Читать книгу Dames Don't Care - Peter Cheyney - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Is it hot!

I ain’t never been in hell, but I’m tellin’ you that I bet it ain’t any hotter than this Californian desert in July.

I am drivin’ along past Indio an’ I figure that soon I am goin’ to see the Palm Springs lights. An’ I am goin’ some—the speedometer says eighty. If it wasn’t so hot it would be a swell night; but there ain’t any air, an’ there was a baby sand storm this afternoon that caught me asleep an’ I gotta lump of the Mojave desert or whatever they call it stuck right at the back of my throat.

Say, did you ever hear of Cactus Lizzie? Well, there is a song about this dame an’ I am singing it. Not that I gotta voice, because I ain’t, but I am one of them guys who always feels that if Ma Caution hadda fixed it so’s I was born with some honest-to-goodness vocal cords an’ a face that wasn’t like the Santo Domingo coast line, I reckon all the lovelies woulda lined up to hear Lemmy tear off a couple of swing numbers that woulda made croonin’ history.

Revertin’ to this Cactus Lizzie. I oughta tell you that this dame was in a song; an’ for some reason that I don’t know this song is sorta buzzin’ in my head, keepin’ time with the hum of the car. I got this jingle off some cowboy on Sonora two years ago, the time I brought in Yelltz for murder an’ kidnappin’. All this cowboy had was a guitar, smokers’ throat an’ a hey-hey Mexican jane who took a run-out powder on him. He usta keep singin’ it all the time until the noise of somebody readin’ your death warrant woulda sounded like a comedy number—it woulda been such a relief. Well ... here we go....

Livin’ on the desert ... swing Cowboy,

Ridin’ on the desert ... Love is sad an’ strange....

Hit up that banjo ... sing Cowboy,

Your girl’s got the jitters an’ the cattle’s got the mange.

Cactus Lizzie ... grieve Cowboy,

I loved her plenty an’ she give me the air,

That Cactus Lizzie—she got me dizzy,

Oh hear me grievin’—’cause the dames don’t care.

This is the jingle I am singin’, an’ it’s one of them rhythms that sorta keep with you—you know, one of them things....

I am on the straight run now an’ I can see down the road the Palm Springs lights. They tell me that this Palm Springs is one swell desert town. You can get anythin’ there—a diamond necklace from a ritzy jeweller’s shop, perfume at fifty dollars a bottle, an’ a smack in the puss with a whisky bottle at some of the road houses they got out on the desert highways—the sorta places where you can save time by losin’ your reputation an’ your suspenders at the same time.

I am just runnin’ into town now, an’ I’m good an’ tired. I was tellin’ you about Cactus Lizzie, wasn’t I? Well, I reckon that there’s a lotta dames playin’ around like Cactus Lizzie. They’re afraid of spiders but they’d just as soon stick a stiletto into their boy friend as call for a chocolate sundae. Janes are like that, but maybe you’ve had your own troubles.

Me, I like women. There’s something fascinatin’ about ’em. They got rhythm. They got technique—and how!

I am nearly through Palm Springs now. A bit further ahead on the right I can see a light an’ a neon sign. The sign says ‘Hot Dogs,’ an’ I decide that this is the place I am lookin’ for. I slow down. When I get outa the car I feel as stiff as a corpse, an’ why not? I have been drivin’ ten hours.

I ease over to this joint an’ look through the window. It is one of them fancy eats houses. Everything is just sweet an’ clean an’ there are a pair of janes servin’ behind the counter. They are swell babies. One of ’em is a redhead with eyes that indicate trouble for somebody, some time, an’ the other has gotta figure that makes me wish I was on vacation. There are one or two little tables stuck around all about the place an’ there ain’t anybody there except the girls an’ a guy sittin’ at a table eatin’ frankfurters an’ tryin’ to look wicked at the blonde with the figure.

I look at my watch. It is half past midnight; then I give the brim of my fedora a snappy tweak an’ I go in.

“H’yah, Gorgeous,” I say to the redhead. “Meetin’ up with you calls for a Hamburger an’ a cup of coffee with a lotta cream, because my mother says I need buildin’ up.”

She grins at the other dame.

“Say, Alice,” she cracks. “Here’s Clark Gable.”

She gets busy at the coffee urn.

“Not for me,” says the blonde. “For me he’s Spencer Tracy. He’s got that certain something they talk about, ain’t he? Where’s he been all our lives?”

“No fightin’ now,” I tell ’em. “If either of you honeys wasn’t here I could go for the other in a big way, but you’re a sweet pair an’ you sorta cancel each other out—an’ don’t forget the mustard an’ no onion.”

“Seein’ somebody?” says redhead.

“Not a hope,” I say. “I just never eat onion. It’s dangerous. You never know what’s goin’ to happen. I once knew a guy who ate Hamburgers with onion an’ one hour afterwards some Jane he was tryin’ to make called up the War Department for a gas mask.”

She pushes over the eats.

“You’re new around here, ain’t you?” she says.

She looks sorta friendly.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I come from Magdalena, Mexico. I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine, a guy named Sagers—Jeremy Sagers. Some guy in Arispe has left him some dough an’ I thought he’d like to know about it. Ever seen him?”

“Ain’t that a scream,” says redhead. “I reckon we know this Sagers. I see him talkin’ to Hot Dog Annie, an’ I reckon the old girl pushed him into one of them dumps she gets around to—one of them select desert road houses around here.”

“You got them, too?” I crack. “Say, this town is the berries.”

“You betcha,” she says. “We got everything around here. Now we got you, we’re all set for a big ride!”

“Nuts to you, sweetheart,” I crack, “Say, who is this Hot Dog Annie?”

“She’s an old peach,” says blondie. “She starts drinkin’ double Martinis about six an’ by midnight she’s good an’ high. Then she comes in here an’ takes in a cargo of hot dogs. She says it sorta absorbs the poison an’ stops her from seein’ handsome cowboys where there ain’t any. That’s how she got the monniker.” She pipes down. “Hold everything, here she is,” she mutters.

I screw around.

Some dame has just blown in an’ she is certainly an eyeful. She is wearin’ a sorta jumper an’ a pair of blue hikin’ shorts. She has gotta pair of sand shoes on, an’ a jag that woulda lasted any ordinary guy for about three years. But in some funny way she has got class ... if you know what I mean.

She goes over to a table an’ flops down. Behind the counter the girls are busy. They have gotta plate of hot dogs an’ a large cup of coffee all ready, an’ I pick it up an’ take it over an’ put it on the table in front of this dame.

She takes a look at me.

“An’ who might you be?” she says.

“Me ... I’m a guy who believes in fairies,” I say. “Listen, lady,” I go on before she can pull anythin’. “Maybe you can help me. The girls here tell me that you gotta job for some guy I’m lookin’ for—a guy called Jeremy Sagers. I got some good news for this guy—some palooka’s left him some dough.”

She goes into a huddle with a hot dog.

“I got him hired at the Miranda House,” she says, “but he was so lousy they gave him the air. Then he fixed himself up. He’s workin’ at a dump way out on the desert—the Hacienda Altmira—an’ as far as I’m concerned he can have it.”

She starts cryin’. This dame is plumb full of stagger-juice.

“Take it easy,” I say, “an’ tell me where this Altmira is.”

She comes back to earth.

“Go through the town an’ keep goin’, cowboy,” she says, “an’ when you’re out the other side turn right at the gas station an’ take the desert road. Keep goin’ some more an’ when you’ve done about thirty miles an’ there ain’t much more road, you’ll see it away on the right. Only if I was you I’d leave your bank roll behind. They’re funny guys out there.”

I say thanks a lot; I pay redhead an’ I scram.

I drive fast an’ plenty. Bit by bit I get out into the desert. I pass plenty places, road houses, an’ hang outs an’ a dude ranch or two. Pretty soon they start stringin’ out, an’ a bit after that there ain’t nothing, nothin’ but foothills an’ Joshua trees, cactus an’ highway. The speedometer says I have done twenty, an’ so I start singin’ Cactus Lizzie again, because I have found that whenever I sing this song I seemta go faster.

I am wonderin’. I am wonderin’ just how this guy Sagers has been gettin’ along an’ if he has found life interestin’ around here. I get to thinkin’ about him. He is a young sorta guy....

Then I see the dump. The road has sorta tailed off an’ is good an’ bumpy. It curves around to the right an’ inside the curve, stuck right in the middle of a swell spot of desolation, is this Hacienda Altmira. It is the usual sorta adobe building, with a plaster veranda all the way round, an’ a laid out front with some ornamental cactus stuck around. There is a bunch of neon lights over the front, an’ as I get near I can hear hot music. Some guys are playin’ guitars an’ playin’ ’em good.

I find a place for the car an’ leave it. When I say I find a place for it I mean I leave it on one side of this dump in the shadow of a mud wall just so’s I can put my hand on it quick if I wanta get outa this place in a hurry. There have been times before when I have wanted to vacate some spot very quickly an’ I have always found it is not good to have your car stuck right in the front of the place where some guy can stick a knife in the tires.

I go in the front door. The place is built Mexican fashion, an’ there is a sorta passage with a curtain at the end. The guitar playin’ is comin’ from the other side of the curtain. I string along the passage an’ pull the curtain an’ lamp in.

I am surprised. The place is sweller than I thought. It is a big adobe walled room with a wooden floor. Dead opposite me is a bar and by the side of the bar is a flight of stone steps leadin’ up the wall, turning left to some room halfway up an’ then turning right an’ leadin’ on to a wooden balcony that goes all around the room, except on the side to my left which has got big screens from floor to ceilin’. There are tables set all around the place and there are a bunch of people stickin’ around.

In the middle of the tables there is a floor that has been planed down an’ polished, an’ dancin’ on this floor, doin’ a heavy tango with a dame that is old enough to be his mother, is what looks to me like the desert’s swellest gigolo.

He is tall an’ slim an’ supple an’ he is wearin’ a pair of Mexican breeches, a silk shirt, an’ a silly smile, an’ he is pushin’ this dame around as if he would rather have been flirtin’ with a rattlesnake. The band, four guys in chaps on a little platform on the left of the bar, is hittin’ up some swell Spanish stuff, an’ there are four or five other guys stickin’ around the bar. Most of these guys is wearin’ cowboy chaps, or breeches, an’ I reckon that maybe they come from some of the dude ranches that I passed on my way.

From above my head, in some room leadin’ off the balcony I reckon, I can hear a lotta laughin’ an’ conversation. At a table away on the left near the windows three guys who look like Mexicans are havin’ a few words over some tequila. On the right, there is a party of pretty high guys in tuxedos with some women wearin’ some swell jewellery, an’ as I have not seen any cars around this place I reckon that there must be a garage on the other side of the house where I couldn’t see it.

When I go in the guys at the bar take a look at me, an’ then go back to their wisecrackin’ with the fly-lookin’ jane who is workin’ the bar.

I pick myself a table on the edge of the dance floor, an’ I sit down. After a bit some guy, who looks like he would die any minute, he is so thin, comes over and says what do I want. I give him an order for some ham an’ eggs an’ a lotta whisky an’ he goes off. I then amuse myself watchin’ the guy on the dance floor doin’ his stuff.

He goes on pushin’ this dame around an’ by the way the guys who are playin’ the guitars are lookin’ I can see that there is a big laugh somewhere. Maybe they think that the big boy is playin’ her for a sucker, and I gotta admit that he is certainly goin’ on like a hired dance partner. When they come around opposite me he turns her around so that he is lookin’ at me an’ he gives me a sorta apologetic grin an’ a double wink.

After a bit the boys stop playin’ an’ the couple go off to a table where I can see there is a bottle of champagne, and then after a minute some guy in a swell cut tuxedo an’ a silk shirt comes outa the room halfway up the stairs. He sees me an’ sorta smiles an’ runs down the stairs an’ comes across to me.

“Good night to you, señor,” he says. “I am mos’ pleased to welcome you to Altmira. I ’ope you get everything you want.”

I grin.

“Me too,” I tell him.

Then I shut up.

“You are in thees neighborhood a long time?” he asks me. “I deed not theenk I ’ave seen you before. You see, señor, you are ver’ lucky to find us open at thees time—eet is nearly three o’clock—but tonight we ’ave a little party ’ere as you see. I ’ope we shall see you some more.”

The waiter guy comes back with the whisky. I pour myself a stiff shot an’ pass the bottle to this guy.

“Have a drink,” I tell him, “an’ who might you be?”

He smiles an’ waves his hand that he don’t want a drink.

“I am Periera,” he says. “I manage thees place, Eet is a ver’ good place, when you get to know eet.”

“Swell,” I tell him. “I’m sticking around the neighborhood for a bit,” I go on, “so you’ll see some more of me.”

He grins an’ he goes off.

After a bit the waiter comes in with my ham an’ eggs an’ I start eatin’. After a bit the guitar guys start playin’ again, an’ sure as a gun the gigolo guy gets up an’ starts cavortin’ around with the dame. This old lady is so keen on doin’ a hot rumba that it looks as if she is goin’ to bust outa her dress at any minute.

As they come swayin’ around my way, I swallow some whisky quick an’ make out that I am a little bit high. When they get opposite me I look up at the guy an’ I grin. He grins back.

“H’yah, sissy?” I say, good an’ loud.

You coulda heard a pin drop. The party on the right stop drinkin’ an’ the guys at the bar spin around. The big boy stops dancin’ an’ takes the dame back to the table an’ then he walks sorta casually over to me.

“An’ what did you say?” he asks me.

“I asked you how you was, sissy,” I tell him.

This guy is quick. He takes one step forward, an’ as I am about to get up he kicks my feet sideways an’ busts me in the nose at the same time. I go down with a wallop, but I am pretty quick an’ I shoot after him an’ mix it. I put up a quick uppercut, which he sidesteps an’ when I try a straight one he blocks it. I get hold of his shirt an’ yank him over to me an’ he trips me, Japanese scissor fashion, an’ we go down again. The band has stopped playin’ an’ as I flop I can see Periera comin’ across.

As I go to get up sissy smacks me down again, an’ when I do get on my feet I am lookin’ not quite so hot.

I stand there swayin’ a bit as if I was high, an’ I let out a hiccup so’s they’ll be certain.

Periera stands smilin’ at me.

“Señor,” he says. “I am sorry that you should make some troubles with people in my service. Pleese don’t do eet some more. Eef you are hurt I am sorry.”

He starts brushin’ off my coat where it is dusty.

The sissy has gone off back to his table to the dame. I look across at him.

“Pleese not to start sometheen else, Señor,” says Periera. “We do not like some troubles here.”

I flop down in my chair.

“I guess you’re right at that,” I tell him. “I guess I had too much before I come here an’ anyhow he was right to smack me in the puss. It looks like he ain’t as big a sissy as he looks,” I go on.

He smiles.

“Listen, Periera,” I say. “You go across to that guy an’ tell him I’m damn sorry, an’ that I’d like him to come an’ have a drink with me so’s there ain’t any feelin’s over this. I’m goin’ over there for some air.”

I get up an’ I stagger across the room to the side where the windows are, an’ I pick a table in the corner. Periera goes across to the sissy an’ speaks to this guy, an’ after a bit he gets up, says something to the fat dame an’ comes over. As he stands facin’ me he hands me the double wink again.

“Listen, pal,” I say, nice an’ loud, “I reckon that was a not very hot thing to say to you. I reckon that if you are a sissy then I’m in Iceland. Sit down an’ have a drink on it.”

We shake hands an’ he sticks something in my hand. I yell for the waiter guy an’ get the whisky an’ glasses brought over. Nobody much is payin’ any attention to me now, the fun bein’ over, an’ after I have poured the drinks I light a cigarette an’ start waggin’ my head an’ smilin’ like I was makin’ a lot of light talk.

Under the table I look at what he put in my hand. It is his Federal badge. I slip it back to him.

“O.K. Sagers,” I tell him, smilin’ nice an’ polite, with a swell hiccup, for the benefit of all concerned. “What do you know?”

He gives himself a cigarette an’ under cover of lightin’ this he starts talkin’ quick, smilin’ an’ gesticulatin’ like we was havin’ some airy conversation.

“Plenty,” he says, “but nothing that seems to look like anything. I come out to Palm Springs an’ started to muscle around for a job. Told ’em I’d been tryin’ for extra work at the coast studios. I contact some old lady who gets me a job at the Miranda, but pretty soon I see this is the job I want, so I get myself fired. The only way I can get in here is by doin’ this pansy dancin’ partner act.

“This place is the berries. They got everything. They’ll take you for a toothpick. There’s some play goes on upstairs that would make the Federal Reserve Bank look like a five an’ ten, an’ the roulette wheel’s so crooked that one night when some guy won something the croupier went into a decline. The guy over in the corner with the fancy moustache is runnin’ nose candy. This is the feller who beat the New York Narcotic Squad to it three years back—what he don’t know about sellin’ drugs could be typed on the back of a stamp. The guys who come here ain’t so hot, neither. Some of ’em are the usual Palm Springs daddies lookin’ for somethin’ swell with curves an’ some of ’em look like they could do with ten to fifty years. The women are a mixed bunch. Some of ’em work here an’ some I don’t know. There’s all sorts of janes around here.”

He pushes the bottle over.

“What’s your front?” he asks.

“I’m fakin’ to come from Magdalena, Mexico,” I tell him. “I’m supposed to be bringin’ you some news that a guy’s left you some money an’ that I’ve got a roll on account for you. That gets you outa here. Then I’m aimin’ to stick around for a week or so before goin’ back—that is unless something breaks. Now ... where’s the dame?”

“She’s around,” he says. “She gets me guessin’ an’ she’ll get you guessin’, Caution. If she owns this place then I’m a greaser. The manager guy Periera treats her like she was nothin’. She does a hostess act around here an’ looks like she could bite a snake’s head off. She’s permanently burned up. She’s got class an’ she dresses like a million dollars. The real boss is Periera.”

“Does she live here?” I ask him.

“Nope. There’s a little rancho, way back over the intersection off towards Dry Lake. She lives there. It ain’t far—about ten miles from here. I’ve cased it. Usually there ain’t anybody around there except some woman who cleans up. Pretty often there ain’t anybody there at all.”

“O.K.” I tell him. “Now listen. In a coupla minutes I’m goin’ to blow outa here an’ take a look at this ranch. If there ain’t anybody around maybe I’ll have a look inside. When I scram you spill the beans about how this guy in Arispe has left you this dough an’ that you’re firin’ yourself an’ goin’ to Mexico to collect. Tomorrow mornin’ pack up an’ get out. Go into Palm Springs an’ make a big play that you are goin’ to Mexico. See the Chief of Police an’ tell him to lay right off this dump while I’m stickin’ around. Tell him to tell the bank manager here to keep his trap shut about that counterfeit bond. Then fade out for the border by car. When you’re well away switch; ditch the car at Yuma, grab a plane an’ get back to Washington. Tell ’em I’m here an’ all set. Got me?”

“I got you,” he says. “But I don’t like it, Lemmy. I sorta got an idea in my head that somebody around here’s leery to the fact that I ain’t an honest-to-god film extra bein’ a dancin’ partner. I reckon they’re suspicious.”

“So what?” I tell him. “Suspicion don’t hurt nobody. O.K. Sagers.”

We start drinkin’ an’ talkin’ again, an’ after a bit I put up a big act of shakin’ hands with him, an’ call for the bill. I pay it an’ give a big buenos noches to Periera who is stickin’ around the entrance, smilin’ like he was in heaven, an’ then I get the car an’ scram.

I drive along till I come to the intersection an’ I take the main desert road. It’s still plenty hot. I step on it an’ pretty soon I see this ranch. It is the usual sorta place. I pull up behind a joshua tree an’ get out an’ take a look around. There ain’t no lights an’ there ain’t a sign of life. I go around the back an’ it’s just the same. There is a stake fence around this place an’ after a bit I find a gate an’ I go through. I amble up to the back veranda an’ knock on the door, but nobody don’t take any notice.

I think I will try a fast one, so I put in a little heavy work on the door with a steel tool I got, an’ in about two minutes I’ve got the lock open as good as any professional buster-in coulda done it an’ I step inside.

I pull out my electric flash. I am in a sorta little hallway that is furnished not too bad. In front of me is a passage leadin’ through to the front hall an’ doors each side. At the end of this passage on the right is some stairs leadin’ to the floor above. I reckon that maybe what I am lookin’ for is likely to be in a bedroom, so I ease along the passage an’ up the stairs an’ start gumshoein’ around tryin’ to find the dame’s bedroom.

There is four bedrooms up there. One looks like a hired girl’s room an’ the other is a sorta store room—there is all sorts of junk lying around. On the other side of the hall there are the other two rooms. One of ’em might belong to anybody, an’ it don’t have any special features that attract my attention. When I try the last door I find it is locked an’ so I think that maybe this is the room I am lookin’ for.

I take a look at the lock an’ I think that it might fall for the spider key I got in my pocket, an’ I try it out an’ it works. I have the door open pronto an’ go in. Directly I get into the room I can smell that this is what I am lookin’ for—the perfume comes up an’ hits me. It’s swell—I always did like Carnation.

I go over an’ pull the shades over the windows before I switch on the flash, an’ then I take a look around.

It is a dame’s room all right. There is a wrap lyin’ over the back of a rest chair, an’ there is a long line of the swellest shoes you ever saw. Oh boy, was they good? There is little shiny patents with French heels an’ there is dress shoes in satin an’ crepe-de-chine. There is polished brown walkin’ shoes, ridin’ boots an’ a pair of pink quilted satin mules that woulda knocked a bachelor for the home run. I tell you these shoes was swell. They sorta told you that the dame who owned ’em knew her way about, an’ I reckon that if the rest of her kit was on the same level, well, she was an eyeful any time.

I nose around. I am tryin’ to figure out where a dame—a clever dame—would hide some papers so that nobody would guess where to find ’em supposin’ they figured to look. I reckon that either she’d have ’em stuck on her body an’ carry ’em around, or she’d put ’em in an innocent sorta place where no smart guy would think of lookin’ for ’em.

Over in the corner is a pile of books standin’ on a little table. I go over an’ look at ’em. I run the pages of the top books through my fingers an’ they are O.K. but when I grab the fourth book—a leather-bound book of poetry, do I get a kick or do I? Somebody has cut a big square out of about fifty pages in the book, an’ stuck inside is a packet of letters. I look at the address on the envelope of the top one, an’ I do a big grin because it is addressed to Granworth C. Aymes at the Claribel Apartments, New York City.

It looks as if I have pulled a fast one on Henrietta. I stick the packet of letters in my pocket, put the books back, close an’ lock the door behind me an’ scram downstairs. I stick around for a bit just to see if anybody has been tailin’ me, but everything is O.K.

I go out the same way as I come in, an’ fix the back door so’s it looks all right. I go over to the car an’ I head back, intendin’ to take the main desert road back to Palm Springs, but before I have gone far I come to the conclusion that I will go back to the Hacienda Altmira an’ just have a look around an’ see how the party is goin’.

I am there in about fifteen minutes.

The electric sign is turned off an’ the place is all dark. There ain’t a sign of anything. Way up on the top floor facin’ me I can see a little light comin’ between the window shades.

I go up to the entrance an’ it is all fastened up. Then I think of the screens around on the left, an’ I get around there. They are locked too, but they are pretty easy, an’ I have one open pronto.

The moon has come up an’ there is a lot of it tricklin’ through a high window above the bar.

I shut the screen behind me an’ start easin’ across the floor. I am keepin’ quiet an’ if you asked me why I couldn’t tell you. It just seems sorta strange that this place shoulda closed down so quick—especially when everybody looked like they was having such a swell time.

When I get past the band platform, where the bar starts, I stop and take a look, because from here I can see the bottom of the adobe stairs that lead up the side of the wall. There is a piece of moonlight shinin’ on the stairs an’ as I look I can see somethin’ shinin’. I go over an’ pick it up. It is the silver cord that Sagers was wearin’ in his silk shirt, an’ there is a bit of silk stickin’ to it, so it looks like somebody dragged it off him.

I turn off the flash an’ stick around. I can’t hear nothin’. I lay off the upstairs an’ start workin’ around the walls, nice an’ quiet, feelin’ for door knobs. I miss the entrance wall because I know that the passage leads straight out front.

I get over the bar because I figure that there will be a door behind, probably leadin’ upstairs an’ connectin’ with the balcony some place. There is a door all right an’ I have to spider it open because it is locked. On the other side is a store room. I go in an’ use my flash. The room is about fifteen feet square an’ filled with wine an’ whisky cases an’ a coupla big ice boxes. There is empty bottles an’ stuff lyin’ all over the place.

I ease over an’ look in the first ice box. It is filled with sacks. In the second ice box I find Sagers. He is doubled up in a sack an’ he has been shot plenty. I reckon he was on the run when they got him because he is shot twice in the legs an’ three times through the guts at close range afterwards. I can see the powder burns on his shirt. Somebody has yanked his neck cord off him an’ torn his shirt open.

I put him back in the ice box an’ close it like it was. Then I get outa the store room, lock the door with the spider an’ mix myself a hard one in the bar. I get over the bar an’ scram out the way I come in.

I go back to the car an’ drive towards Palm Springs.

It’s a hot night; but it wasn’t so hot for Sagers.