James Chase - He Won't Need It Now

THE LOUNGE of the Princess Hotel was crowded with stragglers, filling in time before going in to dine. At the far end of the room., waiters hovered at the open doors of the restaurant, waiting patiently for someone to come on in and eat. It was just after seven oclock, and the room was seething with movement as people pushed past small tables to greet friends, or shouted across, whichever way they felt.

William Duffy sat in a corner, drinking a Bacardi Crusta. The table before him held a number of bottles. The barman was a friend of his and let him mix his own drinks. There was a scowl on his face and he hadnt removed his hat. He just sat there drinking and smoking and scowling. Looking up suddenly, he saw Sam McGuire of the Tribune crawling by, muttering apologies as he lurched into small tables. Duffy reached out and touched Sams cuff. Sam stopped at once.

My God! he said, Im goin blind or somethin.

You aint doing so badly, Duffy said, looking him over. You aint quite blind, but youre getting on.

McGuire hooked a chair with the toe of his shoe and pulled it towards him. He folded himself down and grinned.

You goin on a bender? he asked with interest, looking at the collection of bottles before him.

Duffy signalled the barman, who brought another glass. The barman looked the two of them over with a practised eye. Aint goin to overdo it, are yuh? he asked in a pleading voice.

Okay, dont you worry about us, Duffy said, picking up the rum and pouring it into the shaker.

I hope not, boss, the barman took another long look and went back to his counter.

Poor old George, Sam sighed, hes forgotten us since hes moved in with the Big Shots. Listen Bill, make that a strong one. I guess Im just about all in. If you notice a funny smell in a minute, go away, I shallve died on you.

Carefully Duffy added the absinthe, squeezed a lime and spooned in some sugar. He chased some crushed ice round with the tongs before getting a grip, then he sealed the shaker and went to work.

McGuire lit a cigarette and pushed his hat on to the bridge of his nose. He looked at Duffy carefully while he handled the shaker. Duffy met his eye and grinned. Go on, I know what youre going to say.

It aint true, is it?.

Duffy nodded his head and poured the shakers contents into the two glasses. McGuire took his in his hand and rested his nose on the rim of the glass.

Mi Gawd! he said, you mean old Sourpuss has tossed you out?

Yeah, just like that.

Sam sat back and groaned. What the hell?

Listen, Duffy said, Arkwright and me have been hating each others guts for a long time. I never gave him a chance to bat me. Today I did. Hed been waiting for the chance and he grabbed it with two hands like a starving man would grab a dollar lunch. O boy! Did it make him feel good! He tossed me out so quickly, Im still dizzy in the head.

But why, for the love of Mike?

I was young and innocent and you know how these things go. I didnt think he was that sort of a boy, and look, mother, whats happened now.

Skip the comedy. Sam was sitting up with a fierce look on his broad face. Did you slip up on somethin?

You know me, I dont slip on anything. Anyway, if I do, I cover it up all right. This was a frame. That heel Arkwright has been angling for an interview with Bernstein for weeks, and at last he got it. You know how difficult Bernstein can be. He said that art was out. Mind you, with a mug like that Yids got on him, I aint surprised he was a bit touchy Anyway, Arkwright kept right at him until he gave way. I was sent along to get the pictures. I reckoned I had a nice set until I got em in the bath, then Mrs. Duffys son had a shock. Those goddam plates were fogged, the whole lousy lot. Sabotage, thats what it was. Some smart guyd tampered with the stock. I tested the remaining plates and they were all duds. He paused for a pull at his glass. Sam said nothing. His face was flushed and his foot tapped against the leg of the table. Duffy knew he was getting mad. Well, I explained to Sourpuss and do you think hed believe me? Not likely! We exchanged a few words, and I guess I got tough, so he ran me inside and they ran me outside.

Sam helped himself to another Bacardi Crusta.

This may put you in a spot, he said thoughtfully. That punks got the ear of most Art Editors in town.

Sure, I know. Unreliable, fell down on a scoop!

Duffy finished his drink and began to mix more Bacardis. What the hell, he went on, its my funeral anyway. Come on in and feed with me.

Sam climbed to his feet. He looked worried. Aint possible, soldier, he said. Ive got to get back and put in some more sweat. Come over in the morning, will you? Alices goin to be sore about this.

Duffy nodded his head. Ill be over. Tell Alice not to lose any sleep. Ill get somethin.

Sure. Sam clouted Duffy on the back, nearly jerking the shaker out of his hands. Keep em bouncin, brother, keep em bouncin.

When he had gone, Duffy finished the last of the Bacardis and, feeling pleasantly drunk, sat back and considered his future with optimism. He glanced over to the far end of the room at the fat man who had been watching him all the evening. You cant go two hours or so with someones eyes shifting all over your face without feeling it, and Duffy had been vaguely aware of intense scrutiny ever since the fat man had come in.

Feeling more interested now, he wondered indifferently who he was. In the past, he might have been unusually striking, but he had let himself go and he was running to fat in a big way. He had broad lumpy shoulders that might easily have carried a nasty punch, but he was getting thick in the middle, which told Duffy all he wanted to know. His face was big and fat, and his mouth turned down at the corners, giving him a dismal sneering look. His little eyes were restless and shifted about like black beads.

Duffy guessed he was on the wrong side of forty-five. He had dough all right. Not only were his clothes good, but they were cut right and he wore them right. There was an air of confidence that money brings; the look that tells you that the bank balances fat.

Getting to his feet, Duffy began an unsteady journey to the restaurant, and he purposely made a detour so that he would pass the fat mans table. As he reached the table, the fat man climbed to his feet and stood waiting. Duffy stopped and looked him over. At close quarters he liked him a lot less.

Im Daniel Morgan, the fat man said as if he were saying Rockefeller instead of Morgan. Mr. Duffy?

Duffy squinted at him, astonished. Sure, he said.

Mr. Duffy, I want to talk to you. Will you dine with me?

Duffy raised his eyebrows. He told himself that he wasnt spending his money, so he said that it was okay with him. Morgan led the way into the restaurant, and Duffy thought his guess that Morgans wallet was well lined was a good one. He could tell by the way the waiters fawned on the fat man. He got a table in a corner, pretty secluded, and sat down. Duffy took a chair opposite him. Three waiters came bowing round them, and the wine waiter hovered outside the fringe. The maitre dhotel came up smoothly as if he had been drawn along on wheels, and the other wops grouped themselves in a line at the back. Royal stuff, but even then Morgan wasnt satisfied. He wanted the chef. Well, of course he got the chef.

You either get a big kick out of tossing your weight around like that, or else you feel all hands and feet. Duffy felt all hands and feet.

The chef and Morgan got into a huddle with the bill of fare. He didnt ask Duffy what he wanted and Duffy was glad of that. He just kept talking in his deep harsh voice and the chef squeaked back at him in broken English until they had put a meal together that seemed to satisfy him. After they had done that, they got some elbow-room. Then Morgan remembered that Duffy was sitting opposite him.