She lay flat on the bed once more, staring at the wooden ceiling of the old farmhouse bedroom. The guinea hens quieted, and in the other room, Laurie heard the old man’s snore. Across the hall, her kid sister, Gin, chattered schoolgirl stuff in her sleep. Then there was the complete, dead, country quiet again, and the pictures of the dream that had really happened slid once again across the screen of Laurie’s brain.
Mr. Woodward was this man’s name. “Just call me Woody, baby.” It was funny how they ran to types. This one was fat, bald and cherubic, with twinkling eyes and Santa Claus cheeks. The boisterous, fun-loving Rover boy type that Laurie hated, could never quite feel sorry for like some of the others.
Mr. Woodward ran true to form. He drank too much and he got loud, and later up in the hotel suite the going was rougher than usual. Laurie thought that Roy would never show up.
Roy always enjoyed the payoff scene with the “call-me-Woody” boys. They always looked like punctured balloons, Roy said. The huff-and-puff went out of them fast and they never gave any trouble.
Roy would come out of the other room, winding the film on the little motion picture camera. He’d grin at Laurie and say:
“That does it, baby. That washes you up. I’ve been trying to get the goods on you for weeks and tonight you tucked it right into the bag for me. That little romp with your playmate, here, run off on a screen before a judge, will show what a cheap, two-timing little heel you are.”
To the man, Roy would say: “Sorry you’re going to be dragged into this, fella, but maybe it’ll be a lesson to you. Next time you want to make like Romeo, you’d better check first whether or not the gal’s got a hubby who’s after divorce evidence.”
The old badger game brought up to date. Why not? Roy said. Why take a chance experimenting with a new gimmick when a tried-and-true old one worked so well? That was the trouble with most of the smart boys — they tried to get too fancy. They neglected the good, old-fashioned ingredients of a beautiful girl, a few drinks and a rich old duffer with a late crop of wild oats to sow.
And Roy was right. It had worked like a charm for seven years. The sucker had a reputable business in Oshkosh or somewhere. He had a wife and a house full of kids back there. After a little negotiation he always decided to make it worth Roy’s while to destroy the roll of film and give weeping Laurie another chance. Worth Roy’s while to the tune of from $500 up, depending on how big a butter-and-egg man the fall guy was.
There was never any boomerang to the thing. Laurie was Roy’s wife. Sometimes if a victim were stubborn they’d follow the thing through. That was the beauty of it. Roy was prepared to go all the way. What the hell, he told Laurie. If we have to, I can even go ahead and divorce you. We can always get married again. But it never had to go that far.
But with this Woodward character the thing hadn’t come off. Right from the moment Roy stepped out of the other room with the camera, Laurie had sensed that this was going to turn sour. Woodward didn’t react right. He listened to Roy’s speeches and he watched Laurie’s crying act. And then he laughed.
“I’ve got news for you two con artists,” he told them. “Big hotels in convention cities are my working grounds, too. Only I got a nice, clean, wholesome racket compared to yours. My dice and card games pick them just as clean but they don’t leave any bad smell afterward. This job of yours stinks. I don’t like it and I don’t like you — either of you.”
Laurie had stood there in her black satin negligee, her ash blonde hair disheveled, her makeup smeared, and she had gotten scared, really scared. Fearfully, she watched the grin freeze on Roy’s handsome and youthful face.
“I first spotted tall and sultry, here,” Woodward nodded, at Laurie, “in Sea City. With the big buffoon in the ten gallon hat. Remember him? I watched her play. It was okay. Then I spotted you together next time, in Metropolis. And then here in this burg. I couldn’t believe anybody was still working this mossy old racket.”
“Look, mister,” Roy said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t care who you are. All you are to me is a face in a film that’s going to make a court see a divorce action my way. If you stop trying to be a wise guy, maybe it won’t be necessary to drag you into it. But you’d better scram out of here fast before I change my mind!”
Woodward’s fat face sneered. “You look,” he said. “My name’s not Woodward. I ain’t in the pickle business out West like I told this doll. I don’t have any wife or any kids. You haven’t got anything to put on the squeeze with. You can show that film on the biggest screen in Times Square if you want to. It don’t bother me.”
Roy jerked his thumb toward the door. “Get out!” he said.
“Sure,” the fat boy said. “But I’m going out richer than when I came in. My time is valuable. This is going to cost you two a grand. You know why? Because there’s a convention going on here right now that should keep you two busy for a couple of weeks. But not if the house dick puts the evil eye on you. And if I write a letter to the hotel associations there won’t be a spot in the country where you can operate. You know what I mean? One grand. Get it up.” He pushed out his plump hand.
Laurie thought Roy had lost his mind then. She saw him reach to the radio next to him and switch it on, turn up the volume. Hot jazz swelled loudly through the room. He set down the expensive little motion picture camera.
The fat man was sharper than Laurie. He got it right away. Fear suddenly pulled his flabby features apart. He put out the palm of his hand, took a hesitant backward step.
“Now wait a minute, handsome,” he shrilled over the din of the music. “Take it easy. Let’s talk this over. We’re both smart people.”
Laurie didn’t hear the rest. She was watching Roy reach for the small, twenty-five caliber revolver in his pocket, and she was standing there screaming, “No, Roy, no!”
Roy didn’t waste any time. No hesitation, not a lost movement. He took out the .25 and fired it all in one motion. There was a spurting flash and a sharp report — hardly louder than an exploding paper bag above the blaring radio. There was a little smoke. There was the heavy thud of the fat man falling to the floor, and then there was just the sound of the music again. Dixieland jazz. Laurie knew she’d never be able to hear it again without living through that scene.
She and Roy stood there, staring at each other across the gun. And Roy was smiling. He’d never looked more young and innocent and charming...
Next to her, on the lumpy, rickety bed where Laurie had slept since she was big enough to take out of a cradle, Roy Willis turned in his sleep and touched her. Laurie jumped as though a hot iron had seared her flesh. She rolled away and tumbled out of the bed. The floor was cool to her bare feet. She padded toward one of the big windows and stood there, looking out into the night.
The big yard was white with moon rays. She could see the mule shed clearly, and the smoke house. They looked beautiful tonight. There was the fig tree she used to climb. There was the wood pile and the chopping block where, when she was ten and chopping kindling with a sharp axe, she had accidentally killed her pet mallard.
Two nights ago she’d remembered that incident. She’d looked down onto the face of the fat man, and his staring dead eyes had held the same expression of shock and surprise as the mallard’s.
Roy had turned the radio off. He’d talked to her quietly. “I had to do it. That guy was dangerous.”