Jim Thompson - After Dark, My Sweet

Around four in the afternoon, after I'd walked about ten miles, I came to this roadhouse. I went on past it a little ways, walking slower and slower, arguing with myself. I lost the argument-the part of me that was on-the-beam lost it-and I went back.

The bartender slopped a beer down in front of me. He scooped up the change I'd laid on the counter, sat down on his stool again, and picked up a newspaper. I said something about it was sure a hot day. He grunted without looking up. I said it was a nice pleasant little place he had there and that he certainly knew how to keep his beer cold. He grunted again.

I looked down at my beer, feeling the short hairs rising on the back of my neck. I guessed-I knew-that I should never have come in here. I should never go in any place where people might not be nice and polite to me. That's all they have to do, you know. Just be as nice to me as I am to them. I've been in four institutions, and my classification card always reads just about the same:

_William ("Kid") Collins_: Blond, extremely handsome; very strong, agile. Mild criminal tendencies or none, according to environmental factors. Mild multiple neuroses (environmental) Psychosis, Korsakoff (no syndrome) induced by shock; aggravated by worry. Treatment: absolute rest, quiet, wholesome food and surroundings. Collins is amiable, polite, patient, but may be very dangerous if aroused

I finished the beer, and ordered another one. I sauntered back to the restroom and washed my face in cold water. I wondered, staring at myself in the mirror, where I'd be this time tomorrow and why I was bothering to go anywhere since every place was just like the last one. I wondered why I hadn't stayed where I was-a week ago and a thousand miles from here-and whether it wouldn't be smart to go back. Of course, they hadn't been doing me much good there. They were too overcrowded, too under-staffed, too hard up for money. But they'd been pretty nice to me, and if I hadn't gotten so damned restless, and if they hadn't made it so easy to escape It was so easy, you know, you'd almost think they wanted you to do it.

I'd just walked off across the fields and into the forest. And when I came out to the highway on the other side, there was a guy fixing a tire on his car. He didn't see me. He never knew what hit him. I dragged him back into the trees, took the seventy bucks he was carrying and tramped on into town. I caught a freight across the state line, and I'd been traveling ever since No, I didn't really hurt the guy. I've gotten alittle rougher and tougher down through the years, but I've very seldom really hurt anyone. I haven't had to.

I counted the money in my pocket, totting it up mentally with the change I'd left on the bar. Four bucks. A little less than four bucks. Maybe, I thought, maybe I ought to go back. The doctors had thought I was making a little progress. I couldn't see it myself, but

I guessed I wouldn't go back. I couldn't. The guy hadn't seen me slug him, but what with me skipping out about that time they probably knew I'd done it. And if I went back they'd pin it on me. They wouldn't do it otherwise. They probably wouldn't even report me missing. Unless a guy is a maniac or a kind of big shot-someone in the public eye, you know-he's very seldom reported. It's bad publicity for the institution, and anyway people usually aren't interested.

I left the rest room, and went back to the bar. There was a big station wagon parked in front of the door, and a woman was sitting on a stool near mine. She didn't look too good to me-not right then, she didn't. But that station wagon looked plenty good. I nodded to her politely and smiled in the mirror as I sat down.

"Rather a warm day," I said. "Really develops a person's thirst, doesn't it?"

She turned her head and looked at me. Taking her time about it. Looking me over very carefully from head to foot.

"Well, I'll tell you about that," she said. "If you're really interested in that, I'll give you my theory on the subject."

"Of course, I'm interested. I'd like to hear it."

"It's a pronoun," she said. "Also an adverb, conjunction and adjective."

She turned away, picking up her drink again. I picked up my beer my hand shaking a little.

"What a day," I said, kind of laughing to myself. "I was driving south with this friend of mine, Jack Bfflingsley-I guess you know the Bfflingsleys, big real estate family? and our car stalled, and I walked back to a garage to get help. So I get back with the tow-truck, and darned if that crazy Jack isn't gone. I imagine what happened is-"

"-Jack got the car started himself," she said. "That's what happened. He started looking for you, and somehow you passed each other on the highway. Now he doesn't know where you are, and you don't know where he is."

She finished her drink, a double martini, and motioned to the bartender. He fixed her another one, giving me a long hard glare as he placed it in front of her.

"That darned crazy Jack," I said, laughing and shaking my head. "I wonder where in the world he can be. He ought to know I'd come in some place like this and wait for him."

"He probably had an accident," she said. "In fact, I think I read something about it."

"Huh? But you couldn't-"

"Uh-huh. He and a young lady called Jill. You read about it too, didn't you, Bert?"

"Yeah." The bartender kept on staring at me. "Yeah, I read about it. They're all wet, mister. They got their heads busted. I wouldn't wait around for 'em much longer, if I was you."

I played it dumb-kind of good-natured dumb. I said I certainly wasn't going to wait very much longer. "I think I'll have just one more beer, and if he hasn't shown up by then I'm going to go back to the city and catch a plane."

He slopped me out another beer. I started to drink it, my eyes beginning to burn, a hedged-in feeling creeping over me. They had my number, and hanging around wasn't going to make me a thing. But somehow I couldn't leave. I couldn't any more than I could have walked away from the Burlington Bearcat that night years ago. The Bearcat had been fouling me, too, giving it to me in the clinches, and calling me all kinds of dirty names. He'd kept it up-just like they were keeping it up. I couldn't walk away from him, just like I couldn't walk away from them, and I couldn't get him to stop, just like I couldn't get them to stop.

It came back with neonlike clarity. The lights were scorching my eyes. The resin dust, the beerish smell of ammonia, were strangling me. And above the roar of the crowd, I could hear that one wildly shrieking voice. "Stop him! Stop him! He's kicking his brains out! It's murder, MURDER!"

Now I raised my glass and took the rest of the beer at a gulp. I wished I could leave. I wished they'd lay off of me. And it didn't look like they would.

"Speaking of planes," she was saying. "1 heard the funniest story about a man on a plane. Honestly, I just thought I'd die laughing when I-" She broke off, laughing, holding her handkerchief to her mouth.

"Why don't you tell it to him?" The bartender grinned, and jerked his head at me. "You'd like to hear a real funny story, wouldn't you, mister?"

"Why, yes. I always enjoy a good story."

"All right," she said, "this one will slay you. It seems there was an old man with a long gray beard, and he took the plane from Los Angeles to San Diego. The fare was fifteen dollars but he only had twelve, so they dropped him off at Oceanside."