A clock somewhere was striking nine as Ray Fleck got out of the taxi in
front of Dolly Mason's apartment, and he knew that he was on time. He'd
had trouble finding a cab and had thought he was going to be late--not
that a few minutes late would have mattered but if he was very late
Dolly would be annoyed; Dolly got annoyed easily if you were late for a
date with her. Then just at the right moment a cab had pulled in to the
curb right near him to discharge passengers, and he'd caught it.
A turn in his luck? God, he hoped so. _Everything_ had been going wrong
today and tonight, up till then. What had got into him to pop off about
Connolly's thirty-dollar bet when it had been Sam's that Amico had been
talking about! A lousy six bucks, and he _had_ forgotten about it by
then. Connolly's thirty had been the one on his mind. Hell, he thought
disgustedly, he really couldn't blame Amico for not believing that he'd
not been covering bets and dragging down right along, when he'd come up
with a boner like that.
But Jesus, did Joe have to get so tough about it? Twenty-four hours to
raise four hundred and eighty bucks, or else. His face was still sore
from the two flat-handed slaps Monahan had given him and his stomach
still ached from the blow there. But those things would pass, the pain
of them and the humiliation of them. But if he lost his job he was
sunk, really sunk. If he lost his job the way Joe would make him lose
it, under a cloud with the J. & B. Distributors and on the outs with
most of his customers to boot, he'd never get a reference and never get
another job, here or anywhere else, selling liquor.
Many people thought Ray Fleck was a good all-around salesman who could
do well selling almost anything to almost anybody, but Ray knew better;
he'd tried. His first foray into selling had been just after he'd quit
high school about three-fourths of the way through his senior year--he
was failing in several subjects and wasn't going to be graduated
anyway--and it had been a try at selling brushes door to door. He'd
hated it, especially the long hours the company had expected him to
work, and he'd stuck it out less than a week, during which time he'd
earned seven dollars and some odd cents. He'd tried to stay home and
loaf around for a while but finally became fed up with his father
calling him a no-good and with not having any spending money, and he
started to look for work again. During the next seven years he held a
lot of jobs but none of them for very long. All in all he worked about
half of the time, but he got by because his father, a certified public
accountant, had a fairly good income and, after a while, gave up trying
to collect anything from his son in the way of room and board, so all
the money Ray did make went for clothes and entertainment.
The jobs he held were many and varied. Soda jerk, counterman, assistant
shipping clerk, driver of a delivery truck, what have you. He never
held any job longer than a few months; half of them he quit because
the work was too hard or too boring; he was fired from the rest for a
variety of reasons, usually for goofing off. Once, in a bad period,
he was fired for dipping into a till but luckily the employer didn't
prosecute so he didn't have a police record because of it. The job he
had held longest, and had most hated, during that period had been with
the army when he had been drafted at twenty. And he had held that job
only five months instead of the usual period. He had suddenly developed
a violent allergy to wool, and since the army wasn't geared to provide
special uniforms and bedding for him, it had the choice of discharging
him or letting him ride out his hitch in the infirmary. It discharged
him. The allergy had gradually diminished; by now he could wear wool
suits except in very hot weather, but in cold weather he still used
quilts or comforters instead of blankets.
Several of his jobs during that period had been selling jobs; he'd
tried insurance, automobiles, hardware, and a few other things. But he
hadn't lasted at those jobs as long as at others. He could turn on a
pleasing personality and could make people like him, but he lacked the
perseverance and determination necessary to succeed at selling, which
is a lot tougher job than most people think.
Until at the end of the seven years he found himself and found the
one job he both liked and could do well at. It was time that he found
it, for his parents had just died, his mother only a month before his
father, and free room and board were out; he _had_ to keep a job if he
wanted to eat regularly.
And the job he had finally found was a natural for him. He liked
hanging out in taverns. He liked to be able to buy rounds of drinks
and being able, within reason, to put them on an expense account. He
liked the hours. The only part of the job that he considered work was
the calls he had to make at liquor stores and he was willing to do
that chore for the sake of the rest of the job. He liked drinking and
he had an excellent capacity for holding his drinks. The job brought
him into contact with others who, like himself, loved gambling and
enjoyed talking horse racing, dog racing, the odds on a pennant race or
matching coins for drinks. Best of all, the job let him make money--and
make it doing what came naturally.
And now he was going to lose that wonderful job, unless he could raise
four hundred and eighty bucks in twenty-four hours. Joe Amico had meant
every word of what he'd said, and Joe could make his threats good, too.
He wouldn't last a week in his job if Joe started spreading the word
around. He _had_ to raise that money now; it was a matter of desperate
necessity.
He paid off the taxi, and that left him thirteen dollars, thirteen
lousy dollars.
Dolly, he thought, don't fail me now! He'd already decided, in the
taxi, not to start off by asking for any special amount; he'd just tell
her he was in a desperate jam and needed every cent he could possibly
get. Maybe she'd come up with five hundred and take him off the hook
completely. If that happened, he wouldn't risk the poker game at all;
he'd make sure of having the dough for Amico, to save his job. That
came ahead of everything else, now.
Of course she probably wouldn't have five hundred in cash at the
apartment, that would be too much to hope for, but a check would be all
right; he'd have all day tomorrow to cash it. How much could he offer
her for five hundred? To pay her back six hundred within two weeks?
That ought to be enough to tempt her, but hell, he could go even higher
if he had to. After all, he hadn't given her his right name so she
couldn't locate him to heckle him. Not that he wouldn't pay her back as
soon as he could--if she was reasonable, like wanting six for five. If
he had to promise her anything extortionate, like a thousand for five
hundred, then she could whistle for it and it would serve her right for
being greedy.
He hurried up the two flights of stairs and along the corridor, knocked
on Dolly's door.
She opened it, first on the chain, and then when she saw who it was
she said, "Hi, Ray honey. Just a sec," and closed the door a moment to
slide off the chain and open it wide.
He went in and she stepped aside and then closed the door behind him.
The chain went on again. Few women were taking chances these days, even
if a man was with them.
Dolly Mason, he saw, was practically ready for action. Her otherwise
bare little feet were in mules and she wore a thin silk kimono,
brilliant red, with obviously nothing at all--except Dolly--underneath
it. But he was too desperately worried to be interested. Business came
first, right now. Of course if he got enough money from her to end his
worries for tonight, then he could relax and romp.
"Dolly," he blurted, "I'm in a jam, a hell of a jam. Life or death,
almost. I need to borrow some money--just for a week or so. Have you
got any?"
She took a short step back from him; she'd been going toward him to
put her arms around him as she always did when he came in. "Honey, _I_
haven't got any money. Where did you get a wild idea like that?" She
looked toward a handbag lying on an end table by the sofa. "I've got
just eight dollars--and I can't spare any of that because it's got
to last me till payday, three days. Look, I'll show you if you don't
believe me."
She started toward the handbag but he said, "Never mind, I believe you.
I didn't mean that kind of money anyway. And cash doesn't matter. A
check will do because I can cash it tomorrow and that'll be in time,
because tomorrow night's my deadline. And you'll make money on it--not
lose. If you can lend me five hundred I'll give you back six, in two
weeks. That's how God damn important it--"
Suddenly she was laughing. Not a cruel laugh, but an amused one. "Ray
honey, I haven't _got_ a bank account, not even a savings account, let
alone a checking one. I'm sorry if you're in trouble, but what made you
think _I_ had any money? Honest, I haven't."
Ray Fleck took a step backward and dropped onto the sofa, put his
elbows on his knees and his face into his hands. He was beat. He hadn't
realized until this moment how much he'd been counting on Dolly--and
how ridiculous it had been for him to have done so. He didn't know
whether or not Dolly was lying about not having a bank account, but he
knew, and for sure, that even if she had she wasn't going to lend him
any money. Not even fifty bucks that he might manage to run up in the
poker game, let alone the five hundred that it would take to bail him
out of trouble. She didn't trust him that much and it wouldn't do any
good to plead, to offer her a thousand back instead of six hundred.
Even if she had a checking account, she'd never admit now that she'd
been lying and write him a check against it.
"Ray honey, I'm sorry. Honest."
He took his hands away from his face, stared at her dully. "It's all
right, Dolly. I shouldn't have--" He shook his head slowly. He'd
started to say that he'd been a damn fool to expect anything but this,
but there wasn't any point in finishing the sentence. The only thing to
do now was to get going, go some place where he could think, and try
to figure something out. He knew there wasn't an earthly chance that
he could raise the four-eighty tonight, but if he didn't waste time
he might still build back his stake enough to let him sit in tonight's
game. His luck _had_ to change sometime.
"Ray, you do look beat," Dolly said. "Would a drink help? Let me make
you a drink."
He started to say no, and then nodded instead. He really did need a
drink now, and it seemed like ages since he'd had one. It had been at
Connolly's, before that horrible scene at Amico's. "Sure," he said.
"Make it a strong one, huh?"
"One strong drink coming up," Dolly said. She went around the screen
that hid the kitchenette. He heard her taking down glasses from the
little cupboard over the sink.
What an ass he'd been to remember that short story about the mistress
who had given her--
Jewelry? Dolly had jewelry. He didn't know how much of it or how
valuable it was, but it could be worth plenty. Not that she'd give or
lend it to him, of course, but he knew where she kept it, or some of
it. It was in a little hand-tooled leather box on top of the dresser
in the bedroom. He'd never seen down inside it but he'd seen her open
it and put jewelry into it. The last time he'd been here she'd been
wearing long dangling earrings with green stones--emeralds?--and she'd
taken them off the last thing and put them in the box before she'd
thrown herself face down on the bed and rolled over into his waiting
arms.
The jewelry in that little box might be worth plenty. Did he dare?
There wouldn't be time now, even though the bedroom door stood ajar;
it was clear across the living room from him and she'd surely hear him
moving if he tried to go there. He'd have to go to bed with her to get
a chance at the box, but it would be easy then; she always went to the
bathroom for a minute or two immediately after.
Did he dare? Why not? He'd taken chances before, although never quite
in this way, but then he'd never been in this bad a fix before either.
Besides, it wouldn't really be stealing; it would be borrowing without
telling Dolly about it. He'd make it up to her someday, when he was
solvent again. If he couldn't get her back the same jewelry he could
get her other stuff like it.
Thank _God_ he hadn't given her his right name. Fletcher instead of
Fleck was a little close for comfort, but all she knew about him
outside of his right first name was that he was a liquor salesman.
But there were a lot of liquor salesmen in the city--and the police
wouldn't _know_ that he'd given her his right first name, since they
could find out quickly enough that he hadn't given a right last one.
Dolly came back with two drinks, both dark enough to show that she'd
really made them strong.
He took the drink she held out to him and downed half of it at a gulp.
It was strong enough to burn on the way down and it did help, it did
make him feel better.
Dolly sat down on the sofa beside him, not pulling the kimono closed,
and snuggled up against him. "Ray, honey," she said, "there's something
might make you feel even better than a drink."
"A sure cure for everything?" he asked. "Maybe, Dolly. Maybe it would
help. But I got to think a minute first, get something clear in my
mind."
He put his free arm around her, but made no move otherwise. He didn't
want to take her to bed unless he was going to take the gamble of
emptying that jewel box, and if he made a pass or even kissed her he'd
be committing himself. Besides, he knew that if he could get aroused,
and let himself, he wouldn't have the will power not to follow through,
no matter what he decided about the jewels.
But he had to decide quickly. Was the risk too great? Hell, he couldn't
deny there _was_ a risk--why had he told Dolly what his job was? If
he'd kept that under his hat too, it would be safe as houses. But that
would be pretty much of a lead, if the police really worked on it, and
there was no reason why Dolly shouldn't and wouldn't report it to the
police. Of course if she didn't miss it for several days she couldn't
be sure who had taken it, but that was too much to hope for. Probably
she wouldn't miss it tonight but probably when she dressed for work in
the morning she'd go to the box for some piece of jewelry, costume or
real, and that would be it. But it would still take the cops a while to
get to him and if he could get rid of the stuff first--and he thought
he knew where and how to do that--there'd be no proof. It would be
just his word against hers and his reputation was at least as good as
hers--hell, he had friends on the force who would vouch for him. Maybe
his reputation was better; he'd never been in cop trouble, and maybe
Dolly had. And--
He thought of the trouble he'd be in if he didn't raise the money for
Amico, and suddenly made up his mind. He'd take the gamble. That is, if
he _could_.
He took another slug of his drink and then put it down on the end table
and leaned over and kissed Dolly. Her lips parted moistly, but nothing
happened--to him, that is. Then his hand found one of her breasts and
squeezed gently before he bent down and kissed the firm erect nipple of
the other one and ran his tongue around it. He felt something stir in
his loins and knew that everything was going to be all right. He wasn't
worried or scared enough to disgrace himself in bed.
As a matter of fact, everything was better than all right. He found
that the excitement of the risk he was going to take added to rather
than took from his sexual excitement. It didn't last long but while it
lasted it was wonderful; Dolly seemed to think so too.
And when she scampered into the bathroom afterward he walked quickly to
the dresser and emptied the tooled leather box into his hand, walked
back to the bed and put the pieces of jewelry into the left pocket of
his trousers. He'd hardly glanced at it, except to see that there were
about a dozen pieces and that they included the earrings with the green
stones that might be emeralds and that there was also a diamond ring
and a wedding ring.
He was pulling the trousers on when Dolly came out of the bathroom. He
didn't have to pretend to be in a hurry; he was. He told her he had an
important business appointment and was late for it already, and left
the moment he'd finished dressing.
When the chain slid home behind him he breathed a deep sigh of relief.
He'd got away with it, thus far. And just maybe the whole answer to his
problem was in his left trouser pocket. He'd soon know.