The Grifters

interested in…'

'I have only one thing, Mr. Carter.' Moira looked at him evenly. 'Are you interested?'

'Well. I'd have to see it, of course. But-'

'You are seeing it, Mr. Carter. You're looking right at it.'

He looked puzzled, then startled. Then, his face assumed something of the same expression it had worn when he was examining the bracelet.

'You know something, Mrs. Langtry? A bracelet like the one you sold us, we seldom run across anything like that. A fine setting and workmanship are usually indicative of precious stones. It always hurts me when I find they're not. I always hope'-he raised his eyes-'that I'm mistaken.'

Moira smiled, liking him better than ever.

'At this point,' she said, 'I think I should say ouch.'

'Say it for both of us, Mrs. Langtry,' he laughed. 'This is one of those times when I almost wish I wasn't married. Almost.'

They walked to the entrance together, the lovely smartly-dressed woman and the homely, clean- looking young man. As they said good-bye, he held her hand for a moment.

'I hope everything straightens out for you, Mrs. Langtry. I do wish I could have helped.'

'Just stay in there and pitch,' Moira told him. 'You're on the right team.'

Very hungry by now, she had coffee and a small salad at a drugstore. Then, she returned to her apartment house.

The manager was on the lookout for her, and he was knocking at her door almost as soon as she had closed it. Curtly, he thrust an itemized bill at her. Moira examined it, her eyebrows raising now and then.

'A lot of money, Charles,' she murmured. 'You wouldn't have padded it a little, would you?'

'Don't you talk to me that way! You owe every doggone cent of it and you know it, and by golly you're going to pay it!'

'Maybe I could get the dough from your wife, do you suppose, Charlie? Maybe your kiddies would crack their piggy banks?'

'You leave them out of this! You go near my family, and I'll-I'll-' His voice broke into a pleading whine. 'Y-you… you wouldn't do that, would you Moira?'

Moira gave him a disgusted look. 'Oh, don't wet your pants, for God's sake! Mark the damned bill paid, and I'll get you the money.'

She turned abruptly and entered her bedroom. Opening her purse, she took out a roll of bills and dropped it on the dressing table. Then, as she undressed swiftly, slipping into a sheer black negligee, her weary frown suddenly broke and she snickered.

Laughing silently, she-spread herself out on the bed.

She often broke into sudden fits of merriment. Faced with some unpleasant facet of the present, she would force her mind away from it, letting it wander vagrantly until it seized upon some ridiculous parallel or paradox. And then, for no apparent reason, she laughed.

Now, the laughter became briefly audible, and Grable called to her suspiciously from the vicinity of the doorway.

'What are you up to, Moira? What are you laughing about?'

'You wouldn't understand, Charles; just a little item from the luncheon menu. Come on in.'

He came in. He looked at her and gulped, then frantically pulled his gaze away.

'I want that m-money, Moira! I want it right now!'

'Well, there it is.' The negligee fell open as she waved a bare foot at the dresser. 'There's the money, and here's little Moira.'

He strode toward the dressing table. Just before he reached it, his step faltered and he turned slowly around.

'Moira, I-I-' He stared at her, gulping again, licking back the sudden saliva from the corners of his babyish mouth. And this time he could not pull his eyes away.

Moira looked down at herself, following the course of his gaze.

'The automatic clutch, Charles,' she murmured. 'It comes with the de luxe upholstery and the highspeed wiry zone.'

He made a little rush toward her. He stopped weakly, a hand held out in wretched appeal.

'P-please, Moira! Please, please! I've been good to you! I've let you stay h-here month after month, and… You will, won't you? Just-'

Moira said, nope, it couldn't be done. All passengers must pay as they entered, and no free passes or rebates. 'That's a strict rule of the Intercourse Commerce Commission, Charles. All common carriers are governed by it.'

'Please! You got to! You j-just got to! ' Almost sobbing, he sagged down on his knees at the side of the bed. 'Oh, God, God, God! D-don't make me-'

'Only one choice to a customer,' Moira said firmly. 'The lady or the loot. So what's it going to be?' And then, as he abruptly flung himself at her, 'As if I didn't know…'

She lay looking up past his shoulder, trying to blot out his panting, thrusting presence. Forcing her mind away from him and to

Roy Dillon. Their last afternoon at the hotel. Why his sudden hemorrhage, anyway, a young guy with an apparently cast-iron stomach? What had happened to bring it on? Or was it really on the level? Could it be some angle his mother was working to break them up?

She looked like an angle-player! Plenty like one! You could see that she was sharp as a tack and twice as hard-anyone could see it that knew their way around. And she was loaded with dough, and…

Moira didn't want to think about her, the snotty little witch! Anything else, but not her! She'd like to do something about her, but-

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. What a character this guy was! What a revolting character! He must be wearing forty dollars' worth of toilet water and hair gook, but it didn't really touch him. It was just sort of wrapped around him, like foil around a chunk of limburger, and when you got down under it-

Ooops! She tightened her lips quickly, her cheeks bulging with repressed merriment. She tried to jerk her mind away from its source, from that darned crazy menu. But it just wouldn't go away, and again she was shaking with laughter.

'Whassa matter?' gasped Grable. 'How can you laugh at a-'

'Nothing. N-never mind, Charles. I j-just-ah, ha, ha, ha-I'm s-sorry, but-ahh, ha, ha ha…'

Luncheon Special. Broiled hothouse tomato under generous slice of ripe cheese.

12

Lilly Dillon's apartment was on the top floor of a Sunset Strip building a few blocks east of the city limits of Beverly Hills. Rented furnished, it consisted of a bedroom, bath, powder room, kitchen, living room, and den. The den was on the rear or south side of the building, and a hospital bed had been put into it for Roy. He lay on it today, in pajamas and bathrobe, its head cranked up so that he could look out over unlimited miles of oil fields, ocean, and beach towns.

He felt lazy and comfortable. He felt restless and guilty. This was the beginning of his third week out of the hospital. He was fully recovered, and there was no valid excuse for his remaining here. And yet he