Authors: James M. Cain
“What do you want?”
“What I want is to fly. I love it. But I’m thirty-two and that’s too old, and besides a man ought to do in this war what he can do. Moving stuff in rough country is what I’m good at, so I guess it’s the S. O. S.”
“Will you have lunch with me?”
“Will a colt eat sugar?”
“I have a sister with me, that’s seen me through this ordeal of the divorce. I’d think I want her to meet you. She’s younger than I am, and prettier.”
“She must be a sight.”
“Then, I’ll expect you? At the hotel? Around one?”
“At one sharp I’ll be there.”
They gave each other a long smiling glance, and then she flitted out with the light skip of an actress who has taken a great many exits. She was a patter of feet, a wave of the hand, and a ripple of hair as she went through the outer office; just the same, three names hung in the air as she was gone, and three delighted men looked at each other and said, gee that sure was one swell gal.
S
HE WAS REALLY GOING
to a lawyer’s, to await whatever formalities might be indicated on his return from court. But on her way she stopped, to indulge a weakness that had developed during her stay in this city where she was obtaining her divorce: the hazarding of $100 at games of chance before taking up the serious business of the day. The establishment that she entered never closed, its employees working in three shifts of eight hours each, and while it was typical of such places locally, it differed from the great gambling houses of the world, having little of the cold elegance that usually goes with them. Rather it offered gambling along cut-rate lines, and indeed, with the sunlight streaming in, it had some of the petty glitter that one associates with a downtown drugstore. Painted in all sorts of colors, and with all sorts of mirrors in their navels, were whole batteries of slot machines, operating at 5-&-10c limits, and having their licenses framed beneath them; along the walls were electric Keno boards, and in front of them long troughs filled with corn, for keeping score. Wheels of fortune were everywhere, some of them the noisy old-fashioned kind, with a leather finger clicking between the whirling pegs and real money under their numbers; others silent, a revolving light serving all necessary purposes. Every hour on the hour a functionary circulated with a bucket, into which the clientele dropped the tickets that had been issued them for drinks bought at the bar; a few minutes later there was a drawing, and the holder of the winning number received $5.
Then of course, there were the roulette wheels, faro layouts, poker tables, dicing pits, and other mahogany-and-baize installations for the carriage trade, as well as racing results for all.
Sylvia Shoreham’s arrival was an event, even in this preoccupied place, and the proprietor hurried forward to meet her. His name was Tony, and he was a grandson of one of the Italian charcoal burners of the sixties, who settled the Sierras to furnish various cities with their fuel, and then left the horde of descendants who so largely populate that part of the country today. Like most gamblers, he took pride in not looking like a gambler; he wore the habiliments of a prosperous undertaker, and would have been astonished to learn that God doesn’t see much difference. His rocky face breaking into a smile, his thick body inclined at a deferential angle, he advanced briskly, counting chips with his own lily-white hands. “Baronessa!”
“Just an hour or two longer, Tony.”
“Ah, today is the day?”
“It’s being done now, let us hope. Then the Baroness Adlerkreutz becomes plain Sylvia Shoreham again, and only too glad to be back with the vulgar herd.”
But before she could accept her chips, an attendant hurried up, a girl with a green baize apron over her stomach, and said: “There was a message for you, Miss Shoreham. The hotel called, and said your husband is in town, and wants you to ring him at this number.”
She handed Sylvia a slip and went back to her dice game. Tony said: “Come into my office, Miss Shoreham. You don’t look so good. You look like you better sit down quick.”
He led her into a redwood-and-leather office, seated her, and opened a window. But when he produced a bottle of brandy she waved it away. “No thanks, Tony. I’m not sick or anything. It’s just—”
“Bad news, hey?”
“I had no idea he was here.”
“He trying to block your divorce?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t see how he can.”
“Maybe wants money.”
“I imagine it’s nothing but some foolish last-minute stunt to get me to change my mind, and incidentally sign a new contract with that picture company I’ve been trying to break away from for the past two years. Something silly, but nothing serious. But, I don’t want him around! I don’t want him around the hotel. I don’t want him around my sister. I—”
Tony’s eye caught the slip of paper in her hand, and he gave a little
clk
of surprise. “You know that number, Miss Shoreham?”
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s the Galloping Domino.”
“Oh, on the road west.”
“
My
other place.”
“
Your
—What’s he doing out there?”
“Looks funny.”
They peered at the slip, and he said: “I tell you what we’ll do. I’ve got to go out there anyway, so you come with me, talk to him, see what he wants. Then if it’s bad you stall him and I’ll slip back to town. Hazel and I will move you out of the hotel to my house, and you’ll be there where nobody can reach you with a subpoena, a camera, or anything at all.”
“Oh, dear, I’ve asked somebody to lunch.”
“O. K., my wife’ll serve the lunch. And you’ll love my little daughter Maxine. She’s just about Hazel’s age, acts in all our productions here in town, crazy to get in pictures—”
But at this Sylvia’s smile became a little glassy: picture people are usually wary of girls crazy to get in pictures. Quickly she said. “I’d just love it, Tony. I’ve seen Maxine and I think she’s the sweetest thing in this town. But—first of all, let’s find out what he’s up to.”
They drove out the main highway to a place that looked like a cross between a country club and a Kentucky thoroughbred farm. It was a rambling white building surrounded by trees, with a low, shingled roof, green shutters, and brass doorknobs. Inside, it was a replica of the place they had left, except that it was smaller, and a little gaudier, and a little more cut-rate.
As they turned in at the gate, Sylvia pointed to a green car out front, and he drove around back. They entered through a side door that led into Tony’s office, which was exactly like the one in town except that it had green leather chairs instead of red. In the door at the other end of the room was a little metal slot, the kind that speakeasies used to have. Tony opened it, peeped out. Sylvia peeped, and her face hardened as she spotted a lone player at one of the blackjack tables, who handled his cards with nonchalance and chatted flirtatiously with the pretty dealer. Tony looked incredulously at Sylvia. “Not
that
guy?”
“Of course. Why?”
“He’s been in every night for a week.”
“
Here?
At the Galloping Domino?”
“He’s a regular.”
The bartender went by with bottles. Opening the door, Tony called him, and he came in. “Jake, that guy over there, the one playing blackjack with Ethel—you know anything about him?”
Jake looked and said: “Sure, he comes in.”
“What names does he go by?”
“Search me. He’s some kind of a foreigner. He said call him Vic, so that’s how we left it.”
“What’s he do?”
“Fishes most of the time, I think. Took a shack by the river, couple miles up the line. He’s got plenty of dough.”
“Send him in, Tony.”
Jake and Tony went into the casino and Sylvia sat on the edge of the big desk, her face set, her eyes narrow. In a moment a burst of waltz music entered the room, transformed itself into a man, took her hand as though it were a water lily, brushed a kiss upon it, wafted it gently to her knee again, and stood murmuring her name, as though such a vision of loveliness were more than human fortitude could endure. He was a rather large man, but made with such grace that he almost seemed small. About his lean hardness there was something of the cavalry officer; about his small hands and feet something of the ballet master; and about his bright black eyes something of the pimp. But his mouth was poetic, and it throbbed now, like the throat of a robin, as he kept repeating “Sylvia-Sylvia-Sylvia” in a soft, sibilant whisper.
She looked at him for a time, then lit a cigarette and crossed to one of the leather chairs, sinking back in it and hooking a reflective knee over one arm. Then she said: “Believe it or not, Vicki, I’m a little glad to see you. And my hand has a little tingle spot on it, where it was kissed. Even when I know the whole routine frontwards and backwards, it still does things to me.”
“But it is no ruttine! Is from ’ere. Is from ’eart.”
“What do you want?”
“To see you, Sylvia! No odder t’ing. To sing one song, to break one glass, to blow one kees, before comes a end!”
“The worst of it is, it could be true.”
“Of course is true! I say myself, Vicki, what you do? You sit ’ere! You let time go by. You act like damn full! Tomorrow you lose Sylvia, you no do one t’ing! I jump in car, Sylvia! I drive in one night! I swear you, I live ’Ollywood last night, no stop even buy gas! I see thees place, I coon wet! I coon wet, had to see you Sylvia. I jump out! I stop car ’ere thees place, I jump out, I phone huttel, I—”
“You lying Lithuanian heel, what do you want?”
“O. K., Sylvia, I tell you.”
“And not so loud. And not so funny.”
“Is all true! I most see you! ... But why I call up? Was afred! Was afred you live thees place before I find you! I say to myself, I most ’ave thees t’ing—”
“Have
what?
”
“Thees ring!”
She looked down at the ring that was still on her finger, a plain gold band with steel oval on which was cut a coronet. Without a word she slipped it off and handed it to him. When he had kissed her hand passionately again, she said: “I would have sent it to you. I don’t know why I haven’t already, except it’s one of those things you just don’t have a box to fit. But why the phone call, and the fuss, and—”
“I get marrit again, Sylvia.”
“You—
what?
”
“Yes. I get marrit today.”
She got up, lifted the phone, asked that Tony be paged for her. When he came in she said: “Tony, a bottle of champagne.”
“Yes, Miss Shoreham.”
“No, Sylvia, I coon permit—”
“Tony, champagne. And be sure it’s very expensive champagne. Champagne in every way fit for a bridegroom-elect—”
“Miss Shoreham, don’t tell me—”
“Not I, Tony. My husband.”
“Ah yes, champagne.”
With a deferential bow to Vicki, Tony left the room. Sylvia said: “Does she live here, Vicki? Is that why you took the shack?”
For a long, worried moment he stared at her. She laughed. “You didn’t expect to get away with that midnight drive from Hollywood, did you?”
“Who tell you about shock?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, plizze.”
“The bartender.”
“Jeck?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“Nobbudy else?”
She laughed again. “No, Vicki, nobody else. So if delicious naughtiness has been enjoyed by all, I don’t know a thing and you’re perfectly safe.”
Tony came in presently, with an icebucket, a bottle with gold foil on it, and two glasses. When the bottle had been well-twirled in the ice, he cut the wire, winked as the cork popped, and poured. At the toast to happy days he backed out, and Sylvia said: “Do you know what I thought, Vicki?”
“Ah, Sylvia! I frigh’n you, yes?”
“I thought it was Phoenix Pictures.”
“You mean I—pull treek?”
“Yes you, lovely you.”
“Sylvia! Coon do soch t’ing you.”
“But, I was ready for you. And that reminds me, Vicki, I’m afraid I have just the teentsy-weentsiest bit of bad news for you.”
“Bad news for me?”
“I’m afraid you won’t be a producer for Phoenix much longer, marrying actresses Dimmy Spiro wants for the sarong trade. Since Phoenix wouldn’t do the right thing by me I did the right thing by it, and picked up a few shares that Dimmy forgot about, enough to give me control. So next week you and Dimmy and me are all out, and Phoenix gets sold to Metro or Warners or whichever company it is that wants to buy it. And all three of us are free, or will be. Isn’t that nice?”
Vicki looked as though he had been hit with some singularly horrible nagaika. He winced, closed his eyes, breathed deeply. Then: “Sylvia! Why do you thees to me?”
“Why you do that, and them, and those, to
me?
”
“I do notting to you! Only lahve you!”
“I think you’ve forgotten that little contract we signed together, with the extra page in that I swear I never saw until later, the one that gave me to Dimmy for seven years, with no way I could get out of it if he kept on paying me the miserable little salary it allowed me. And that gave you a great big salary as producer of my pictures, although the only thing you had ever produced up to then was girls for Dimmy’s parties. Do you remember about that? Do you remember how I begged you for a release from that dreadful contract?”
“Sylvia, why we no make new dill?”
“It’s impossible, Vicki.”
“We ’ave soch fine, big plan for you—”
“I wouldn’t sign with you and Dimmy if you were the last producers on earth. And just so neither one of you try any tricks with the S-S Corporation, that nice little dummy company you got me to organize, I might as well tell you I haven’t got that stock I bought, not one share of it. It was bought for Hazel, and it’s all in her name, and there’s no way Phoenix can be saved, or you and Dimmy can be saved, or I can be made to work for you!”
“Sylvia! You brek me ’eart.”
“However, enough of that. Who’s the bride?”
“Is girl I met. Nize girl.”
“She lives here.”
“Lil while only.”
“Ah, the divorce question again?”
“Si and so and sa.”