1972 - Just a Matter of Time (8 page)

Patterson walked thoughtfully across the lobby, ignoring the doorman who saluted him and went down to his car.

While Mrs. Morely-Johnson was entertaining friends in the hotel grillroom, Sheila was eating a chicken sandwich in the penthouse office. She was occupied with Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s mail which was considerable. There were a number of begging letters to be answered. Mrs. Morely-Johnson was generous but she insisted that every applicant should be investigated before she decided to give or refuse and this meant a lot of work.

As Sheila was reaching for another letter, she heard the front door click open. Only she and Bromhead had keys to the penthouse, so she sat back, putting the letter down and waited.

Bromhead came into the room. He was wearing his uniform and the sight of him gave her confidence. This man was a professional. Not once during the brief time she had talked to him had she seen him out of character in his role as a kindly, efficient servant.

He sat down in a chair opposite Sheila’s desk.

‘You saw Patterson?’

‘Yes.’ Briefly she described the meeting and Bromhead nodded approvingly.

‘Very good . . . keep him dangling. Don’t call him until Friday evening, then tell him you have found time to go out with him.’

‘I was going to do that.’

Bromhead again nodded his approval. She was, like himself, a professional, he thought. All she needed was a little nudge, a touch on the steering wheel, and she reacted immediately in the right way.

‘He takes his women to the Star motel,’ Bromhead told her. ‘It is safe and discreet - twenty miles out of town. It’s a place where no questions are asked. Would you go with him to the motel if he asks you on Sunday?’

She shook her head.

‘Not yet . . . it’s too soon.’

‘I agree. The thing that is good about this operation is we have time. When you think the time is right, let me know.’ He looked suddenly sharply at her. ‘Don’t let him rush you off your feet. He has a lot of appeal. The stage must be set before he goes into action . . . I don’t have to tell you that.’

She stared fixedly at him.

‘No man rushes me off my feet,’ she said.

‘All right. I just mentioned it.’ He paused, then went on, ‘And Gerald?’

‘I haven’t heard from him yet, but I will. I gave him seventy dollars.’ She looked away from Bromhead. ‘He worries me.’

‘He worries me too. He is unreliable. I think he is too stupid to realize what really big money means, but he is essential. I wish he wasn’t, but without him, we put down the shutters.’ Bromhead frowned down at his square, clean fingernails. ‘What we have to be careful about is that he doesn’t get involved with another woman. You mustn’t neglect him.’

Sheila picked up a pen and made an impatient squiggle on a letter, lying on her desk.

‘You don’t have to tell me, but with Patterson, it will be difficult. I can only get away on Sundays and Sundays I must keep for Patterson.’

‘The old lady is always in bed by eleven. You could see Gerald when she has gone to sleep.’

Sheila considered this, then shook her head.

‘It’s too risky. If she woke and called me . . . it could ruin everything.’

‘You are a nurse . . . there are such things as sleeping pills.’

She looked up.

‘Is that what you think I should do?’

‘It’s a suggestion.’

Again she thought, then again she shook her head.

‘No. I can’t meet Gerald in town. We could be seen.’

Bromhead nodded. Looking ahead, planning, making decisions, taking risks, moving forward, withdrawing were now part of his life.

‘Gerald has a car. Do you think it would be too risky to meet him in some car park not far from here and he could take you somewhere?’

She lifted her shoulders.

‘Do you?’

Bromhead thought of what was involved. If Sheila and Gerald were seen together and remembered and if there was an inquiry later and someone talked the whole plan could explode, and yet he knew it was essential that she kept control not only of Patterson but also of Gerald.

‘We must take some risks, but we must minimize them as far as possible.’ He paused to think while Sheila waited, confident he would solve any problem. ‘First, the hotel staff must get to know you. They must accept you as they accept me - part of the hotel background. To do this you must make several trips a day down to the lobby, to the bookstall, to mail letters, to buy stamps. You must think up some reason to speak to the hall porter and the doorman. That I can leave to you but establish yourself so the staff regard you as one of themselves. There’s a staircase from here, reached through your bedroom. It leads down to the 19th floor. You may not have noticed the exit door. It is behind a curtain. It’s there in case of fire. The door is bolted on the inside so you can get put quickly. You must buy a blonde wig. Get yourself a drab—looking dustcoat. Leave here by the staircase, then take the elevator down from the 19th floor. After eleven o’clock the elevator goes on automatic. The night staff in the lobby won’t know if you are staying at the hotel or visiting someone. The trick with this is to show confidence. Leave the elevator and walk briskly across the lobby and out. You do the same in reverse when you return. Don’t hesitate. You won’t be noticed. Take the elevator to the 19th floor, walk up the stairs and enter your room. You need do this only twice a week. Before leaving, give the old lady a sleeping pill. How you do that is your business. Seeing Gerald twice a week should keep him happy. What do you think?’

She thought about this, then nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘All right.’ He got to his feet. ‘How do you find the old lady?’

‘She’s very easy . . . I like her.’

Bromhead paused in the open doorway.

‘Don’t get to like her too much . . . no one lasts forever.’

When he had gone, Sheila got up and went to the big window and looked down at the luxury yachts in the harbour. The sun turned the water into an oily rainbow.

Perhaps the air conditioner was making her feel cold. She shivered. Opening the terrace door she went out into the hot sunshine. Looking down at the town, the sea and the busy traffic, she still felt cold.

* * *

Gerald rolled off her with a moan of satisfaction. She knew there would be no after—play and she was thankful. Gerald was so selfish and adolescent, once satisfied, he wanted only to sleep.

She waited until his breathing became heavy, then she reached for the towel and wiped his sweat off her body. She longed to take a shower, but she didn’t want to wake him so she lay still, feeling the heat of his body as they nearly touched on the narrow, sordid bed and she stared up at the dirty white ceiling, lit by the flashing neon sign from the nightclub across the way.

The room was small and insufferably hot. Through the open window came the sounds of the waterfront: drunken voices, squeals from excited girls, the blare of transistor radios and the shuffling of feet.

This, she reminded herself, she would have to endure twice a week. Even then, she couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t look for another woman. She had known when they had teamed up that he would present problems. He just didn’t understand nor ever would appreciate what it meant to have unlimited money – as she did and Bromhead did. His mind was too small. The only thing that bothered him was boredom. Give him enough money with which to eat, drink, run a car, go every night to some nightclub, dance with some attractive girl, have sex with her, yak with kids of his own age and he would be happy. But she was determined to make him understand; determined to mould him; determined to teach him the power of money. But there were moments like this, as she lay by his side, listening to his snoring as he slept that she wondered uneasily how long she could keep him in her control. Bromhead kept saying: Time is on our side. This is a long-term operation. But it wasn’t for her. Clever as he was, Bromhead didn’t seem to realize her difficulties. There were times when she felt uneasy about Bromhead because he had more confidence in her than she had in herself. She knew she had this magic that attracted men, but to have to endure the lust of a boy like Gerald now made her skin crawl, but Gerald was the focal point of this operation. Without him, it seemed to her now that there would be no future for her and no money.

Money? Bromhead had said in his quiet unemotional voice there could be a million and a half dollars, split between the three of them.

In the flashing light of the neon sign, she looked at the blonde wig lying on the dressing table.

Bromhead was clever, she thought. His idea about the wig and the dustcoat had worked. She had had no trouble meeting Gerald in the parking lot behind the hotel and she was confident she would have no trouble returning to her room in the penthouse. Nor was she worried that Mrs. Morely-Johnson wouldn’t sleep through the night. The pill she had dropped into the glass of hot milk as the old lady settled in bed would keep her asleep until the morning.

But there was still this problem of Gerald. He had gaped at her through the Volkswagen window, not recognizing her in the blonde wig, then when she spoke, he had suddenly grinned.

‘I like you blonde, baby. You give me hot ideas.’

She was shocked with the room he had found for himself, but she was careful not to tell him so. It was on the top floor of a rooming house in a back street off the waterfront. It was cheap and he explained that with only seventy dollars a week coming in, who cares about a room? This worried her. He had such a low standard of living and he thought small. He seemed content to live like an animal: even some animals would be more fussy than he.

He had complained as he drove her to the rooming house that he was so goddamn bored.

‘This is a hell of a town. It’s okay if you have money. Everything costs! There’s nothing to do! How long is this thing going on?’

This she didn’t know. If only she had enough money to give him so he could go to Los Angeles where he could amuse himself, find a girl and come back when it was time. But there was no money. He had to make do with seventy dollars a week.

Lying on the bed, listening to his moaning and snoring as he slept, she wondered if she could control him if this thing went on for weeks, and if she was to believe Bromhead, it could.

Moving slowly, she edged off the bed and stood up. Gerald muttered something, then began to snort again. She went into the shower room, turned on the cold water and filled the basin. She dipped the towel into the water and then wiped her body. The cold feel of the towel was a relief but the moisture immediately dried in the suffocating heat of the tiny room. She dressed.

Moving to the window, she looked at her watch in the flashing light of the neon sign. It was 01.15. She had a long walk along the waterfront to the Plaza Beach Hotel. She wouldn’t be back until after 02.00, but she felt it was useless to wake Gerald. He would only complain if she asked him to drive her back. The thought that she would have to face this chore twice a week made her flinch, but the payoff would be worth it, she told herself.

She put on the blonde wig, then the dustcoat. She had to be sure the wig covered her dark hair so’ she turned on the light to look in the small mirror above the dressing table. She had to make quick adjustments, then she snapped off the light, but the light had woken Gerald.

He sat up.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded querulously.

‘Go to sleep, Gerry. It’s all right. I’m leaving.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘After one.’

He fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp and turned the light on. Sitting up, naked, he looked young and defenceless as he blinked at her.

‘Man! That blonde wig! I really dig for it!’ He threw off the sheet and struggled off the bed. ‘I’ll drive you back.’

‘No . . . you sleep. I’ll walk.’

He pulled on his hipsters.

‘Is that what you think of me?’ He paused to stare at her. ‘You think I’m such a goddamn creep I’d let you walk all that way?’

‘No.’ She felt a sudden weakness surge through her. ‘I think you should sleep.’

‘What else have I got to do in this goddamn town except sleep?’ He dragged a grubby sweater over his head. ‘You do think I’m a creep, don’t you?’

‘No, Gerry.’

He came to her and put his arms around her, pulling her close to him. Forcing herself, she put her arms around him and her face against his. They stood for some moments holding on to each other, then she felt a pang of desire run through her and she tightened her grip.

‘I know I’m a creep,’ he said, his hands sliding down her back and cupping her buttocks. ‘I know it, but you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. You want money. Okay, so you want money . . . money to me means nothing but trouble. I don’t want trouble . . . I want you.’

She ran her fingers through his thick, unwashed hair.

‘I must go, Gerry.’

He released her and opened the door.

‘Okay . . . then let’s go.’

Although she was aching for sleep, knowing she would have to cope with Patterson the following day, she felt she had to show her gratitude for the nicest thing he had ever said to her.
I want you
. No other man had said this to her. I love you. Many, many times . . . but what did that mean? Love? Nothing! But I want you, that was something.

She took off the dustcoat and let it drop to the floor.

‘You have me in the mood, Gerry,’ she said, pushed the door shut and held out her arms to him, smiling.

A little numbed and sick with tiredness and as he drove her back to the Plaza Beach Hotel, she remembered her father saying so often: What you put in, you take out.

Read one way, it was a dirty snigger: read another way, it was a philosophy of life.

* * *

The Coq d’Or restaurant was situated some ten miles from town and was considered one of the better class restaurants on this strip of the Pacific coast.

On Sundays it was crowded, but the people who dined there weren’t the type Patterson knew. His people would shun such a place. He was confident he ran no risk coming here and he was always careful where he took his girlfriends. He was acutely aware that any gossip reaching the bank’s ears could be detrimental to his career.