John D. MacDonald
Jail Bait
Chapter One
They sat side by side on an upholstered bench that ran the length of the crowded room. The small tables were close together. The lighting was very subdued. There was a raised stage at one end of the room. They had sat through three floor shows. The floor shows were a bit too clever, too brittle, too self-consciously smart. And they had talked too much and too intently. She know he had brought her here in the forlorn hope that it would please her.
Jane looked furtively at his face. He was staring down at the red plastic swizzle stick, bending it between his fingers. He glanced at her quickly. “Recapitulation?” he asked sourly. “Over it once again? Maybe I’m being dull about this. I just don’t see it.”
“I’m not good with words the way you are,” she said, feeling the quick anger come. “I go by feelings, Howard, I can’t just add up and find totals. I don’t think about this with a lot of plus and minus signs. Here I am. Jane Bayliss. I was horn here. I’ve been as far away as Cleveland in one direction and New York in the other. I’m twenty-four and I’ve worked for five years. There was a notice in the paper when I was born. There’ll be one there when I get married, if I do. And a final one when I die.” She put her hand on his arm, digging her fingers in, looking intently at him, living to make him understand. “Howard, there’s got to be more than that. Life has to have some glamour and excitement and danger. I just get up and plow through the day and go to bed. You say let’s get married now. Sure. It takes me out of one trap and puts me in another home, babies and all that. There hasn’t been enough happened to me, Howard. I haven’t lived at all!”
The swizzle stick broke between his fingers and he put the two halves in the ash tray. “If you feel like that, it’s not much use then, is it?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“I wish I could think of some way of giving you a taste of this glamour and danger stuff you talk about, Jane. Just one time the feeling that somebody is doing his damnedest to kill you. I’ve had that happen to me, and it wasn’t pleasant. I want nothing to happen. I want a home and love and you.”
She touched his hand. “I could lie. I could pretend. Honestly, Howard, isn’t it better to say what I think?”
He looked beyond her at the people at the next table. He stared for a moment and took her wrist and said in a lower tone, “Don’t look around.”
It took a great effort for her to keep from turning around. “What is it?”
The table next to theirs was pushed out of the way. A man bumped clumsily against her shoulder as he got up and went out, a second man close behind him.
“What was it, Howard? What was happening?”
“Did you notice those two men at that table?”
“Just when they went out.”
“The one furthest from you was holding a knife on the one nearest you. The light happened to catch the blade just right. It was below the table level. The one near you had his hands flat on the table and the other one was going through his pockets with his free hand.”
The two men were just going out, walking close together, the smaller one to the rear. The man in the lead looked back over his shoulder expressionlessly — yet. Jane thought she detected despair in the glance. The light from above slanted against his white face, accentuating the fragile bone structure.
“Could we follow along and see what kind of car they have?”
“Darling, I’m not Mike Hammer, and people who use knives are not pleasant people. I’m going to wait about twenty seconds and then tell the management, who can then call the police. If you want a man who is going to bust up a private disagreement between a pair of rough characters, then you’d better get yourself another boy.”
“But if one man was being robbed?”
“Don’t look at me with such haughty scorn, honey. They knew each other. They came in together. They talked a long time. They ignored the last floor show. You stay right here.”
She was ten feet behind him when he went out into the bar. She was beside him when he asked for the manager. He glanced at her with disapproval.
The manager came out of some hidden recess. He was a short, bald man with bored eyes and a hairy sports jacket. “Having trouble, folks?”
“No trouble. I wanted to report something. Two men just left. They had the table next to us. One was holding a knife on the other.”
The bored look was gone. “Are you positive?”
“I saw the knife. He searched him first. He held the knife below table level.”
“Where were you?”
“At one of the tables along the side.”
“Barney, get me Jake on the double.” Their waiter came hurrying up. “You had these people?”
“Yes, sir. I gave them good service—”
“Two men at a table next to them. Just left. Know them?”
“I never saw them in here before, sir.”
“Did they seem to be quarreling?”
“They were doing a lot of talking. I came up to change the ash tray and heard one of them call the other a dirty name.”
The manager said, “Suppose you give me your names, folks, in case anything comes up.” He waved the waiter away and wrote down their names and addresses. He thanked them again and left.
In the parking lot Howard said dryly, “Was that enough excitement for a dull evening?”
“Howard, it isn’t that it’s dull being with you.”
“It’s just that nothing ever happens. I know.”
“We can’t talk about it, I guess.”
“I guess we can’t.”
He drove her back to her apartment in moody silence. She sat as far from him as she could. He parked in front and walked her to the outside door, took her key and opened it for her, held it open.
“Thank you, Howard.”
“Be a hypocrite and say it was a lovely evening.”
“Please don’t say things like that.”
“When will I see you again?”
She looked up at him. “Let me have a month, Howard.”
His mouth hardened. “Take a month. Take two.” He grabbed her roughly there under the lights and forced his mouth down on hers. It took her breath away. He released her. She opened her eyes. She stood on trembling legs and watched him walk quickly to the car, slam himself in and roar away.
The small elevator climbed sadly up through the sleeping building. She tiptoed down the hall and let herself in. Usually the small apartment felt crowded. Her roommate was a rawboned brunette named Betty Alford. Betty had been away for a week and would be gone for at least another three. Her kid sister was having a second baby and Betty had gone down to Wilmington to keep house for her. And somehow with her gone, the place seemed dreadfully big.
Sunday was a dreary day of rain, low clouds, traffic hissing on wet streets, lights on in the apartment. She did her hair and her nails, altered a skirt, wrote two letters, paced restlessly, and finally curled up in the big chair in her lime-green corduroy robe, cigarettes at hand, Sunday paper discarded, looking through a haze of boredom at the frantic efforts of a television comedian.
She was half asleep when the buzzer sounded. She pushed the button that unlocked the inner front door, hooked the night chain with automatic caution and stood, leaning against the wall, yawning.
When there was an authoritative knock on the door she opened it a few inches and looked out at the two men who stood there. The older one, dumpy, with a face like putty, stared at her out of dull, colorless little eyes. The younger one was tall. He had a weather-reddened face, flame-orange hair. He was almost grotesquely ugly. A sharp snowplow chin jutted up, and a beaked nose curved down. Both men were drably dressed.