“Lemme go!”
“Halfway home, pard, might as well ride it out.”
Oak was squirmin’ like a hooked fish outa water when we got hit yet again. It jerked the wheel right outa my hand and we jumped the curb, headin’ right for this store window where I caught a fleeting glimpse of these well-formed female mannequins sportin’ the latest in lacy bed wear.
It was only my sound instincts that kept my head clear of the panic, and I managed enough muscle control to steer us clear of the store and down the sidewalk into the alleyway and across, ’cause I just couldn’t pull off the turn. So we hit the wall next door.
What can I say, the fuckin’ physics was against me. I did what could be done, which was take the wheel in the gut.
I knew right away it was a sinkin’ ship-type situation. We’d been truly torpedoed, and it was time for the rats to race the women and the children to the lifeboat. But hey, I was dazed to a glaze, fogbound in my body, treadin’ the dark. I’m tellin’ you, my head hurt one place, my body somewhere else.
Oak was yellin’, and eventually it seemed I took his advice and got my door locked before that guy could pull me outa the car.
He was jerkin’ the handle and rockin’ the whole car while I tried to get it started again, but it was like tryin’ to raise the dead by telephone.
He suddenly turned and ran for his car. I tried to prepare myself for another rammin’. Through the window I could see a crowd was gatherin’ to catch some on-the-spot entertainment.
He didn’t disappoint them. He raced back to the door wavin’ a tire iron which he wound up and swung smack into my window.
I couldn’t believe it! The way this guy was actin’ you’d a thought we’d kidnapped, raped, then murdered his wife, daughter, and dachshund! It was only money, fer Christ sakes!
So there I was, sunk so low I was actually hopin’ somebody called the cops and they’d show up on cue like the cavalry, which they did.
I’ll tell you, there’s nuthin’ worse than gettin’ taught a painful lesson you learned thoroughly the first time. So let me be the voice of experience here for you and talk a little common sense, call it folk wisdom if you like. Just remember to remember, never mess with the crazy — whether man, woman, or animal.
And me? Just doin’ my time, thinkin’ of maybe writin’ some plays. Believe me, from now on I’m confinin’ my theater to the stage.
Jim Thompson
The Ripoff: Conclusion
Final installment. In the previous three installments Britt Rainstar’s inability to act on his problems has made him the target of a series of murder attempts. His indecision has also resulted in promises to marry Manny Aloe (who is one of the murder suspects) and Kay Nolton (the police officer assigned to protect him), should he ever obtain a divorce from Connie.
24
It was a pretty grim weekend.
Mrs. Olmstead decided to replace her usual grumbling and mumbling with silence — the kind in which conversation is omitted but not the clashing and crashing of pans, the smashing of dishes, and the like.
Kay performed her nurse’s duties with a vengeance, taking my pulse and temperature every hour on the hour, or so it seemed to me, and generally interrupting me so often in doing her job that doing my own was virtually impossible.
Monday night, after dinner, there was a respite in the turmoil. Kay had retired to her room for a time, and Mrs. Olmstead was apparently doing something that could not be done noisily. At any rate, it seemed to be a good time to do some writing, and I dragged a chair up to my typewriter and went to work. Or, rather, I tried to. The weekend’s incessant clatter and interruptions had gotten me so keyed up that I couldn’t write a word.
I got up and paced around my office, then went back to my typewriter. I squirmed and fidgeted and stared helplessly at the paper. And, finally, I went out into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
I shook the pot, discovering that there was still some in it. I put it on the stove to warm, and got a cup and saucer from the cupboard. Moving very quietly, to be sure. Keeping an eye on the door to Mrs. Olmstead’s quarters and listening for any sounds that might signal a resumption of her racket.
I poured my coffee and sipped it standing by the stove, then quietly washed and dried the cup and saucer and returned them to the cupboard. And suddenly I found myself grimacing with irritation at the preposterousness of my situation.
This was my house. Kay and Mrs. Olmstead were working for me. Yet they had made nothing but trouble for me throughout the weekend, and they had certainly not refrained from throwing their weight around before then — forcing me to cater to them. And just why the hell should things be this way?
Why had most of my life been like this, a constant giving-in and knuckling-under to people who didn’t give a damn about my welfare, regardless of what they professed or pretended?
I was brooding over the matter, silently swearing that there were going to be some changes made, when I became aware of a very muted buzzing. So muted that I almost failed to hear it.
I looked around, listening, trying to locate the source of the sound. I looked down at the floor, saw the faint outline of the telephone cord extending along the baseboard of the cabinetwork. And I yanked open the door of the lower cupboard and snatched out the telephone.
Just as Manny was about to give up and hang up.
She asked me where in the world I’d been, and I said I’d been right there and I’d explain the delay in answering when I saw her. “But I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I wasn’t expecting any calls tonight.”
“I know, but I just had to call you, Britt. I’ve been reading the manuscript you gave me on erosion, and I think it’s wonderful, darling! Absolutely beautiful! The-parallel you draw between the decline of the soil and the deterioration of the people — the lowering of life expectancy and the incidence of serious disease. Britt, I can’t tell you when I’ve been so excited about something!”
“Well, thank you,” I said, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m very pleased that you like it.”
“Oh, I do! In its own way, I think it’s every bit as good as Deserts on the March.”
I mumbled, pleased, saying nothing that made any sense, I’m sure. Even to be mentioned in the same breath with Dr. Paul Sears’s classic work was overwhelming. And I knew that Manny wasn’t simply buttering me up to make me feel good.
“There’s only one thing wrong with what you’ve done,” she went on. “It’s far too good for us. You’ve got to make it into a full-length book that will reach the kind of audience it deserves.”
“But PXA is paying for it. Paying very well, too.”
“I know. But I’m sure something can be worked out with Pat. I’ll talk to him after I talk to you, let’s see, the day after tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Well, I haven’t read all you’ve done, and I want to read back through the whole manuscript before our meeting. So...” She hesitated. “I’m not sure I can make it on Tuesday. Suppose I call you Wednesday and see what we can set up?”
I said that was fine with me; I was glad to have the additional time to work. We talked a few minutes more, largely about the work and how well she liked it. Then we hung up, and I started to leave the kitchen. And Mrs. Olmstead’s surly voice brought me to a halt.