The Grifters

'The silence I'll buy-a couple of hours of it, after that. You buy the drink, and be sure you rinse your mouth out with it.'

Roy laughed. 'I'll wait for you if you like.'

'Go,' Moira said firmly, closing her eyes and leaning back against the seat. 'Go, boy, go!'

Roy patted her on the flank. Rising, he walked the two cars to the bar-lounge. He was feeling good again, back in form. The brooding introspectiveness of recent days had slipped from him, and he felt like swinging.

As he had expected, the lounge was crowded. Unless he could squeeze in with some group, which was what he intended to do, there was no place to sit.

He surveyed the scene approvingly, then turned to the attendant behind the small bar. 'I'll have a bourbon and water,' he said. 'Bonded.'

'Sorry, sir. Can't serve you unless you're seated.'

'Let's see. How much is it, anyway?'

'Eighty-five cents, sir. But I can't-'

'Two dollars,' Roy nodded, laying two bills on the counter. 'Exact change, right?'

He got his drink. Glass in hand, he started down the aisle, swaying occasionally with the movement of the train. Halfway down the car, he allowed himself to be swayed against a booth where four servicemen sat, jolting their drinks and slopping a little of his own on the table.

He apologized profusely. 'You've got to let me buy you a round. No, I insist. Waiter!'

Vastly pleased, they urged him to sit down, squeezing over in the booth to make room. The drinks came, and disappeared. Over their protests, he bought another round.

'But it ain't fair, pal. We're buyin' the next time.'

'No sweat,' Roy said pleasantly. 'I'm not sure I can drink another one, but…'

He broke off, glancing down at the floor. He frowned, squinted. Then, stooping, he reached slightly under the booth. And straightening again, he dropped a small dotted cube on the table.

'Did one of you fellows drop this?' he asked.

The tat rolled. The bets doubled and redoubled. With the deceptive swiftness of the train, the money streamed into Roy Dillon's pockets. When his four dupes thought about him later, it would be as a 'helluva nice guy,' so amiably troubled by his unwanted and unintended winnings as to make shameful any troubled thought of their own. When Roy thought about them later-but he would not. All his thinking was concentrated on them, the time of their fleecing; in keeping them constantly diverted and disarmed. And in the high intensity of that concentration, in fueling its white-hot flames, he had nothing of them left for afterthoughts. They enjoyed their drinks; his were tasteless. Occasionally, one of them went to the toilet; he could not. Now and then, they looked out the window, remarking on the beauty of the passing scenery-for it was beautiful with the snowy beaches, the green and gold of the groves, the blue-gray mountains and the white houses with red-tiled roofs: strikingly reminiscent of the South of France. But while Roy chimed in with appropriate comments, he did not look where they looked nor see what they saw.

At last, swarming up out of his concentration, he saw that the car had emptied and that the train was creeping through the industrial outskirts of San Diego, the terminus of the rail trip. Rising, wringing hands all around with the servicemen, he turned to leave the bar-lounge. And there was Moira smiling at him from its head.

'Thought I'd better come looking for you,' she said. 'Have fun?'

'Oh, you know. Just rolling for drinks,' he shrugged. 'Sorry I left you alone so long.'

'Forget it,' she smiled, taking his arm. 'I didn't mind a bit.'

17

Roy rented a car at San Diego, and they drove out to their La Jolla hotel. It sat in a deep lawn, high on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Moira was delighted with it. Breathing in the clean cool air, she insisted on a brief tour of the grounds before they went inside.

'Now, this is something like,' she declared. 'This is living!' And sliding a sultry glance at him. 'I don't know how I'll show my appreciation.'

'Oh, I'll think of something,' Roy said. 'Maybe you can rinse out my socks for me.'

He registered for them, and they followed the bellboy upstairs. Their rooms were on opposite sides of a corridor, and Moira looked at him quizzically, demanding an explanation.

'Why the apartheid bit?' she said. 'Not that I can't stand it, if you can.'

'I thought it would be better that way, separate rooms under our own names.Just in case there's any trouble, you know.'

'Why should there be any trouble?'

Roy said easily that there shouldn't be any; there was no reason why there should be. 'But why take chances? After all, we're right across from each other. Now, if you'd like me to show you how convenient it is…'

He pulled her into his arms, and they stood locked together for a moment. But when he started to take it from there, she pulled away.

'Later, hmm?' She stooped before the mirror, idly prinking at her hair. 'I hurried so fast this morning that I'm only half-thrown together.'

'Later it is,' Roy nodded agreeably. 'Like something to eat now, or would you rather wait for dinner?'

'Oh, dinner by all means. I'll give you a ring.'

He left her, still stooped before the mirror, and crossed to his own room. Unpacking his bag, he decided that she was curious rather than peeved about the separate rooms, and that, in any case, the arrangement was imperative. He was known as a single man. Departing from that singleness, he would have to use an assumed name. And where then was his protective front, so carefully and painfully built up through the years?

He was bound to the front, bound to and bound by it. If Moira was puzzled or peeved, then she could simply get over being puzzled or peeved. He wished he hadn't had to explain to her, since explanations were always bad. He also regretted that she had seen him operating in the club car. But the wish and the regret were small things, idly reflective rather than worrisome.

Anyone might do a little gambling for drinks. Anyone might be cautious about hotel registrations. Why should Moira regard the first as a professional activity, and the second as a cover for it-a front which must always accrue to him like a shadow?

Unpacked, Roy stretched out on the bed, surprisingly grateful for the chance to rest. He had not realized that he was so tired, that he could be so glad to lie down. Apparently, he reflected, he was still not fully recovered from the effects of his hemorrhage.

Lulled by the distant throb of the ocean, he fell into a comfortable doze, awakening just before dusk. He stretched lazily and sat up, unconsciously smiling with the pleasure of his comfort. Salt-scented air wafted in through the windows. Far off to the West, beneath a pastel sky, an orange-red sun sank slowly into the ocean. Many times he had seen the sun set off the Southern California coast, but each time was a new experience. Each sunset seemed more beautiful than the last.

Reluctantly, as the phone rang, he turned away from its splendor. Moira's voice came gaily over the wire.

'Boo, you ugly man! Are you buying me dinner or not?'

'Absolutely not,' he said. 'Give me one good reason why I should.'

'Can't. Not over the phone.'

'Write me a letter, then.'

'Can't. No mail deliveries on Sunday.'

'Excuses,' he grumbled. 'Always excuses! Well, okay, but it's strictly hamburgers.'

They had cocktails on the hotel's patio bar. Then, driving farther on in to the city, they ate at a