ask if you intend to lay claim to the money. If you care to say, that is. Possibly you'd rather consult a lawyer before you decide."

"No," Roy said. "I won't lay any claim to the money. I don't need it, and I don't want it."

"Thank you. Thank you, very much. Now, I wonder if you can give me any information as to the source of your mother's income. It seems obvious, you know, that there must have been tax evasions on the part of others, and-"

Roy shook his head. "I imagine you know as much about my mother's associates as I do, Mr. Chadwick. Probably," he added, with a tiredly crooked grin, "you know a hell of a lot more."

Chadwick nodded gravely, and stood up. Hesitating, hat in hand, he glanced around the room. And there was approval in his eyes, and a quiet concern.

Lilly's money had had to be impounded, he murmured; her car, everything she owned. But Roy mustn't think that the government was heartless in these matters. Any sum necessary for her burial would be released.

"You'll want to see to the arrangements personally, I imagine. But if there's anything I can do to help…" He took a business card from his wallet and laid it on the table. "If you can tell me when you might care to leave for Tucson, if you are going, that is, I'll notify the local authorities and-"

"I'd like togo now.Just as soon as I can get a plane."

"Let me help you," Chadwick said.

He picked up the phone, and called the airport. He spoke briskly, reciting a government code number. He glanced at Roy. "Get you out in an hour, Mr. Dillon. Or if that's too soon-"

"I'll make it. I'll be there," Roy said, and he began flinging on his clothes.

Chadwick accompanied him to his car, shook hands with him warmly as Roy opened the door.

"Good luck to you, Mr. Dillon. Iwish we could have met under happier circumstances."

"You've been fine," Roy told him. "And I'm glad we met, regardless."

He had never seen the traffic worse than it was that day. It took all his concentration to get through it, and he was glad for the respite from thinking about Lilly. He got to the airport with ten minutes to spare. Picking up his ticket, he hurried toward the gate to his plane. And then, moved by a sudden hunch, he swerved into a telephone booth.

A minute or two later he emerged from it. Grimfaced, a cold rage in his heart, he went onto his plane.

It was a propeller job since his trip was a relatively short one, a mere five hundred and eighty miles. As it circled the field and winged south, a stewardess began serving the pre-luncheon drinks. Roy took a double bourbon. Sipping it, he settled back in his seat and gazed out the window. But the drink was tasteless and he gazed at nothing.

Lilly. Poor Lilly…

She hadn't killed herself. She'd been murdered.

For Moira Langtry was also gone from her apartment. Moira also had checked out yesterday morning, leaving no forwarding address.

There was one thing about playing the angles. If you played them long enough, you knew the other guy's as well as you knew your own. Most of the time it was like you were looking out the same window. Given a certain set of circumstances, you knew just about what he would do or what he had done.

So, without actually knowing what had happened, just how and why Lilly had been brought to her death, Roy knew enough. He could make a guess which came astonishingly close to the truth.

Moira had a contact in Baltimore. Moira knew that Lilly would be carrying heavy-that, like any successful operator, she would have accumulated a great deal of money which would never be very far from her. As to just how far, just where it might be hidden, Moira didn't know. She might look forever without finding it. Thus Lilly had had to be put on the run; for, running, she would take the loot with her, necessarily narrowing its possible whereabouts to her immediate vicinity.

How to make her run? No problem there. For a fearful shadow lies constantly over the residents of Uneasy Street. It casts itself through the ostensibly friendly handshake, or the gorgeously wrapped package. It beams out from the baby's carriage, the barber's chair, the beauty parlor. Every neighbor is suspect, every outsider, everyone period; even one's own husband or wife or sweetheart. There is no ease on Uneasy Street. The longer one's tenancy, the more untenable it becomes.

You didn't need to frighten Lilly. Only to frighten her a little more. And if you had a contact at her home base, someone to give her a "friendly warning" by telephone…

Roy finished his drink.

He ate the lunch which the stewardess served him.

She took the tray away and he smoked a cigarette, and the plane dropped lower over the desert and came into the Tucson glide pattern.

A police car was waiting for him at the airport. It carried him swiftly into the city, and a police captain took him into a private office and gave him such facts as he could.

"… checked into the motor court around ten last night, Mr. Dillon. It's that big place with the two swimming pools; you passed it on the way into town. The night clerk says she seemed pretty jumpy, but I don't know that you can put much stock in that. People always remember that other people acted or looked or talked funny after something's happened to 'em. Anyway, your mother left a seven-thirty call, and when she didn't answer her phone one of the maids finally got around to looking in on her…"

Lilly was dead. She was lying in bed in her nightclothes. The gun was on the floor at the side of the bed. Judging by her appearance- Roy winced- she'd put the muzzle in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

There was no disarray in the room, no sign of a struggle, no suicide note. "That's about all we know, Mr. Dillon," the captain concluded, and he added with casual pointedness, "Unless you can tell us something."

Roy said that he couldn't and that was true. He could only say what he suspected, and such guilty suspicions would only damage him while proving nothing at all against Moira. It might make a little trouble for her, cause her to be picked up and questioned, but it would accomplish no more than that.

"I don't know what I could tell you," he said. "I've got an idea that she traveled with a pretty fast crowd, but I'm sure you're already aware of that."

"Yes."

"Do you think it might not have been suicide? That someone killed her?"

"No," the captain frowned, hesitantly. "I can't say that I think that. Not exactly. There's nothing to indicate murder. It does seem strange that she'd come all the way from Los Angeles to kill herself and that she'd get into her nightclothes before doing it, but, well, suicides do strange things. I'd say that she was badly frightened, so afraid of being killed that she went out of her mind."

"That sounds reasonable," Roy nodded. "Do you think someone followed her to the motel? The person who'd frightened her, I mean."

"Possibly. But the place is on the highway, you know. People are coming in and out at all hours. If the guilty person was one of them, it would be practically impossible to tab him, and short of getting his confession to making a death threat, I don't know how we could stick him if he was tabbed."

Roy murmured agreement. There was only one thing more that he could say, one more little nudge toward Moira that he could safely give the captain.

"I'm sure you've already looked into it, captain, but what about fingerprints? Wouldn't they, uh-"

"Fingerprints," the officer smiled sadly. "Fingerprints are for detective stories, Mr. Dillon. If you dusted this office, you'd probably have a hard time finding a clear set of mine. You'd probably find hundreds of smudged prints, and unless you knew when they were made and just who you were looking for, I don't know what the devil you'd do with them. Aside from that, criminals at work have an unfortunate habit of wearing gloves, and many of the worst ones have no police record. Your mother, for example, had never been mugged or printed. I'm sorry-" he added quickly. "I didn't mean to refer to her as a criminal. But…"

"I understand," Roy said. "It's all right."

"Now, there are a few items of your mother's personal property which you'll want. Her wedding ring and so on. If you'll just sign this receipt…"

Roy signed, and was given a thin brown envelope. He pocketed it, the pitiful residue of Lilly's hard and harried years, and the captain escorted him back to the waiting police car.

The undertaking establishment was on a side street, a sedately imposing building of white stucco which blazed blindly in the afternoon sun. But inside it was almost sickeningly cool. Roy shivered slightly as he stepped into the too-fragrant interior; the manager of the place, apparently alerted to his coming, sprang forward sympathetically.

"So sorry, Mr. Dillon. So terribly sorry. No matter how we try to prepare for these tragic moments-"

"I'm all right." Roy removed his arm from the man's grasp. "I'd like to see my mother's-my mother, please."

"Shouldn't you sit down a moment first? Or perhaps you'd like a drink."

"No," Roy said firmly. "I wouldn't."

"It might be best, Mr. Dillon. It would give us a little time to, uh… Well, you understand, sir. Due to the unusual financial involvements, we have been unable to, uh, perform the cosmetic duties which we normally would. The loved one's remains-the poor dear face-"

Curtly, Roy cut him off. He understood, he said. Also, he said, enjoying the manager's wince of distaste, he knew what a bullet fired into a woman's mouth could do to her face.

"Now, I want to see her. Now!"

"As you wish, sir!" The man drew himself up. "Please to follow me!"

He led the way to a white-tiled room behind the chapel.

The cold here was icy. A series of drawers was set into one of the frostily gleaming walls. He gripped a drawer by its metal handle and gave it a tug, and it glided outward on its bearings. With an offended gesture, he stepped back and Roy advanced to the crypt and looked into it.

He looked and looked quickly away.

He started to turn away. And then, slowly, concealing his surprise, he forced his eyes back on the woman in the coffin.

They were about the same size, the same coloring; they had the same full but delicately-boned bodies. But the hands! The hand! Where was the evil burn that had been inflicted on it, where was the scar that such a burn must leave?

Well, doubtless it was on the hand of the woman who had killed this woman. The woman whom Moira Langtry had intended to kill, and who had killed Moira Langtry instead.

23

It was late evening when the dusty Cadillac reached downtown Los Angeles; pulled up a few doors short of the Grosvenor-Carlton. The driver leaned wearily over the wheel for a moment, limp with exhaustion, a little dizzy from sleeplessness. Then, resolutely, she raised her head, removed the tinted sunglasses, and studied herself in the mirror.

Her eyes were strained, bloodshot, but that didn't matter, They would probably be a hell of a lot worse, she suspected, before she was safely out of this mess. The glasses covered them, also helping to disguise her face. With the glasses on, and with the scarf drawn tightly around her head and under her chin, she could pass as Moira Langtry. She'd done it back at the Tucson motel, and she could do it again.

She made some minor adjustments on the scarf, pulling it a little lower on her forehead. Then, throwing off her weariness, subjecting it to her will, she got out of the car and entered the hotel.

The clerk greeted her with the anxious smile of the aged. He heard her request, a command, rather, and a touch of uncertainty tinged his smile.

"Well, uh, Mr. Dillon's out of town, Mrs. Langtry. Went to Tucson this morning, and-"

"I know that, but he's due back in just a few minutes. I'm supposed to meet him here. Now, if you'll kindly give me his key..

"But-but-you wouldn't like to wait down there?"

"No, I would not!" Imperiously she held out her hand. "The key, please!"

Fumbling, he took the key from the rack and gave it to her. Looking after her, as she swung toward the elevator, he thought with non-bitterness that fear was the worst part of being old. The anxiety born of fear. A fella knew that he wasn't much good any more-oh, yes, he knew it. And he knew he didn't always talk too bright, and he couldn't really look nice no matter how hard he tried. So, knowing in his heart that it was impossible to please anyone, he struggled valiantly to please everyone. And thus he made mistakes, one after the other. Until, finally, he could no more bear himself than other people could bear him. And he died.

But maybe, he thought hopefully, this would be all right. After all, Mrs. Langtry and Mr. Dillon weregood friends. And visitors did sometimes wait in a guest's room when the guest was out.

Meanwhile…

Entering Roy's room, the woman locked the door and sagged against it, briefly resting. Then, dropping the sunglasses and her modishly large handbag on the bed, she went resolutely to the four box-framed clown pictures. They had caught her attention the first time she had seen them-something that struck a jarring note; entirely incompatible with the known tastes of their owner. They couldn't have been there as decoration, so they must serve another purpose. And without seeing the symbolism in the four wisely grinning faces; Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos, and a fourth self-nominated Fate, Roy Dillon-she had guessed what that purpose was.

Now, prying loose the backs of the pictures, she saw that her guess was right.

The money tumbled out, sheaf after sheaf of currency. Stuffing it into her bag, she was struck with unwilling admiration for Roy; he must be good to have piled up this much. Then, stifling this emotion, telling herself that the theft would be good for him by pointing up the fruitlessness of crime, she finished her task.

Large as it was, the bag bulged with its burden of loot. She could barely close the clasp, and she wasn't at all sure that it would stay closed.

She hefted it, frowning. She put it under her arm, draping an end of the stole over it, checked her appearance in the mirror. It didn't look bad, she thought. Not too bad. If only the damned thing didn't fly open as she was passing through the lobby! She considered the advisability of leaving some of the money behind, and abruptly vetoed the idea.

Huh-uh! She needed that dough. Every damned penny of it and a lot more besides.

She gave the mirror a final swift glance. Then, the purse clutched tightly under her arm, she crossed to the door and unlocked it, pulled it open. And fell back with a startled gasp.

"Hello, Lilly," said Roy Dillon.

24

The basic details of her story were just about what Roy expected them to be…

First there had been the warning call from Baltimore; then, responding to it, her frantic, unreasoning flight. She drove as hard as she could and as long as she could. When she could go no further, she turned in at the Tucson tourist court.

The place had a garage, rather than individual car ports, and she hadn't liked that. But she was too tired to go farther; and since a garage attendant was on duty at all times, she could not reasonably object to the arrangement.

She put the loaded gun under her pillow. She undressed and went to bed. Yes, naturally she had locked her door, but that probably didn't mean much. Those places, motels and tourist courts, lost so many keys that they often had them made interchangeable, the same keys unlocking different doors. And that was doubtless the case here.

Anyway, she awakened hours later, with two hands clutching her throat. Hands that silenced any outcry she might make as they strangled her to death. She couldn't see who it was; she didn't care. She had been warned that she would be killed, and now she was being killed and that was enough to know.

She got the gun from under her pillow. Blindly, she had shoved it upward, into the face of her assailant. And pulled the trigger. And- and-

Lilly shuddered convulsively, her voice breaking. "God, Roy, you don 't know what it was like! What it means to killsomeone!Allyour life you hear about it and read about it, b-but-but when you do it yourself.

Moira was in her nightclothes, an old trick of nocturnal prowlers. Caught in another's room, they lay it to accident, claiming that they left their own room on some innocent errand and somehow strayed into the wrong one.

There was a tagged key in Moira's pocket-the key to a nearby room. Also, it was the key to Lilly's 'predicament. It pointed to a plan, ready-made, and without thinking she knew what she must do.

She put Moira in her bed. She wiped her own fingerprints from the gun, and pressed Moira's prints upon it. She spent the night in Moira's room, and in the morning she checked out under Moira's name and with the dead woman's clothes.

Naturally, she couldn't take her own car. The car and the money hidden in it now belonged to Moira also. For Moira was now Lillian Dillon, and Lilly was Moira Langtry. And so it must always be.

"What a mess! And all for nothing, I guess. I was jake with Bobo all the time, but now that it's happened…" She paused, brightening a little. "Well, maybe it's a break for me, after all. I've been wanting out of the racket for yea rs, and now I'm out. I can make a clean start, and…"

"You've already made a start," Roy said. "But it doesn't look very clean to me."

"I'm sorry. " Lilly flushed guiltily. "I hated to take your money, but-"

"Don't be sorry, "Roy said. "You're not taking it."

For a long moment, a silent second-long eternity, Lilly sat staring at her son. Looking into eyes that were her eyes, meeting a look as level as her own. So much alike, she thought, and the thought was also his. Why can 't I make him understand? she thought. And he thought, Why can 't I make her understand?

Shakily, a cold deadness growing in her heart, she arose and went into the bathroom. She bathed her face in the sink, patted it dry with a towel, and took a drink of water. Then, thoughtfully, she refilled the glass and carried it out to her son. Why, thank you, Lilly, he said, touched by the small courtesy, disarmed by it. And Lilly told herself, He's askingfor it. Ihelped him when he was in a bind, and if he tries to hold out on me now, well he just hadn 't better.

"I have to have that dough, Roy," she said. "She had a bankbook in her purse, but that doesn't do me any good. I can't risk tapping it. All she had on her was a few hundred bucks, and what the hell am I going to do with that?"

Roy said she could do quite a bit with it. A few hundred would get her to San Francisco or some other not-too-distant city. It would give her a month to live quietly while she looked for a job.

"A job!" Lilly gasped. "I'm almost forty years old, and I've never held a legit job in my life!"

"You can do it," Roy said. "You're smart and attractive. There are any number of jobs you can hold. Just dump the Cad somewhere. Bury it. A Cad won't fit in with the way you'll be living, and-"

"Save it!" Lilly cut him off with an angry, knifing gesture. "You sit there telling me what to do-a guy socrooked that he has to eat soup with a corkscrew-!"

"I shouldn't have to tell you. You should be able to see it for yourself." Roy leaned forward, pleadingly. "A legit job and a quiet life are the only way for you, Lil. You start showing up at the tracks or the hot spots and Bobo's boys will be on you."

"I know that, damnit! I know I've got to lay low, and I will. But the other-"

"It's good advice, Lilly. I'm following it myself."

"Yeah, sure you are! I see you giving up the grift!"

"What's so strange about it? It's what you wanted. You kept pushing it at me."

"Okay," Lilly said. "So you're on the level. So you don't need the money, do you? You don't need it or want it. So why the hell won't you give it to me?"

Roy sighed; tried to explain why: to explain acceptably the most difficult of propositions; i.e., that the painful thing you are doing for a person is really for his or her own good. And yet, talking to her, watching her distress, there was in his mind, unadmitted, an almost sadistic exulting. Harking back to childhood, perhaps, rooted back there, back in the time when he had known need or desire, and been denied because the denial was good for him. Now it was his turn. Now he could do the right thing-and yes, it was right- simply by doing nothing. Now now now the pimp disciplining his whore listening to her pleas and striking yet another blow Now now now he was the wise and strong husband taking his frivolous wife in hand Now now now his subconscious was taking note of the bond between them, the lewd, forbidden and until now unadmitted bond. And so he must protect her. Keep her from the danger which the money would inevitably lead her to. Keep her available…

"Now, look, Lilly," he said reasonably. "That money wouldn't last you forever; maybe seven or eight years. What would you do then?"

"Well… I'd think of something. Don't worry about that part."

Roy nodded evenly. "Yes," he said, "you'd think of something. Another racket. Another Bobo Justus to slap you around and burn holes in your hand. That's the way it would turn out, Lilly; that way or worse. If you can't change now, while you're still relatively young, how could you do it when you were crowding fifty?"

Fifty? There was an ancient sound about it and the odor of haggishness and the mouse-mouthed look of death…

And Carol? Ah, yes, Carol. A dear girl, a desirable girl. Perhaps, except for the until-now-u nadm itted bond, THE girl. But as it was, onlya ploy, apawn in the game of life, death-and love-between Roy and Lillian Dillon. So-

"So that's how it is, Lil," Roy said. "Why I can't let you have the money. I mean, uh-"

His voice faltered weakily, his eyes straying away from hers.

After a moment, Lilly nodded. "I know what you mean," she said. "I think I know."

"Well-" he gestured, his hands suddenly awkward. "It's certainly simple enough."

"Yes," Lilly said. "It's simple enough. Very simple. And it's something else, too."

There was a peculiar glow in her eyes, a strange tightness to her face, a subdued huskiness to her voice. Watching him, studying him, she slowly crossed one leg over the other.

"We're criminals, Roy. Let's face it…"

"We don't have to be, Lil. I'm turning over a new leaf. So can you."

"But we've always had class. We've kept our private lives fairly straight. There's been certain things we wouldn't do…"

"I know! So there's no complications! I can-we can-"

The leg was swinging gently; hinting, speaking to him. Holding him hypnotized.

"Roy… what if I told you I wasn't really your mother? That we weren't related?"

"Huh!" He looked up startled. "Why, I-"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Of course you would. You don't need to tell me. Now, why would you like it Roy?"

He gulped painfully, attempted a laugh of assumed nonchalance. Everything was getting out of hand, out of his hands and into hers. The sudden awareness of his feelings, the sudden understanding of himself, all the terror and the joy and the desire held him thralled and wordless.

"Roy…" So softly that he could hardly hear it.

"Y-Yes?" He gulped again. "Yes?"

"I want that money, Roy. I've got to have it. Now, what do I have to do to get it?"

Lilly, he said, or tried to say it, and perhaps he did say some of what he meant to. Lilly, you know you can't go on like you were; you know you'll be caught, killed. You know I'm only trying to help you. If you didn't mean so much to me, I'd let you have the damned money. But I've got to stop you. I-I-"

"Maybe-" she was going to be fair about this. "You mean you really won't give it to me, Roy? You won't? Or will you? Can't I change your mind? What can I do to get it?"

And how could he tell her? How say the unsayable? And yet, as she arose, moved toward him with the tempting grace with which Moira had used to move- Moira, another older woman, who had in essence been Lilly-he tried to tell her. And jumbled as it was, it was enough for Lilly.

Why don't you finish your water, dear? she said. And gratefully, welcoming this brief respite, he raised the glass. And Lilly, her grip tight on the heavy purse, swung it with all her might.

It's my fault, she told herself; the way I raised him, his age, my age, wrestling and brawling him as though he were a kid brother; my fault, my creation. But what the hell can I do about that, now?

The purse crashed against the glass, shattering it. The purse flew open, and the money spewed out in a green torrent. A torrent splattered and splashed with red.

Lilly looked at it bewilderedly. She looked at the gushing wound in her son's throat. He rose up out of his chair, clutching at it, and an ugly shard of glass oozed out between his fingers. He said bubblingly, "Lil, I-w-whyy-" and then his knees crumpled under him, and he doubled over and pitched down upon the carpet of red-stained bills.

It was over that quickly. Over before she could explain or apologize-insofar as there was anything to explain or apologize for.

Matter-of-factly, she began to toe the unstained money to one side, gathering the bills into a pile. She tied them up in a towel from the bathroom, stowed it inside her clothes, and took a final look around the room.

All clear, it looked like. Her son had been killed by Moira, by someone who didn't exist. Sure, her own fingerprints were all over the room, but that wouldn't mean anything. After all, she'd been a visitor to Roy's room before his death, and, anyway, Lilly Dillon was officially dead.

And maybe I am, she thought. Maybe I wish to God that I was!

Bracing herself, she let her eyes stray down to her son. Abruptly, a great sob tore through her body, and she wept uncontrollably.

That passed.

She laughed, gave the thing on the floor an almost jeering glance.

"Well, kid, it's only one throat, huh?"

And then she went out of the room and the hotel, and out into the City of Angels.