Because she was different to the rich bitches of the Casino and also somehow vaguely familiar, Chandler paused and smiled at her.
She stopped and regarded him. A cheap brooch of paste diamonds in her hair caught the overhead light and flashed.
'Hello, Jess . . .'
He stiffened, then quickly relaxed. He had no idea who she was. The trouble with me is, he thought wryly, there are too many women in my life. I know I've met her before, but who is she?
'Hello, baby,' he said with his charming smile. 'That's a beautiful body your dress is wearing.'
She laughed.
'You said exactly that very thing two years ago when we met almost right on this spot . . . but you wouldn't remember.'
Then he did remember. Two years ago he had come to Paradise City because a pal of his had the crazy idea of walking into the Casino with ten armed men and clearing the tables. He had quickly backed out of that plan and his pal, discouraged, had decided that maybe the idea wasn't all that hot.
Chandler had liked the City and had stayed on for a week. It was while he was wandering around the back of the Casino that he had met this girl. He even remembered her name. Lolita (that was one hell of a name now) Seravez. She came from Brazil and made a tricky living working the lesser-class restaurants, singing and playing her guitar. But Chandler had found her love technique stimulating and interesting. He had had no trouble about that. They had looked at each other, and there was a sudden fusion, and ten minutes later, they were holding each other on the hot sand, oblivious to anything except their lust.
'Hi . . . Lolita,' he said. 'This is the nicest moment of my life. Let's go somewhere where we can be alone.'
'My Jess . . . the one-track mind.' She regarded him affectionately. 'What are you doing here?'
'Don't let's waste time talking about a thing like that.' He hooked his arm in hers. 'Let's go look at the sea and feel the sand. Baby . . . if you knew how glad I am to see you.'
'I've got the idea,' she said, going with him. 'It's mutual. I'm glad to see you.'
* * *
Washington Smith lit another cigarette. He was sitting by the open window of his small, airless cabin at the Welcome Motel. Maisky had warned him not to -show himself until ten o'clock when he had a rendezvous at Maisky's bungalow. This, Wash accepted. No one wanted to see a shabbily dressed negro on the streets. Questions would be asked. The police would converge on him. People would stare at him in that contemptuous way only the rich whites can stare at a negro.
Mish Collins, stretched out on the bed, was examining the blueprints of the Casino's electrical wiring. He had come over in his hired car to collect Wash. They still had half an hour before they need leave for Maisky's bungalow.
'What are you going to do with your share, Mish?' Wash asked, turning away from the window.
Mish laid down the blueprint. He fed a cigarette to his lips and set fire to it.
'Well . . . three hundred thousand dollars! Yeah, it's a lump of money, isn't it? I've been making plans. I'm going to buy me a small boat. I've always wanted a boat. Nothing very elaborate, but big enough to live on. I'll find me a girl and then she and I will take a look at the Keys. I reckon that would be fun, just to keep sailing, stopping when I feel like it, changing the girl when I get bored with her, eating well. That's the life for me.' He turned on his side so he could look at Wash. 'How about you?'
'I've always wanted to be a doctor,' Wash said. 'I'll use some of the money to train. Then, with the rest of it, I'll buy a practice in New York.'
'For Pete's sake!' Mish was startled. 'Do you think you can make it?'
Wash nodded.
'Of course. Given the means, and if you make up your mind, there isn't anything a guy can't do.'
'Yeah . . . but all that study! Jeepers! It wouldn't suit me. Don't you want a girl, Wash?'
'I want a wife and family, but that will have to wait.' Wash let smoke drift down his flat nostrils. 'Think we are going to get away with this, Mish?'
'Why, sure. Maisky is a real, bright boy. We'll get away with it . . . I promise you that. I wouldn't have brought you into it, Wash, if I hadn't been sure myself.'
'It won't be as easy as he makes out.'
'Well, okay, we can't expect it to be easy. You don't pick up three hundred thousand dollars without sweating a little.'
'No.'
Wash turned back to the window and Mish, after looking thoughtfully at him, picked up the blueprint, but now he found he couldn't concentrate. A doctor! he was thinking. This dinge certainly had big ideas. What the hell makes him imagine anyone would want to be treated by a little smoke like him?
Mish found himself growing resentful. He could understand a guy when he was in the money wanting a woman, a boat and lots to eat and drink, but this idea of becoming a doctor irritated him. Who the hell would want to be a goddam doctor if he had money? he asked himself. That was the point. This was something that jarred his philosophy. He knew a doctor ran around all the time, never had any peace, got night calls, sat in a dreary office listening to people moaning about themselves — jerks who would be better off dead — what an ambition for anyone to have who owned three hundred thousand dollars!
He put down the blueprint and again looked at Wash as he sat staring out of the window. Then he shook his head and shrugged. Well, the hell with it! Why should he care?
