The Grifters

holiday.'

'All right, all right! Now, we're gonna start all over again and, by God, you better come clean!'

'Officer, there are at least a hundred businessmen here in town who can identify me. I've been selling to them for years, and-'

'Drop it! Drop that crap! Now, what's your right name!'

The same questions over and over. The same answers over and over. Now and then, the cop turned to the wall telephone to pass his information on for checking. But still, the information checking out, he would not give up. He knew what he knew. With his own eyes, he had seen the bunco worked, a punchboard swiftly knocked for three prizes. And Roy's perfect front notwithstanding, how could the clear evidence of grifting be ignored?

He was on the phone again now, his heavy face sullen as he got the answers to his questions. Roy sidled a glance at the bar owner, Bert. He looked at the punchboard on the counter fixedly, and again raised his eyes to Bert. Nodded to him ever so slightly. But he couldn't be sure that Bert got the message.

The cop slammed up the phone. He stared at Roy sourly, rubbed a meaty hand over his face. Hesitating, he tried to form the words which the situation called for, the apology which outraged instinct and flouted the evidence of his own eyes.

From up the bar, Roy heard a dull grinding sound, the garbage disposal.

He grinned quietly to himself. 'Well, officer,' he said. 'Any more questions?'

'That's all.' The cop jerked his head. 'Looks like I maybe made a mistake.'

'Yes? You slam me around and insult me, and treat me like a criminal. And then you say you maybe made a mistake. That's supposed to smooth everything over.'

'Well-' mouth tight, choking over the words. 'Sorry. 'Pologize. No offense.'

Roy was content to settle for that. Savagely, the cop turned on Bert.

'All right, mister! I want the number of your liquor license! I'm turning you in for-for- Where's that punchboard?'

'What punchboard?'

'Damn you, don't you pull that crap on me! The board that was right there on the counter-the one that this guy was playing! Now, you either hand it over or I'll find it myself!'

Bert picked up a rag, and began mopping the counter. 'I usually clean up this time of day,' he said. 'Clear up all the odds and ends of junk, and throw 'em down the garbage disposer. Now, I can't say that I remember any punchboard, but if there was one here…'

'You threw it away! Y-you think you can get away with that?'

'Can't I?' Bert said.

The cop stammered in furious incoherence. He said, 'You'll see, by God, you'll see!' And turning savagely to Roy, 'You too, mister! You ain't got me fooled a damned bit! I'm gonna be on the lookout for you, and the next time you hit this town-!'

He whirled and stalked out of the place. Grinning, Roy sat back down at his stool.

'Acts like he's sore about something,' he said. 'How about another ale?'

'No,' Bert said.

'What? Now, look, Bert. I'm sorry if there was any trouble, but it was your punchboard. I didn't-'

'I know. It was my mistake. But I never make the same mistake twice. Now, I want you to leave and I don't want you to come back.'

Another customer came in, and Bert began to wait on him. Roy arose and walked out.

The dazzling sunlight struck against his face, its strength doubled with the contrast of the cool and shadowed bar. The cold ale-how much had he drunk, anyway?-roiled in his stomach, then uneasily settled back. He wasn't drunk, by any means. He never got drunk. But it wasn't smart to start back to La Jolla without eating.

There was a small restaurant around the next corner, and he had a bowl of soup there and two cups of black coffee. Startled, he noticed the time as he left, five minutes after one, and he glanced around for a telephone. But the place apparently had none; no public phone, at any rate, so he went on out to his car.

It was probably best not to call Moira, he decided. The police would have called her, and he didn't want to make explanations over the phone.

He went back down the long hill to Mission Valley, then took the road left toward the coast. It was about twenty minutes' drive to La Jolla, twenty-five minutes at the outside. Then, he would be back at the hotel with Moira, lightly explaining the cop trouble as a-

A case of mistaken identity? No, no. Something more ordinary, something that might logically evolve from an innocent circumstance. This car, for example, was a rented car. The last driver might have been involved in a serious traffic violation; he had fled, say, from the scene of an accident. So when the police spotted the car this morning…

Well, sure, there were inconsistencies in the story: the police would have known it was a rented car by the license number. But that wasn't up to him to explain. He'd been the victim of a police booboo; who could figure out their mistakes?

A hell of a morning, he thought. It was Bert's punchboard. Why should he get tough with me? What the hell do I care what a barkeep thinks?

Near the intersection with Pacific Highway, the traffic about him thickened, and at the Highway itself it was stalled in a four-lane tangle which two cops were struggling to undo. That didn't jibe with the normal pattern of Monday in San Diego. Traffic wasn't this bad even during the shift-changes at the aircraft plants, and it was the wrong hour for that.

The cars crept forward slowly, Roy's car moving with them. Almost an hour later, near Mission Beach, he turned off the highway and into a filling station. And here he learned the reason for the congestion.

The horses were running at Del Mar. It was the beginning of the local racing season.

In another thirty minutes, the traffic had thinned, and rejoining it, he reached La Jolla some twenty minutes later. So he was very late, and entering the hotel he called Moira's room from the lobby. There was no answer, but she had left a message for him with the clerk.

'Why, yes, Mr. Dillon. She said to tell you she'd gone to the races.'

'The races?' Roy frowned. 'You're sure?'

'Yes, sir. But she was only going to stay for part of the day's program. She'll be back early, she said.'

'I see,' Roy nodded. 'By the way, was there a call from the police about me a couple of hours ago?'

The clerk admitted delicately that there had been, also revealing that there had been a similar call to Mrs. Langtry. 'Naturally, we spoke of you in the highest terms, Mr. Dillon.It was, uh, nothing serious, I hope?'

'Nothing, thanks,' Roy said, and he went on up to his room.

He stood for some time before the French windows, staring out at the sun-sparkled sea. Then, eyes hurting a little, he stretched out on the bed, letting his thoughts roam at will; piercing them together with hunch and instinct until they formed a pattern.

First there was her curiosity about the way he lived, the job he held. Why did he stay on, year after year, at a place like the Grosvenor-Carlton? Why did he cling, year after year, to a relatively small-time commission job? Then, there were her subtle complaints about their relationship: they didn't really know each other; they needed to 'get acquainted.' So he had arranged this excursion, a means of getting acquainted, and how did she use the time? Why, by putting him on his own, at every opportunity. And then sitting back to see what