Madball (14 page)

"Not tonight, Sammy. You run right
- Say, were you coming from the G-top?"

"Yeah, Mr. Evans. Jesse's playin' cards there."

"Who else is playing?"

"Uh, let's see, there's Jesse and Mr. King and Mr.-
I forget his name, the man that throws knives, and, uh-"

"
Joe Linder?"

"Yeah, Mr. Linder and
-
one or two more, but I can't remember, Mr. Evans."

"Thanks, Sammy. Now run along
.
"

"Can't I please look at pitchers?"

"No."

"Gee, Mr. Evans, I won't bother you none. I'll just-" His hand lashed out and caught Sammy on the side of the face, a backhand blow. Not hard enough to hurt badly, but surprise made Sammy take a backward step and fall over a guy rope. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the midway.

"Sammy, wait!" he called. When the kid kept on running, he swore to himself.

Why had he lost his temper and done a silly thing like that? Just because his nerves were tighter than piano strings and he hadn't thought. Now Sammy might go squawking to Jesse and
-
oh, hell, Jesse wouldn't make trouble over a little thing like that. Maybe tomorrow Jesse'd ask him why he'd hit the kid, and he'd have a good story for that, one that would put Sammy in the wrong. All he had to tell Jesse was about Sammy having come into his trailer while he wasn't there and getting into those pornography books. If he told Jesse that, Jesse would beat the hell out of Sammy.

And now that he remembered that, Sammy really had had that sock coming. Just the same, his hitting Sammy still worried him because it showed how tense he was inside. He'd better start calming down and controlling himself before he made a real mistake.

He strolled over to the G-top and went in. Sammy wasn't there, which was good; it meant he hadn't come running to Jesse. There was a nickel-and-dime crap game going on a blanket at one side, mostly rideboys and roustabouts. And six players at the poker table, Quintana and Linder among them. He strolled around behind Linder to watch.

On the pot that was being played everyone had thrown in their cards except Quintana and Barney King. Quintana had only a few dollars' worth of chips left in front of him but the pot was a big one There must have been a lot of raising and counter-raising if the game was still holding the usual dollar limit because the pot must have had well over twenty dollars in it. Barney said, "And one more to you," putting in two blue chips. Quintana picked up two blue chips to raise back and then hesitated and put in only one of them. "Call," he said. Barney said, "Four hooks," and put down his hand, four sevens. Quintana swore and threw in his cards. He counted his remaining chips and The Murderer counted them with him. One dollar one, two quarter ones and five dime ones, two bucks. The next hand he went into beyond the ante would break him unless he won with it.

The Murderer put his hand on the back of Linder's chair and let his forefinger tap Linder's shoulder blade twice. Then he strolled out. He heard Linder behind him say, "Deal me out one. Be right back."

He waited outside until Linder joined him and they walked far enough to be out of earshot. Then he said, "Dolly went to your place about half an hour ago. You weren't there so maybe she thinks you stood her up." Linder shook his head. "She knows what the score is now. She brought Quintana a sandwich, so she knows I'm playing in the game too. She knows I'll quit right after Leon does and be waiting after that."

"Good deal. Guess she went to your place before she knew that, to try to tell you Leon was playing and she might get there late or never."

"Not too late, it looks like now. Quintana had a run of luck for a while but it changed on him. Say, thanks again for fixing this up. If I can ever do anything-"

"Forget it, Joe. Dolly's a swell kid. She deserves a break and a chance to get away from that lousy bastard."

Linder's voice was a growl. "She'll get away all right."

Back in his trailer, The Murderer turned on the light and made himself a drink. Everything was on the beam again and he could even take a little time out before he went back to his watching. Even if Quintana had lost his remaining two bucks and was back in his quarters already, it would be a good half hour before Dolly would risk sneaking out on him.

The drink tasted good and helped his nerves a lot. He wouldn't pull another boner like hitting Sammy. Thinking about that reminded him, though, of something he'd been intending to do and had plenty of time for now. He took the pornography books from the compartment; it would be a good idea to keep them in a place where Sammy wouldn't be able to find them if he ever came back. He put them in one of the two compartments under the seats of the eating nook. Sammy would open doors and drawers but it would never occur to him to look for compartments that didn't show as such.

He finished his drink leisurely, then turned out the light and went back to the window.

Everything's going to be all right, he told himself; just keep calm, don't get excited or worried.

And gradually the panic came back to him, the realization that there were still a dozen ways in which his plan could go wrong.

Was it worth all this just to be able to finish the season and leave without anyone suspecting him? Why didn't he just run with the money, as he had planned to do if he hadn't been able to kill Mack Irby?

Why didn't he do it right now? The money, the gun, the disguise, the change of license plates for his car. People, including cops, would wonder why he'd disappeared, but would there be much of a search for him? Nobody knew about the money. He'd be safe unless Dolly blabbed and they started looking for him for killing Irby.

Wasn't every step he took increasing his risk instead of diminishing it?

He could be away from here in minutes. He made a point of keeping the car unhitched from the trailer and pointing outward so he could get it off the lot quickly.

Thirty seconds to grab the suitcase and take off in the car. Gun already in his pocket. And he knew, had already picked out, the alley off the main drag and just a few blocks from the lot where he could stop to change license plates and put on the quick disguise, the one that would serve until he'd have time to work out a permanent one.

Almost he decided to do it, this very instant.

But then he remembered that, no matter how well he did in building a new identity for himself, all the rest of his life would be hiding, fearing. And that if everything did go all right tonight, there'd be none of that. He'd be rich and safe beyond all question.

Again he was sweating.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DOLLY HEARD FOOTSTEPS and the scrape of lifting canvas, then Leon's voice. "Doll?"

For a second she held her intention to pretend that she was already asleep, then she realized that she wanted to know, had to know right this moment, whether he was back for the night or whether this was just an inspection trip. And also how late it was; the wait had seemed like many hours to her but that might have been because of her impatience. So she rolled over and said sleepily, "Yeah, Leon. Wha' time is it?"

"'Bout a quarter after one." That was good; it wasn't as late as she'd feared. She could see him now, sitting on his trunk and already twisting the cap off the whisky bottle. She saw him tilt it and heard the gurgle as he took a long drink. He put the bottle down. Then he was unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers. That meant he was staying. But it was cool; he'd hardly be taking off his shirt unless he intended to get right into bed and that might be the only drink he'd take. Would it be enough? Better get him talking. If she drank with him, he'd get started talking and keep on drinking while he talked.

She sat up. "Can I have a drink, Leon?" As he reached for the bottle to hand it to her she took the tumbler that was on her trunk and had it ready. "I'll pour a little in this. I'd rather just sip at it." She poured herself a short one in the tumbler, kept it in her hand as she gave him back the bottle. She'd just pretend to sip at it and when he wasn't looking, a little later, she'd pour it out on the ground. Or if she didn't get a chance to, she could probably drink it safely. Such a tiny drink, just one finger, wouldn't make her go to sleep if she fought against it. She asked, "How'd the poker go?"

Her hand around the tumbler concealed how little she'd poured. She tilted the glass back against closed lips and then lowered it, no longer bothering to conceal the quantity. He'd think she'd poured twice that much and had drunk half of it the first swallow.

Leon said, "Lousy." His voice was a growl but he wasn't really annoyed. He slid off the trunk without finishing taking off his shirt and sat on the ground instead, leaning back against the trunk. Making himself comfortable; it was all right now. He took another pull at the bottle.

He put the bottle down and opened his shirt to scratch his chest. Looking at him, Dolly wondered what had ever made her love him. He looked greasy. He wasn't, really; his skin was smooth to the touch, like a woman's, and he was proud of it, but maybe because it was so deep an olive color, it always looked as though it was oily even though it wasn't. And his hair so black and straight, always looked as though he'd plastered it down with vaseline.

No, he wasn't even handsome, although she'd thought him so once. His features were too regular, his eyes too darkly bright, staring at her so intently. Like a snake's eyes. And he moved sinuously and gracefully like a snake, like a boa constrictor, and with a boa's lazy strength, too.

His teeth flashed white in a sudden grin at her. "Anyway I got sense enough to know when to quit. Don't drop nearly a hundred bucks like some of those guys do sometimes. But damn, I wish my stake had lasted longer."

Dolly knew he didn't expect an answer.

He said, "Started off good. Then I got a flush and that son of a bitch King had a full. Half a dozen hands later I get a full myself, a aces full. And King's got four sevens."

He talked on. That was good; he felt like talking now and that meant he'd finish the bottle. And, in the process, get himself into a mellow mood which would be insurance against his wanting her when he finally came to bed.

"Y'know, Doll
-
you're a good kid. I don't always treat you right."

The sentimental vein already. Safe now. He never wanted her physically when he acted sentimental.

But she hurried to answer, "Sure you do, Leon," to reassure him because if she agreed that he treated her badly he'd turn sullen, then angry and
-
oh, it was so crazy the way he could like her and feel affection for her but could want her only when he was mad.

"Anyway, you're a good gal, Doll," he was saying. "And someday I'm going to hit a lucky streak an' buy you diamonds. Or maybe we'll have a show of our own and
...
" It, didn't matter what he said as long as he kept on drinking until the bottle was empty. And he did, and then he stood up and yawned. She poured out the rest of her whisky as he bent over the trunk to put down his shirt. He finished undressing down to the shorts he slept in and got under the blankets. "Night, Doll."

Within a minute his breathing was slow and regular. She thought, I'll count to a thousand slowly and if he hasn't moved or changed breathing
- One-two-three -
but other thoughts kept coming in. Somewhere in the eighties or nineties she lost track and started at eighty again just to be sure. But when she got a little past a hundred she lost track again and gave up, knowing she could never keep her mind on counting long enough to get to a thousand. Instead she let herself think for a while, for as long as she guessed to be about ten minutes, about what was going to happen so soon now.

Leon hadn't moved and his breathing hadn't changed except to get a little slower and a little louder, so she slid quietly out from under the covers. She hesitated, wondering whether to put on panties and bra, stockings. But that would be silly. She pulled off the slip and put the gingham dress on again, just that over her naked body. She stepped into slippers and went to the canvas sidewall. She stood there what must have been a full minute listening.

She raised the canvas only an inch at a time and only high enough for her to crawl under it, then stood listening again outside. Even through the canvas she could still hear his breathing, undisturbed.

She wanted to run now, but forced herself to walk quietly. Around behind the tops but not too far from them, keeping in the shadows as much as she could.

Then she stood in front of Joe's sleeping top. She looked around quickly to be sure nobody was watching. Evans' trailer, dark, stood near; if he was looking out the window he'd be seeing her, but that wouldn't matter; he already knew. And why, anyway, would he be watching? She hoped someday she'd be able to pay him back for what he'd done for her tonight.

No one was in sight and she went in quickly without calling out. Joe's arms were around her almost before the flap fell. He whispered, "Dolly!" Then he was kissing her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE MURDERER SIGHED with relief. Dolly had got away from Leon and now she was with Joe. The first hurdle.

He'd glanced at his watch just as she'd gone in. Six minutes after two o'clock. Give them till half past, he decided. Twenty-four minutes, just to be sure, in case they did any talking first. Not that it really mattered how Quintana found them; he'd kill them just for being alone together. But hell, why not be kind to Joe and Dolly and let them have a little time together, as long as it wasn't long enough that there'd be any chance of Dolly leaving to go back to her own bed? Give them that much of a break, at least. Twenty-four minutes. Maybe thirty overall, counting the time it would take him to start the ball rolling.