Never Say No To A Killer

“Yes,” I said, “my methods usually work. Not always, of course; nothing is perfect. But ninety per cent of the time, yes, they work.”

“See something you want, take it,” she said.

“You amaze me,” I said. “Yes, that sums up my philosophy pretty well. It is simple, direct, completely honest.”

She lifted her gaze to stare at me. “Honest?”

She was interested now; at least, she was curious, and this pleased me. I said, “Of course. The strong take from the weak. They always have and always shall. That is the first law of Nature, and what could be more honest than Nature?

“That sounds pretty pat for a philosophy.”

“Of course it's pat, because it is simple, and honesty is a straight line between the question and the answer.”

“It sounds like a negative philosophy, at the very least.”

“Negative? That depends on one's definition of good and evil. But first philosophy itself must be defined. 'Philosophy,' said a certain Frenchman, 'is the pursuit of pleasure.' What could be more sensible? Now, how do you achieve this philosophic pleasure? Pleasure is brought about through the fulfillment of personal ambition, the acquisition of wealth or power, or the titillation of our senses and appetites.”

She sat there for a moment, still staring very soberly at my face. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't mean to bore you.”

“... I'm not exactly bored,” she said, after a moment. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Who is the Frenchman you admire so much and love to quote?”

I laughed. “I was afraid you would ask that—please don't allow his reputation to obscure his logic. His name was the Marquis de Sade.”

“Where did he die, this hero of yours, this Marquis de Sade?”

“... In a madhouse, I believe.”

She smiled thinly. “That's some philosophy you've adopted, Mr. O'Connor!”

I could have carried my argument forward and perhaps made a point or two, but I was no longer interested in abstract criminal theory. It had served its purpose for the present, it had got Pat Kelso curious as to just what the hell kind of guy I was, anyway.

Then she jarred me. “I met a man once,” she said, “who had ideas much the same as yours. His name was Venci. John Venci, I believe.”

“Venci?”

How much did she know? How much was she guessing?

I said, “I don't believe I know the name. Who is he?”

“He is dead,” she said flatly. “He was a gangster and very powerful, but now he is dead.”

“... I see.” Then I said, “I find this interesting—you and a gangster, I mean. You don't seem to go together. How did you meet?”

“Through a... friend.”

“Alex Burton?”

That was the sensitive nerve. Something happened to her, especially to her eyes, when his name was mentioned. I said, “All right, it isn't important, we'll forget it.” I noticed that her glass was empty again, and I remembered that I had made a promise and would have to keep it. Pat Kelso was no person to be held by chains alone; there had to be something stronger than that: curiosity, hate, fear. But some attraction had to be there, and it had to be a good deal stronger than mere intimidation. There came a time, after the first show of force, when a trainer had to take a dog off a leash and see if he would heel of his own accord.

The waiter was there again, ready to pick up the glass. I said, “It's up to you. Do you still want to go home?”

For a moment I thought she was going to say yes. She glanced at me, surprised at first, then suddenly she amazed me by laughing. “I don't think I ever saw a man so sure of himself!”

“Does that mean you'll have dinner with me?”

“... Yes. I believe it does.”

I felt like a million dollars. I was beginning to live, actually beginning to enjoy myself for the first time since I crashed off that prison work gang. We left the Lake Hotel and went to a place called Moranis, an old Colonial mansion—rather, what looked like an old Colonial mansion. The owner himself hustled forward when he saw who we were, looking mildly shocked and grieved, and I guessed that this was one of the places that Burton and Pat had favored while Burton had still been alive. This suited me fine; it amused me to walk in and take over where the late ex-governor had left off, right down to his girl and favorite restaurant.

“Miss Kelso,” the owner said gravely, “I can not tell you how very pleased to...”

“To see me back again?” Pat laughed and patted his hand. “Angelo, you know I could not live in Lake City and not visit the famous Morani! Angelo, this is Mr. O'Connor, an old friend, and we are starved. Do be a dear, will you, and tell Mario we are here.”

Angelo Morani shook my hand, but his heart wasn't in it. After we were seated I said, “Who's Mario?”

“The chef, of course.”

“Oh, I see. The minute we come in the chef drops everything and takes our order personally. Who are we supposed to be, anyway, visiting royalty?”

She smiled. “They remember me as Alex Burton's... friend. I'm not kidding myself; the reflected glory won't last long, but as long as it does last I can't see why I shouldn't take advantage of it, do you?”

For just a moment I reached across the table and took her hand. “You're quite a riddle,” I said. “A few minutes ago you turned pale every time I mentioned Burton, now you're taking it in stride.”

“Maybe I've come, at last, to join the Living, as you advised.”

“You won't be sorry. Burton had his day in this town, but, believe me, I'll have mine too. And soon. Pat I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I'm going to turn this town upside down and shake it till its teeth rattle—so help me, within a few months nobody'll remember Alex Burton ever lived!”

She looked at me, steadily. “When you say it like that, I can almost believe you will do it.”

“I'll do it, all right. I'll...”

I looked up and the chef, a great, red-faced man with bristling mustaches and lively eyes, stood beaming down on Pat.

“Miss Kelso!”

“Mario, it's wonderful to see you again!”

“Thank you!” he said, obviously not annoyed at being called from his kitchen. “Now!” he beamed. “For dinner, what shall it be? But wait, let Mario do it! A great surprise, what do you say to that?”

“I think it's wonderful. You do that, Mario, a surprise for two.”

I said, “Tell me something.” And she looked straight through me, waiting. “Tell me,” I said, “why you decided not to walk out on me.”

“Credit it to momentary insanity.”

I laughed. “All right, now tell me something else, about you, Pat Kelso.”

A full minute went by before she said a thing. Then, at last, when she did speak, her voice was surprisingly calm and pleasant. “There isn't much to tell; my family was poor but proud, as they say. My father sent me to the best schools, although it plunged him into bankruptcy, and I failed to live up to his expectations by marrying well- to-do, so... I began looking for a job.”

“That's how you met Burton?”

“... Yes.”

“One thing I would like to know. Were you in love with him?”

I thought she wasn't going to answer at all this time. But finally she looked at me with a forthrightness that was stunning. “I'll say this one time, just one time, and then well never speak of Alex Burton again.”

“That's fair enough.”