The Grifters

'Well-' he gestured, his hands suddenly awkward. 'It's certainly simple enough.'

'Yes,' Lilly said. 'It's simple enough. Very simple. And it's something else, too.'

There was a peculiar glow in her eyes, a strange tightness to her face, a subdued huskiness to her voice. Watching him, studying him, she slowly crossed one leg over the other.

'We're criminals, Roy. Let's face it…'

'We don't have to be, Lil. I'm turning over a new leaf. So can you.'

'But we've always had class. We've kept our private lives fairly straight. There's been certain things we wouldn't do…'

'I know! So there's no complications! I can-we can-'

The leg was swinging gently; hinting, speaking to him. Holding him hypnotized.

'Roy… what if I told you I wasn't really your mother? That we weren't related?'

'Huh!' He looked up startled. 'Why, I-'

'You'd like that, wouldn't you? Of course you would. You don't need to tell me. Now, why would you like it Roy?'

He gulped painfully, attempted a laugh of assumed nonchalance. Everything was getting out of hand, out of his hands and into hers. The sudden awareness of his feelings, the sudden understanding of himself, all the terror and the joy and the desire held him thralled and wordless.

'Roy…' So softly that he could hardly hear it.

'Y-Yes?' He gulped again. 'Yes?'

'I want that money, Roy. I've got to have it. Now, what do I have to do to get it?'

Lilly, he said, or tried to say it, and perhaps he did say some of what he meant to. Lilly, you know you can't go on like you were; you know you'll be caught, killed. You know I'm only trying to help you. If you didn't mean so much to me, I'd let you have the damned money. But I've got to stop you. I-I-'

'Maybe-' she was going to be fair about this. 'You mean you really won't give it to me, Roy? You won't? Or will you? Can't I change your mind? What can I do to get it?'

And how could he tell her? How say the unsayable? And yet, as she arose, moved toward him with the tempting grace with which Moira had used to move- Moira, another older woman, who had in essence been Lilly-he tried to tell her. And jumbled as it was, it was enough for Lilly.

Why don't you finish your water, dear? she said. And gratefully, welcoming this brief respite, he raised the glass. And Lilly, her grip tight on the heavy purse, swung it with all her might.

It's my fault, she told herself; the way I raised him, his age, my age, wrestling and brawling him as though he were a kid brother; my fault, my creation. But what the hell can I do about that, now?

The purse crashed against the glass, shattering it. The purse flew open, and the money spewed out in a green torrent. A torrent splattered and splashed with red.

Lilly looked at it bewilderedly. She looked at the gushing wound in her son's throat. He rose up out of his chair, clutching at it, and an ugly shard of glass oozed out between his fingers. He said bubblingly, 'Lil, I-w- whyy-' and then his knees crumpled under him, and he doubled over and pitched down upon the carpet of red- stained bills.

It was over that quickly. Over before she could explain or apologize-insofar as there was anything to explain or apologize for.

Matter-of-factly, she began to toe the unstained money to one side, gathering the bills into a pile. She tied them up in a towel from the bathroom, stowed it inside her clothes, and took a final look around the room.

All clear, it looked like. Her son had been killed by Moira, by someone who didn't exist. Sure, her own fingerprints were all over the room, but that wouldn't mean anything. After all, she'd been a visitor to Roy's room before his death, and, anyway, Lilly Dillon was officially dead.

And maybe I am, she thought. Maybe I wish to God that I was!

Bracing herself, she let her eyes stray down to her son. Abruptly, a great sob tore through her body, and she wept uncontrollably.

That passed.

She laughed, gave the thing on the floor an almost jeering glance.

'Well, kid, it's only one throat, huh?'

And then she went out of the room and the hotel, and out into the City of Angels.