“That’s very nice of you,” Mitch smiled.
But he was thinking, The hell Sam will be back here another year! Not in the same place with a character like you! And then, leaving the office, going down the steps of the administration building, he was fairer about it.
He was used to giving bribes; the major clearly wasn’t used to accepting them. The poor ineffectual bastard had been flattered and persuaded by an expert, honestly convinced no doubt that he had only cooperated in an act of good will. And…who knew? Who knew? Perhaps he also had a nemesis who would make him do things he would never ordinarily do? A dogged and vicious creditor, a disease which impelled the life it was destroying to a last desperate tasting of life, a woman who had had him hunted down just when he thought he had it made…
He knew now that he should have leveled with Red when Teddy first reappeared in his life. But he was afraid of losing her—he and Red hadn’t been together very long at the time. And even with Red knowing and accepting the truth, there would still have been Sam to protect. How could you tell a kid, or let him be told, that his mother was a whore, that she hated him? How would he take it? How could you risk the terrible damage that it might do to him?
He could divorce Teddy, naturally, but that would accomplish nothing. Divorced, she could do just as much as she was doing now. Divorce would crack the whole nasty mess wide open, destroying everything that he had been trying to preserve.
Sighing, he pushed the problem to the back of his mind, putting on a bright face as he came up to Red and Sam. They strolled across to the campus lake together, remained there talking and skipping stones across the water until late afternoon. Then, they returned to the car, and with Sam waving good-bye, Red and Mitch started back to Houston.
Red was looking a little glum, depressed as she always was after leaving Sam. Mitch suggested stopping someplace for a drink and dinner, but Red wasn’t hungry. He gave her a brief one-armed hug, knowing what was coming but knowing of no way to head it off. She led into it by a new route, telling him that she thought Sam knew the true nature of the relationship between them.
Mitch shook his head firmly. “You mean you think he suspects that you’re not really his aunt, don’t you?”
“Well, yes. But—”
“But that doesn’t mean he suspects anything else. No,” he went on. “I think it’s more a matter of wishful-thinking on his part than anything else. He likes you. He’d like to have you for a mother. Therefore, he wishes you weren’t his aunt.”
Red was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly but flatly that she wanted to be Sam’s mother.
“Now, Mitch. Let’s get married right away. We’ve got more than a hundred thousand dollars, haven’t we? That certainly should be enough to—to—”
“To what?” Mitch said. “Just what do we know about anything except what we are doing?”
“Well—well, we can learn, can’t we? My gosh, other people do, and they don’t have a hundred thousand dollars either!”
“We’re not other people. We’ve been living high off the hog for a long, long time, and I think we’d have one hell of a time doing a complete right about-face. As I see it, and you’ve been seeing it the same way, we’d just about have to have enough to retire on. To retire comfortably. Or at least enough to look around on and find something solid before we jump into it.”
“But a quarter of a million dollars, honey! Do we really need that much?”
“We agreed on it. We decided that we’d need every penny of it.”
Red said crossly that they could undecide then. There wasn’t a real reason in the world why they couldn’t get married right now…unless, that is, Mitch no longer wanted to marry her.
“You know better than that!” Mitch said sharply. “My God, what a nasty thing to say!”
“Well…I’m sorry, Mitch. I didn’t really mean it, of course.”
“I should think so!”
“But—but couldn’t we do it, honey? Please?”
“Of course we can,” Mitch said. “But—wait now, Red! Wait a minute! We get married, and then what? Yank Sam out of school?”
“Why, no. Why would we want to do that?”
“But we’d at least have to have some kind of home where he could visit us. And an income to support that home; something legit. Or did you think we could go on with the dice hustle?”
“Oh, of course not, silly! But…”
“Well, then? Were you just planning to go up to the school and tell Sam we were married, period? I don’t quite see what it’ll accomplish, but if that’s what you want…”
Red told him snappishly to just shut up, for God’s sake. He was so darned smart, he ought to hang a medal on himself. Then, after a moment or two, she laughed and patted his cheek.
“Sorry, darling. You’re right, of course. It’s just that when a person wants something so much—”
“We both want it, and we’re going to have it, too,” Mitch said warmly. “Who knows? Houston is a good town. Maybe we’ll make it right here.”
“I’d be satisfied to just make a good chunk of it.”
“I think perhaps we should be kind of preparing Sam for the good news,” Mitch went on, giving things a good push while they were going his way. “Maybe we should drop a hint or two that you’re not really his aunt, that you were a distant relative, say, who was adopted by my family.”
Red said that she guessed they probably should do that. It might be kind of a shock to Sam to tell him abruptly that they were married.
“I know, Mitch!” She turned to him, eyes shining. “We’ll have him come to the wedding! He can be the best man!”
“Wonderful,” Mitch said, basking in her happiness, hating himself for his deceit. “I can hardly wait, honey.”
They reached their apartment early in the evening. Despite his near exhaustion, he again slept badly. The following forenoon, on the grounds of having to see his tax accountant, he drove into the downtown business district.
At the bank, he found he had guessed right about the amount in his safe-deposit box. It contained only three thousand dollars. Three thousand out of the approximate one hundred and twenty-five thousand that it should have held. He took the six five-hundred-dollar bills, bought an equivalent amount of cashier’s checks and mailed them to Teddy.
It had been more than a month since he last sent her money. But he had pointed out at the time that he was sending a considerably larger amount than her regular exorbitant stipend, and that it would have to do her for at least six weeks. He had hoped in this way to get her off his mental back for a while, to free himself of the constant fear and danger of being late with a payment, and what invariably happened if he was late. Now, he knew he had made a colossal blunder.
Teddy had cracked down on Sam, anyway. Without warning, she had thus notified her husband that the payments had gone up. He had proved that he could pay a larger amount, so henceforth he would have to go on doing it.
Driving back to the apartment, Mitch was suddenly struck by the terrifying knowledge that he would have to make another payoff to Teddy in approximately two weeks. By her reckoning, he would “owe” it to her then, and he would have to get it up or else. And barring a miracle, he simply couldn’t do it.
He saw a drive-in restaurant just ahead of him. Turning into it, he ordered coffee; sipped it slowly while he did some rapid mental arithmetic.
Five thousand dollars. That was roughly the amount he had laid on the line at the hotel-apartment. Then, there was the three thousand he had been cheated of at Zearsdale Country Club. Plus a two-grand bribe to the major at Sam’s school. And another three thousand this morning to Teddy.
It added up to an incredible thirteen thousand dollars. Thirteen thousand in less than three days!
He had been close-run to begin with, with really less than he needed to enter a big game. But he could have made out all right, despite the five grand at the apartment. It had been that extra eight thousand that had put him under t
he gun—the club loss, and the bribe, and the money to Teddy. He hadn’t counted on that. Which was stupid of him. In this racket, a man always had to anticipate the disasters which he had no logical reason to fear.
Now…well, just how much cash on hand did he have?
He started to take out his wallet, then firmly thrust it back into his pocket. There was no point in knowing the exact amount. Whatever it was, it would have to be enough. It would be enough.
It always had been, and it would be now.
Driving on to the apartment house, he felt unreasonably cheerful. The fatalistic cheerfulness of a man who has survived the worst that can be handed to him. In the lobby of the building, he ran into Turkelson, who greeted him with the news that Winfield Lord was checking in early. Lord would be there the following night, axiomatically ready for a game. Mitch said that he would go for it—with certain cooperation from Turkelson. The manager happily agreed to give it to him.
So the mood of cheerfulness grew. Stepping onto the elevator, Mitch assured himself that the pendulum was now swinging the other way. He would make a killing here in Houston. He could look forward to nothing but good from now on.
Bad beginning, good ending. Everything bad that could possibly happen had already happened.
It was an excellent hotel-apartment, needless to say. Perfectly insulated to accommodate its air-conditioning. Sound-proofed. A monument to luxury which neither admitted nor emitted noise.
Thus, Mitch had no warning. Not the slightest. He simply stepped into the penthouse and found Jake Zearsdale waiting for him.
11
He was aware that Red was in the room, but he couldn’t look at her. He was aware that she was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it. It wouldn’t register on him. All his senses were concentrated on Zearsdale.
For an endless moment, he stood stock still, barely across the threshold. He was frozen there, unable to speak or move. Then, the inner man took over, and the voice of experience spoke to him—always take the initiative, always face up to the danger. And frowning politely, he advanced on the oil man and held out his hand.
“I hardly expected to see you again, Mr. Zearsdale,” he said coolly. “Red, why don’t you give our guest a drink?”
“She already has, Mr. Corley.” Zearsdale gestured toward a side table. “Your sister has been very good to me. I only hope”—his broad mouth parted in a smile—“that you’ll be equally pleasant. Not that I’d blame you much if you weren’t.”
“My sister and I are always polite to guests,” Mitch said. “We were taught to be as children. Apparently, that isn’t a teaching that penetrated your country club, is it?”
Zearsdale’s heavy face darkened. His sharp eyes glittered coldly, seeming to whet themselves on Mitch’s eyes. Then, he laughed with the sound of ice tinkling on fine crystal.
“Mr. Corley,” he said. “I came here instead of calling because I was afraid you might refuse to accept my call, and what I have to say is important. Now, do I get to sit back down, or are you going to make me speak my piece standing up?”
“Of course, you’re going to sit down,” Mitch smiled, dropping the offended bit. “Let’s freshen your drink a little, too.” He carried the glass over to the bar where Red took charge. She brought him a drink also when she delivered Zearsdale’s.
Mitch studied the oil man as the latter took an incongruously delicate sip. Zearsdale wasn’t covering up, obviously. As he had proved at the club, he behaved pretty much as he felt, not at all moved by the constraints which governed ordinary mortals. Unfriendly, he had shown it. Now, since he was showing friendliness…
“I came here to apologize,” Zearsdale said. “John Birdwell—he’s the man who won that three thousand from you—was cheating.”
“I see,” Mitch nodded.
“Would you mind telling me how you caught on to it, Mr. Corley?”
“It was pretty plain.” Mitch shrugged lightly. “He kept rolling fours and sixes and eights. Never anything but those three numbers. There had to be something wrong.”
“And you accused him of cheating just on that basis? That sounds pretty risky.”
“I thought it was pretty clear-cut. Particularly when he used his dice hand to reach into his pocket.” Mitch paused to light a cigarette. “What tipped you off?”
“We-el…” Zearsdale hesitated. “Maybe it would be easier to explain if I told you something about Birdwell. He worked for me, you know. Assistant vice-president.”
“I believe I’d heard something to that effect.”
“I don’t pay my people big salaries, Mr. Corley. Not what you and I think of as big. There’s just not much point to it, you know, the way taxes are, and it doesn’t give them the feeling of being part of what they’re working for. It’s much better all around, as I see it, to give them stock options to be taken up at staggered intervals. In other words…but I’m sure I don’t have to explain all this to you.”
Mitch said easily that perhaps he’d better, if it was necessary for Red and him to understand it. “Sis and I are much better at spending than earning.”
“Put it this way, then,” Zearsdale went on. “Johnnie—Mr. Birdwell, that is—had been with me for seventeen years. During that time, he received increasingly large stock options. They were better than money, you understand. Every dollar put into them was worth more than two. So Johnnie should have been a wealthy man, comfortably fixed at least. But you started me to thinking about him, and I ran a fast check, and I discovered that what he had was hardly dime one. Let it all slip away from him in one way or another…”
The oil man frowned heavily, seemingly as much offended as bewildered by Birdwell’s bad management. He continued:
“Yes, Johnnie was broke. But he had another one hundred thousand dollar stock option due him in a few days, and he’d already notified me that he was picking it up. Well…” Zearsdale spread his hands. “There it was. Last night I took him into a private room at the club, and searched him. He was using crooked dice, just as you said.”
Mitch shot a quick glance at Red. He frowned unconsciously. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble,” he said.
“Any trouble he has is his own fault,” Zearsdale said. “You’re the injured party, not him, and I’m going to make it up to you…”
He explained how he was going to do it. Mitch choked on an incredulous laugh, and a faint frown puckered the oil man’s brow.
“I say something funny?” he said. “Your sister seemed very pleased by it.”
“I’m sorry,” Mitch said. “We appreciate your offer, of course, but naturally we couldn’t accept it.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because we couldn’t! I mean, it’s impossible. It’s the same as making us a gift of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”
Zearsdale murmured that it wasn’t the same at all. He owed them something for the embarrassment he had caused them and for exposing Birdwell as a cheat. By allowing them to pick up Birdwell’s stock option, at less than half its market value, he was only repaying a debt.
“You’re not depriving anyone of anything, Mr. Corley. The option’s there. If you don’t pick it up, it will simply lapse.”
“I’m sorry.” Mitch shook his head. “I’m sorry, but we just couldn’t.”
He lighted a cigarette, taking his time about it. Very carefully, he shook out the match. A little weakly, he again repeated that he was sorry. Avoiding Red’s eyes; the pained and furious question that was in them.
“You were saying,” Zearsdale persisted, “that you and your sister didn’t know much about business. Now, if you’d like to consult your banker…”
“No, no,” Mitch smiled quickly. “It isn’t that at all.”
“But you won’t accept the offer? I guess I don’t understand that kind of pride, Mr. Corley. But if that’s the way you feel…”
He put down his glass, and suddenly stood up. With a cold nod, he started toward the door. And then Red was abruptly across the
room, apologetically touching his arm.
“Please, Mr. Zearsdale. My brother doesn’t mean to be stuffy, but, well, our funds are pretty well tied up. Invested. We—well, it might be rather difficult to—to—”
Mitch silently cursed her, even as Zearsdale’s face cleared and became friendly.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I can understand that. How long do you think it would take you to shake loose, Mr. Corley?”
“I’m not sure,” Mitch said. “I’m not sure it would pay me to shake loose at all.”
“For a hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Nonsense!” The oil man laughed firmly. “You just put your banker in touch with me. He’ll go for it, regardless of what your set-up is.”
Mitch said that he would see about it. What the hell else was there to say, after Red had booby-trapped him?
“Then it’s all settled,” Zearsdale said. “You call me in a couple of days, okay?”
“Okay,” Mitch said, “and thanks very much.”
They walked to the door together. As they shook hands, a curious expression flickered briefly across Zearsdale’s face. The look of a man who has been struck by a sudden and implausible notion. Then, it was gone and he was gone, and Mitch slowly closed the door.
Red was fixing herself a drink. She tasted it, and turned around to face him.
“Well?” she said, “Well, Mitch?”
“Too bad,” Mitch said easily. “I wish it had been as good as it sounded, honey.”
“You mean it wasn’t? Zearsdale was making all that talk just to stay in practice?”
Mitch chuckled fondly. “Now, baby. Even you ought to know that a guy isn’t going to make us a present of one hundred and fifty grand.”
“What do you mean, even me?” Her eyes flashed. “Just how stupid am I supposed to be, anyway?”
“Let’s drop it,” Mitch said. “Let’s just for God’s sake drop it!”
Red shook her head angrily. “I asked you a question, Mitch, and I want an answer. Why did you turn Zearsdale down? Because it would have forced your hand—given us all the money you say we have to have to get married?”