shearing away of all but the utterly practical, as pastoral man was caught up in an industrial society.
She was an extreme case, yes, as was he. But the tenant farmer's shack and the hotel room were merely the outer limits of a world which inevitably shaped everyone. He did not need to wonder about her thoughts when her schoolbooks had related the adventures of Mary Jane and her Magic Pony. He suspected that in a different way they had been akin to his as he had read of the joyous conspiracy between Bunny Rabbit and Mr. Stork (while the couple overhead were damned near pounding the bed apart).
So she wept, and he wept a little with her. Not for the idealized dream of things past, but for the immutable realities of the present. Not for what had been lost but for what had never been. Not for what might have been but for what could never be.
Then, having wept, she sniffed, straightened and smiled. And she declared that she was going right out dime store shopping again. For everything else might be gone, but hope was not. And everywhere there was evidence that what could be dreamed could be realized.
This morning, as she always did, she had planned an early start. And despite the delay on his account, it was only a little after nine when she departed.
Some thirty minutes later, bathed, shaved, and dressed, Mitch was seated on the terrace, reading the morning paper while he ate a leisurely breakfast.
He could not remember when he had felt so content with himself, so sure that the world was an oyster on which he had an irrefutable claim. Houston was a hell of a town-hadn't he always said so? He had known it was going to be a good trip, and it was proving better than good. Thirty-three big ones from Stinker Lord, and another eighteen from Zearsdale. Fifty-one grand in the kitty and the month was still young!
Of course, the outgo had been terrific, too. But-
Turkelson stepped out on the terrace.
He hadn't knocked or rung the buzzer. He had simply opened the door with his pass key, and walked in, and taking one look at his face, Mitch could only thank God that Red was absent. For the manager was clutching something in his hand, a something that could only be one thing.
Mitch got up quickly, guided him back into the living room. He pushed him down on the lounge, and poured a stiff drink for him.
'It's all right, Turk.'
Turkelson grasped the drink greedily. Mitch gently relieved his other hand of its burden.
Checks. Thirty-three thousand dollars worth. All red-ink stamped with the words, PAYMENT REFUSED.
He had known what they were, but seeing them was another matter. He suddenly felt very empty; yet there was a cold and growing lump in his stomach. He could have yelled with the frustration of it, the damnable jinx that seemed determined to turn his best efforts against him.
And instead he laughed easily, and gave Turkelson a reassuring wink.
'Some fun, hey, keed? Is that all they kicked back on you?'
'All!' the manager said. 'My God, isn't that enough?'
'I mean, his legitimate expenses. His hotel bill. He paid that by check too, didn't he?'
'Oh, yeah. Well, that one cleared, Mitch. Twelve hundred dollars and something.'
'And of course you gave him an itemized bill for it,' Mitch 0odded. 'Well…'
So there it was. The Lords might not be able to prove the thirty-three grand had gone for gambling- they could not prove that Winnie hadn't simply kept the money. But proof was not an issue here.
They should have paid the checks. It had been unthinkable that they wouldn't pay them. But since they hadn't-
Turkelson dumped more whiskey into his glass, took a face-reddening swig of it and ripped out a curse. 'Goddammit, Mitch, they can't get away with that! They can't now, can they?'
'We'll have to see. Or rather I will. For the present, it looks like they have done it.'
'But-but it's not legal! They haven't got a leg to stand on!'
'Turk'-Mitch gestured with a trace of impatience. 'What would you like to do? Turn it over to the hotel's attorneys? Have it dragged through every court in the country and us along with it? The Lords would do it you know. They've got lawyers up to the ying-yang, and they like to keep 'em busy.'
'B-But Mitch… if you knew it was that way…'
Mitch snapped that they had both known it was that way. What they hadn't known was that it was going to be this way. 'So all right, it is this way, and let's stop kidding ourselves that it isn't and that they can't do it to us. That's like telling a cop that he can't arrest you. Maybe he's got no right to, but he can sure as hell do it!'
Turkelson gave him a stricken look. Mitch immediately softened his voice.
'Now, it's going to be all right,' he said. 'I'll guarantee that it will. As things stand now, you're thirty-three grand short in your cash. How soon do you have to cover it?'
'Right away. The tariff and cash transcripts go to the home office every day. Of course, I could put the checks through for payment again, and still show 'em as a credit. But…'
Mitch told him he had better not. The checks were certain to bounce again, and an amount that large might arouse inquiries.
'We've crapped out, Turk. There's nothing to do now but pay off.'
He took out his wallet and counted thirty-three thousand dollars onto the table, his mouth tightening unconsciously as he saw how little was left.
Turkelson looked embarrassed. 'Mitch-I, uh, I'm afraid I don't have-'
'Forget it,' Mitch said. 'Just endorse the checks over to me.' He hadn't expected Turkelson to return his ten percent cut of the deal. Turkelson had a mother whom he doted on; a hypochondriacal old battle-axe who had been wasting hospital space and her son's money as far back as Mitch could remember.
Troubled, but obviously relieved, the manager exchanged the checks for the cash. 'This is a hell of a lick for you, Mitch. I know you pull down heavy, but are you sure you can take it?'
'I don't plan on taking it,' Mitch said.
'Oh? What are-'
'See how fast you can get me a plane out to Dallas, will you? I've got to pack a bag.'
He cut off any further questions by leaving the room. An hour later, having left a briefly explanatory note for Red, he was on his way.
18
Dallas.
Big D.
The New York of the Southwest.
This is where you find it, mister. Whatever you're looking for, it's right here.
Fashions? They come all the way from Paris to copy ours. Food? You've never lived until you've tried our restaurants. Financing? We'll take a flier on almost anything.
The world's prettiest, best-dressed women-that's Dallas. The world's smartest, most aggressive business men-that's Dallas.
This is where you find it, mister. Whatever you're looking for, it's right here.
Want to buy a million-dollar jet plane? The first aisle over- right next to those two-bit fishing poles. Want a thousand-dollar-a-night girl? Here you are, sir, and worth every penny of it. Want to jump a broad for a buck? Just look around and you'll find someone as hard up as you are. Want to hire a thousand men? You bet-and you won't find a single Red-Fascist Communistic-CIO labor agitator in the lot. Want to carry a gun? Well, now, that's all right. Want to give someone a schlamming? It can be arranged, sir, it can be arranged. Want to start a hate group? Welcome, friend.
