unmarked, that is, to the naked eye.
The showdown came. The three cards were slapped face down on the table. Roy studied them, squinting. 'I can't see so good,' he complained. 'Let me borrow your glasses.' And deftly, he appropriated the dealer's 'readers.'
Through the tinted glass, he promptly identified the ace, and pulled in the money.
The mob slunk out of the car, to the jeers of the other passengers. At the next town, a wide place in a muddy road, they jumped the train. Probably they had no funds to ride farther.
As the train pulled out, Roy saw them standing on the deserted platform, shoulders hunched against the cold, naked fear on their pale, gaunt faces. And in the warm comfort of the club car, he shivered for them.
He shivered for himself.
That was where the hit-and-get landed you, where it could land you. This, or something far worse than this, was the fate of the unrooted. Men to whom roots were a hazard rather than an asset. And the big-con boys were no more immune to it than their relatively petty brethren. In fact, their fate was often worse. Suicide. Dope addiction and the d.t.'s. The big house and the nut house.
She sat up, swinging her legs off the bed, and got a cigarette from the reading stand. After it was lit, he took it for himself, and she got herself another.
'Roy,' she said, 'look at me.'
'Oh, I am looking, dear. Believe me, I am.'
'Now, please! Is-is this all we have, Roy? Is it all we're going to have? I'm not knocking it, understand, but shouldn't there be something more?'
'How could we top a thing like that? Tickle each other's feet?'
She looked at him silently, the burning eyes turning lackluster, staring at him from behind an invisible veil. Without turning her head, she extended a hand and slowly tamped out her cigarette.
'That was a funny,' he said. 'You were supposed to laugh.'
'Oh, I am laughing, dear,' she said. 'Believe me, I am.'
She reached down, picked up a stocking and began to draw it on. A little troubled, he pulled her around to face him.
'What are you driving at, Moira? Marriage?'
'I didn't say that.'
'But that's what I asked.'
She frowned, hesitating, then shook her head. 'I don't think so. I'm a very practical little girl, and I don't believe in giving any more than I get. That might be pretty awkward for a matchbook salesman, or whatever you are.'
He was stung, but he kept on playing. 'Would you mind handing me my first aid kit? I think I've just been clawed.'
'Don't worry. Kitty's had all her shots.'
'The fact is, the matchbooks arejust a sideline. My real business is running a whorehouse.'
Overhead and income were always in a neck-andneck race. One sour deal, and they were on the skids.
And it wasn't going to happen to Roy Dillon.
For his first year in Los Angeles, he was strictly a square john. An independent salesman calling on small businessmen. Gliding back into the grift, he remained a salesman. And he was still one now. He had a credit rating and a bank account. He was acquainted with literally hundreds of people who would attest to the excellence of his character.
Sometimes they were required to do just that, when suspicion threatened to build into a police matter. But, naturally, he never called upon the same ones twice; and it didn't happen often anyway. Security gave him self-assurance. Security and self-assurance had bred a high degree of skill.
In accomplishing so much, he had had no time for women. Nothing but the casual come-and-go contacts which any young man might have. It was not until late in his third year that he had started looking around for a particular kind of woman. Someone who was not only highly desirable, but who would be willing to-even prefer to-accept the only kind of arrangement which he was willing to offer.
He found her, Moira Langtry, that is, in church.
It was one of those screwball outfits which seem to flourish on the West Coast. The head clown was a yogi or a swami or something of the kind. While his audience listened as though hypnotized, he droned on and on of the Supreme Wisdom of the East, never once explaining why the world's highest incidence of disease, death, and illiteracy endured at the fount of said wisdom.
Roy was a little stunned to find such a one as Moira Langtry present. She just wasn't the type. He was aware of her puzzlement when she saw him, but he had his reasons for being there. It was an innocent way of passing the time. Cheaper than movies and twice as funny. Also, while he was doing very well as it was, he was not blind to the possibility of doing better. And a man just might see a way to do it at gatherings like these.
The audiences were axiomatically boobs. Mostly well-to-do boobs, middle-aged widows and spinsters; women suffering from a vague itch which might be scratched for a bundle. So… well, you never knew, did you?
You could keep your eyes open, without going out on a limb.
The clown finished his act. Baskets were passed for the 'Adoration Offering.' Moira tossed her program in one of them, and walked out. Grinning, Dillon followed her.
She was lingering in the lobby, making a business out of pulling on her gloves. As he approached, she looked up with cautious approval.
'Now, what,' he said, 'was a nice girl like you doing in a place like that?'
'Oh, you know.' She laughed lightly. 'I just dropped in for a glass of yogurt.'
'Tsk, tsk. It's a good thing I didn't offer you a martini.'
'It certainly is. I won't settle for less than a double Scotch.'
They took it from there.
It took them rapidly to where they were now. Or reasonable facsimiles thereof.
Lately, today in particular, he sensed that she wanted it to take them somewhat further.
There was just one way of handling that, in his opinion. With the light touch. No one could simultaneously laugh and be serious.
He let his hand walk down her body and come to rest on her navel. 'You know something?' he said. 'If you put a raisin in that, you could pass as a cookie.'
'Don't,' she said, picking up his hand and dropping it to the bed.
'Or you could draw a ring around it, and pretend you're a doughnut.'
'I'm beginning to feel like a doughnut,' she said. 'The part in the middle.'
'Oh, fine. I was afraid it might be something shameful.' Then, cutting him off firmly, pulling him back into line, 'But you see what I'm driving at, Roy. We don't know a thing about each other. We're not friends. We're not even acquainted. It's just been early to bed and early to bed from the time we met.'
'You said you weren't knocking it.'
'I'm not. It's very necessary to me. But I don't feel that it should begin and end with that. It's like trying to live on mustard sandwiches.'
'And you want pвtй?'
'Steak. Something nourishing. Aah, hell, Roy'- she shook her head fretfully. 'I don't know. Maybe it isn't on the menu. Maybe I'm in the wrong restaurant.'
'Madame is too cruel! Pierre weel drown heemself in ze soup!'
'Pierre doesn't care,' she said, 'if madame lives or dies. He's made that pretty clear.'
She started to rise, with a certain finality of movement. He caught her and pulled her back to the
