The Grifters (7 page)

That was not true. In her early working life, as a photographer's model and cocktail waitress, she had occasionally given herself to men and received gifts in return. But it wasn't the same as whoring. She had liked the men involved. What she gave them was given freely, without bargaining, as were their gifts to her.

So Cole's false charges, insensibly made though they were, began to hurt more and more. Perhaps he didn't know what he was saying, or perhaps he did. But even the innocent blow of a child can be painful, possibly more so than that of an adult since its victim cannot bring himself to strike back. His only recourse, when the pain becomes unbearable, is to put himself beyond the child's reach…

Moira's last memory of Cole "The Farmer" Langley was that of a wildly weeping man in overalls, shouting "Whore!" from the curb in front of their swank apartment house as a grinning cab-driver drove her away.

She wanted to leave the rat-holed money for him. Or half of it, at least. But she knew it was useless. It would either be stolen from him, or he would throw it away. He was beyond help-her help, in any event- and anything she might do would only prolong his agony.

What had happened to him, she didn't know. Deliberately, she had tried to avoid knowing. But she hoped that he was dead. It was the best she could hope for the man she had loved so much.

His name was Grable, Charles Grable, and he was the manager of the apartment house. Dressed in striped trousers and a black broadcloth morning coat, he had rather close-set eyes and a plump, peevishlooking face. His attempt to look stern, as he sat down, gave his small mouth a baby-like pout.

"Don't tell me, now," Moira said, solemnly. "You're Addison Simms of Seattle, and we had lunch together in the fall of 1902."

"What? What are you talking about?" Grable snapped. "Now, you listen to me, Moira! I-"

"How is your wiry zone?" Moira said. "Are hidden germs lurking in your nooks and crannies?"

"Moira!" He leaned forward angrily, dropping his voice. "I'm telling you for the last time, Moira. I want your bill settled today! Every last penny of it, your rent and all the other charges you've run up! You either pay it, or I'm locking you out of your apartment!"

"Now, Charles. Don't I always pay my bills? Aren't they always settled… one way or another?"

Grable flushed, and looked over his shoulder. A half-pleading, half-whining note came into his voice.

"I can't do that any more, Moira. I simply can't! People staying over their leases, coming in ahead of their lease-dates-paying money that I don't show on the books! I-I-"

"I understand." Moira gave him a sad, sultry look. "You just don't like me any more."

"No, no that's not it at all! I-"

"You don't either," she pouted. "If you did, you wouldn't act this way."

"I told you I couldn't help it! I-I-" He saw the lurking mockery in her eyes. "All right!" he snarled. "Laugh at me, but you're not making a thief out of me any longer. You're nothing but a cheap little-little-"

"Cheap, Charles? Now, I didn't think I was at all cheap."

"I'm through talking," he said firmly. "Either you settle up by five o'clock tonight or out you go, and I'll hold on to every thing you own!"

He stamped away with a kind of furtive indignation.

Moira shrugged indifferently, and picked up her drink. He's a secret sufferer, she told herself.
Stop getting up nights, men!

She signaled for her check, penciled on a dollar tip for the waiter. As he nodded gracefully, pulling back her chair, she told him that he, too, could learn to dance.

"All you need is the magic step," she said. "It's as simple as one-two-three."

He laughed politely. Cloud-nine kidding was old stuff in a place like this. "Like some coffee before you leave, Mrs. Langtry?"

"Thank you, no," Moira smiled. "The drinks were very good, Allen."

She left the lounge, and passed back through the lobby. Recovering her car, she headed toward the downtown business district.

All things considered, she had lived quite economically since her arrival in Los Angeles. Economically, that is, insofar as her own money was concerned. Of the boodle with which she had skipped St. Louis, she still had several thousand dollars, plus, of course, such readily negotiable items as her car, jewelry, and furs. But lately, she had had an increasingly strong hunch that her life here was drawing to a close, and that it was time to cash in wherever and whatever she could.

She hated to leave the city; particularly hated the idea that it would mean giving up Roy Dillon. But it didn't necessarily have to mean that, and if it did, well, it just couldn't be helped. Hunches were to be heeded. You did what you had to do.

Arriving downtown, she parked the car on a privately-operated lot. It was owned by a better-class jewelry store, one which she had patronized both as a buyer and seller, though largely the last. The doorman touched his cap and swung open the plate-glass doors for her, and one of the junior executives came forward, smiling.

"Mrs. Langtry, how nice to see you again! Now, how can we serve you today?"

Moira told him. He nodded gravely, and led her back to a small private office. Closing the door, he seated her at the desk and sat down opposite her.

Moira took a bracelet from her purse, and handed it to him. His eyes widened appreciatively.

"Beautiful," he murmured, reaching for a loupe. "A wonderful piece of workmanship. Now, let's just see…"

Moira watched him, as he snapped on a gooseneck lamp, and turned the bracelet in his clean, strong hands. He had waited on her several times before. He wasn't handsome; almost homely, in fact. But she liked him, and she knew that he was strongly attracted to her.

He let the loupe drop from his eye, shook his head with genuine regret.

"I can't understand a thing like this," he said. "It's something you almost never see."

"How… what do you mean?" Moira frowned.

"I mean this is some of the finest filigreed platinum I've ever seen. Practically a work of art. But the stones, no. They're not diamonds, Mrs. Langtry. Excellent imitations, but still imitations."

Moira couldn't believe him. Cole had paid four thousand dollars for the bracelet.

"But they must be diamonds! They cut glass!"

"Mrs. Langtry," he smiled wryly, "glass will cut glass. Practically anything will. Let me show you a positive test for diamonds."

He handed her the loupe, and took an eyedropper from his desk. Carefully, he dropped a miniscule amount of water on the stones.

"Do you see how the water splashes over them, slides off in a sheet? With real diamonds it won't do that. It clings to the surface in tiny droplets."

Moira nodded dully, and took the loupe from her eye.

"Do you happen to know where it was purchased, Mrs. Langtry? I'm sure your money could be recovered."

She didn't know. Quite possibly Cole had bought it as a fake. "It isn't worth anything to you?"

"Why, of course it is," he said warmly. "I can offer you-well, five hundred dollars?"

"Very well. If you'll give me a check, please."

He excused himself, and left for several minutes. He returned with the check, placed it in an envelope for her and sat down again.

"Now," he said, "I hope you're not too badly disappointed with us. You'll give us an opportunity to serve you again, I hope."

Moira hesitated. She glanced at the small sign on his desk.
Mr. Carter
. The store was named Carter's. The owner's son, perhaps?

"I should have told you, Mrs. Langtry. With a valued customer, such as you, we'd be very happy to call at your home. It's not at all necessary for you to come to the store. If there's anything you think we might be interested in…"

"I have only one thing, Mr. Carter." Moira looked at him evenly. "
Are
you interested?"

"Well. I'd have to see it, of course. But-"

"You are seeing it, Mr. Carter. You're looking right at it."

He looked puzzled, then startled. Then, his face assumed something of the same expression it had worn when he was examining the bracelet.

"You know something, Mrs. Langtry? A bracelet like the one you sold us, we seldom run across anything like that. A fine setting and workmanship are usually indicative of precious stones. It always hurts me when I find they're not. I always hope"-he raised his eyes-"that I'm mistaken."

Moira smiled, liking him better than ever.

"At this point," she said, "I think I should say ouch."

"Say it for both of us, Mrs. Langtry," he laughed. "This is one of those times when I almost wish I wasn't married. Almost."

They walked to the entrance together, the lovely smartly-dressed woman and the homely, clean-looking young man. As they said good-bye, he held her hand for a moment.

"I hope everything straightens out for you, Mrs. Langtry. I do wish I could have helped."

"Just stay in there and pitch," Moira told him. "You're on the right team."

Very hungry by now, she had coffee and a small salad at a drugstore. Then, she returned to her apartment house.

The manager was on the lookout for her, and he was knocking at her door almost as soon as she had closed it. Curtly, he thrust an itemized bill at her. Moira examined it, her eyebrows raising now and then.

"A lot of money, Charles," she murmured. "You wouldn't have padded it a little, would you?"

"Don't you talk to me that way! You owe every doggone cent of it and you know it, and by golly you're going to pay it!"

"Maybe I could get the dough from your wife, do you suppose, Charlie? Maybe your kiddies would crack their piggy banks?"

"You leave them out of this! You go near my family, and I'll-I'll-" His voice broke into a pleading whine. "Y-you… you wouldn't do that, would you Moira?"

Moira gave him a disgusted look. "Oh, don't wet your pants, for God's sake! Mark the damned bill paid, and I'll get you the money."

She turned abruptly and entered her bedroom. Opening her purse, she took out a roll of bills and dropped it on the dressing table. Then, as she undressed swiftly, slipping into a sheer black negligee, her weary frown suddenly broke and she snickered.

Laughing silently, she-spread herself out on the bed.

She often broke into sudden fits of merriment. Faced with some unpleasant facet of the present, she would force her mind away from it, letting it wander vagrantly until it seized upon some ridiculous parallel or paradox. And then, for no apparent reason, she laughed.

Now, the laughter became briefly audible, and Grable called to her suspiciously from the vicinity of the doorway.

"What are you up to, Moira? What are you laughing about?"

"You wouldn't understand, Charles; just a little item from the luncheon menu. Come on in."

He came in. He looked at her and gulped, then frantically pulled his gaze away.

"I want that m-money, Moira! I want it right now!"

"Well, there it is." The negligee fell open as she waved a bare foot at the dresser. "There's the money, and here's little Moira."

He strode toward the dressing table. Just before he reached it, his step faltered and he turned slowly around.

"Moira, I-I-" He stared at her, gulping again, licking back the sudden saliva from the corners of his babyish mouth. And this time he could not pull his eyes away.

Moira looked down at herself, following the course of his gaze.

"The automatic clutch, Charles," she murmured. "It comes with the de luxe upholstery and the highspeed wiry zone."

He made a little rush toward her. He stopped weakly, a hand held out in wretched appeal.

"P-please, Moira! Please,
please!
I've been good to you! I've let you stay h-here month after month, and… You will, won't you? Just-"

Moira said, nope, it couldn't be done. All passengers must pay as they entered, and no free passes or rebates. "That's a strict rule of the Intercourse Commerce Commission, Charles. All common carriers are governed by it."

"Please! You got to!
You j-just got to!
" Almost sobbing, he sagged down on his knees at the side of the bed. "Oh, God, God, God! D-don't make me-"

"Only one choice to a customer," Moira said firmly. "The lady or the loot. So what's it going to be?" And then, as he abruptly flung himself at her, "As if I didn't know…"

She lay looking up past his shoulder, trying to blot out his panting, thrusting presence. Forcing her mind away from him and to

Roy Dillon. Their last afternoon at the hotel. Why his sudden hemorrhage, anyway, a young guy with an apparently cast-iron stomach? What had happened to bring it on? Or was it really on the level? Could it be some angle his mother was working to break them up?

She looked like an angle-player! Plenty like one! You could see that she was sharp as a tack and twice as hard-anyone could see it that knew their way around. And she was loaded with dough, and…

Moira didn't want to think about her, the snotty little witch! Anything else, but not her! She'd like to
do
something about her, but-

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. What a character this guy was! What a revolting character! He must be wearing forty dollars' worth of toilet water and hair gook, but it didn't really touch him. It was just sort of wrapped around him, like foil around a chunk of limburger, and when you got down under it-

Ooops!
She tightened her lips quickly, her cheeks bulging with repressed merriment. She tried to jerk her mind away from its source, from that darned crazy menu. But it just wouldn't go away, and again she was shaking with laughter.

"Whassa matter?" gasped Grable. "How can you laugh at a-"

"Nothing. N-never mind, Charles. I j-just-ah, ha, ha, ha-I'm s-sorry, but-ahh, ha, ha ha…"

Luncheon Special. Broiled hothouse tomato under generous slice of ripe cheese
.