The Freeloaders, page 16
After a long swim in the marvelous clear blue sea, we sunned ourselves again and talked about Gil. Pascale knew of Ed’s informing, and after impressing upon her the need to keep quiet about that, I explained about Daniele’s having been in a concentration camp and the reason Jonesy turned rat. Pascale was on the verge of tears and only kept herself under control because I think she didn’t want to mess up the blue eye shadow.
I wanted to buy her lunch but she said she was due at the market with her father at 2:30 P.M., and anyway for a few days I should only eat bread and thick soups. Being anxious to get my letter off to Doris, I left with Pascale. On the way to the hotel I bought a copy of the Paris Tribune, then stretched out on my bed and read it. To my surprise the story of the robbery was there. For some reason I didn’t think the Herald Tribune used the wire services for Europe. The story was written by Tom Landy, who started as a correspondent on Yank and had remained in Europe ever since. It had all the details, including the bit about Gil’s dying in the arms of an American buddy. “Mr. Christopher Edwards of Nice.” Neither my name nor Ed Jones’ was mentioned. The article didn’t say where the money was hidden, or that the police had found it.
There wasn’t any point in writing Doris now. The ball was spinning; now I had to see if my number came up. I was so calm I even took a short nap.
It might have been a longer snooze, except I was suddenly back in the old routine with Charley shaking me awake. When I got him in focus he looked awful. The cut cheek, although freshly bandaged, was swollen. He needed a shave and his eyes were bloodshot. He was wearing a shirt and a tie, and had two bags beside him and an overcoat resting on my typewriter. I sat up and yawned. “What are you dressed for?” I asked.
He waved a folded copy of the Tribune at me. “That dirty punk, Ed, got in the last punch, almost kayoed me! You read this?” His breath stunk of many stale foods.
“I read it, of course. Is that your true name—Chris?”
“Yeah. The police and that American with the brush haircut, they said my name would be kept out of the papers. No mention of me in the French rags—I had Pascale read them for me. But there’s my handle in the Tribune! Proves that creep, Ed, knew it all the time. Must have got to Paris somehow and ran to the paper. Story might be in the USA papers by now.”
“No doubt about it. This is a wire service item, sent into every small and large city editorial office. Where are you going, Char … Chris?”
He gave me a sour laugh. “Don’t know myself, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. But I have to haul my hips the hell away from here, far away. Came up to say good-bye, Al.”
“What about Pascale?”
“That was a schoolboy’s dream. You were right, Al, a guy my age … I’m going to be forty-nine soon.”
“Happy birthday. Forty-nine isn’t too old.” I was astonished at the very sound of the words coming from my mouth. If Charley took Pascale with him….
He waved a heavy hand. “You only say that because you’re about my age, so we believe the soft sell we hand ourselves. Listen, the average life span is under seventy years, meaning you’re middle-aged when you hit thirty-five, and after forty you’re starting on old age. So a guy my age, and on the run, had no business getting involved with a beautiful child like Pascale. Would have been downright criminal. Only thing I’m kind of proud about, I never laid her. Another thing, I couldn’t have legally married her: I have a wife in the States—if she’s still alive. But Pascale is a kid; she’ll get over me I guess. I’ve left a note for her, and some money. And I gave her the apartment. She didn’t lose by knowing me.”
“Ever expect to return to Nice?”
“Maybe, in five or ten years, but I doubt it. Al, don’t play games. You know all about me, or almost all. In Vintimille you asked if the police had found it when they were searching my place.”
“A blind stab. Tell me, which of all the yarns you told me was true? Were you a pug, a bellhop, or a private eye?”
“None of ‘em. And not an ad man either. I used to hang out with a rummy down in Havana who’d been an ad guy; got my lingo about it from him.”
“But if you’re not any….”
“Stop it, Al. I sure shot off my yap too much to you that first night. Worried me plenty the next day. Let’s put it this way: I was in the hotel business. I am a remittance man. A gal did jump out of a hotel window, and … there is a Mr. Big. Sometimes I wish the sonofabitch would stop getting Mr. Bigger. He’s certain to spot my name in the papers now and rush somebody to Nice looking for me. That’s the way things bounce: Gil, me, Ed, all of us wanting to stay in Nice so bad, and now we’re all gone.” He held out his strong right hand. “As I said, came by to say so long, Al.”
Pumping his hand, I told him, “Be on my way out of here in a few days myself, unless they return my money. Say, do the….”
“You know I’d let you have a loan, Al, but the way it is, I can’t spare any coin right now.”
“Sure. I was wondering if the police will let me leave town. Do they know you’re going?”
Charley shrugged. “I’m not advertising it, but they can’t hold me, or you. I know police work. Not a crime to have been a friend of Gil’s. If they thought we were in the smallest way connected with the hold-ups, we’d be talking in jail as of yesterday.”
“I hope you’re right. Well, perhaps we’ll run into each other again, Chris.”
“Could be. But not in the States. I can’t stay alive very long. Al, one last favor. I don’t think Pascale will take my leaving too big, but since she is so head over heels in love with me, and you know how emotional kids can be…. The thing is, in my note I said I had to leave on business, might not see her for some time. What I want you to do is explain it to her, somehow, but don’t tell her about me being on the run, or any of the remittance-man stuff. Keep an eye on her, see that she don’t get any dumb ideas of hunting for me. If she sells the apartment, make certain she takes her time and gets the best price. If you’re around, get a top buyer for the place, some American sucker. That’s all.”
We shook hands again; he picked up his bags and overcoat. At the door he nodded toward a shopping bag next to my dresser, a bag I hadn’t noticed before. “Left you something, Al. I have to travel light and since you lost out on Gil’s aqualung, I’m making you a gift of mine.”
“Thanks, Chris. You’re making me choke up. I’m sorry things worked out this way.”
“I’ve no kick. Shouldn’t have risked remaining in Nice so long, anyway. I had plenty of good months here. I like you, Al; we could have had more good times here. Too bad they shut the ball park on us. But don’t worry about me, I’ll land on my big feet. I always have. Not much of a trick if you have a sure source of dough. As the slogan goes: Nice is—was—damn nice. But I’ll find another Nice someplace.”
When Charley left I remained in bed for a few minutes in a kind of blissful anticipation. When I was a kid I used to fight the desire to jump out of bed Christmas morning, to prolong the wonder of what would be under the tree. Then I shaved quickly and dashed over to see how Pascale was taking things.
9
THIS IS THE end of the story.
I hardly think I’ve been steering you toward a twist or snapper ending. I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that Tom Landy, the wire-service man in Rome, is a long-time friend of mine. I flew to Rome to give him the story, and of course to be certain he put Charley’s real name in the yarn. I didn’t even have to explain why to Tom. I modestly asked only that my name be kept out. Sure, I wanted Charley’s apartment very badly, but I don’t feel upset about giving Charley the doublecross, adding the final rooking to this incident in our lives. He was all wrong for Pascale, as he said. In a sense I did both of them a favor by forcing Charley to flee. At least, this is what I tell myself … and believe.
This is the end of the book I began writing after Bastille Day, when I moved into Pascale’s apartment. I’ve been working hard and it is now mid-August, with Nice full of daily squads of heavy-bottomed American tourists “seeing” the town in an hour, a day, or a week end.
Things have been moving along smoothly, better than I ever hoped.
Naturally Pascale is living with me. (Or, since it is her place, I’m living with her.) She shed only a few quick tears over Charley’s sudden departure, has never asked about him. I didn’t make his mistake; I didn’t even talk of marriage. I’m still the spectator. Actually, I think, Pascale never wanted marriage, only romance. I figure on remaining another four of five months; I’d like to be around for carnival time in February. By then I should be ready to tuck Nice in. Also, I imagine by then it’ll be dangerous for my old body to keep up with Pascale’s wild and youthful passion. She’s such a kid—if physically a vivacious and sultry young woman—and I’m hungering for mature conversation. I’m a little tired of constantly explaining things, playing teacher. As Pascale’s shrill childish voice grates on my ears, I find myself thinking of Doris more and more.
But Pascale is a wonderful person and in a few years will be ready to make some lucky fellow a fine wife. (Oh relax, nobody ever died from a cliche.) She’s amazingly practical, still waits on her tables each afternoon, works very hard. As she keeps saying, someday the restaurant will be hers and she has to keep her hand in. I never eat there any more. Partly because I rarely leave the apartment, and also because Mama thinks I’ve seduced her sexy daughter, and might become confused enough to plant a knife in me. Fortunately, since we live on top of an office building and no one is around at night, Pascale’s living with me isn’t the subject of neighborhood gossip. She doesn’t have any qualms, in fact I suspect she believes that because I’m a writer, she’s really living.
Pascale takes very good care of her apartment, cleaning it daily. She’s added a few mirrors here and there, has a silly collection of stupid dolls all over our bed, but otherwise the place is the same. There are even a few of Charley’s cigars around, and four bottles of his prized Bourbon. (Having Pascale, what can liquor do for me?) I’ve literally managed to take Pascale off stilt-heeled shoes, but have been fighting a losing battle against the eye shadow. Often Pascale changes the shade of her hair twice a week, and lately she goes around the house bare-breasted, wearing only red leotards. But all in all I’m convinced it’s a wonderful experience for us both. I even tell myself I’ve been a kind of condensed education for Pascale.
I’ve seen Simone twice, driving a new little Simca. Pascale tells me Daniele left town to rejoin Ed. They are rumored to be working in St. Tropez. Pascale and I have gone to Vintimille a few times for her shoes and sweaters, and also skindived there. On one trip, near Menton, I thought I saw Ed swimming there, but I’m not certain—we were on the bus and it was merely a flash window scene. To date Gil’s booty hasn’t been found, although no one would shout aloud if they did dive on it. Since I don’t have much chance to visit the casino, thinking about diving for the money and studying beach maps has become my form of boule.
I don’t leave the apartment often for the same reason I keep this carbine handy. I’m not a prisoner in the place or any such nonsense. But frankly, I am puzzled as to why I haven’t seen any goons around. Perhaps Charley’s (I never think of him as Chris) remittance story was something he made up to feed his ego. I doubt that, but the trouble is, I can’t take the chance.
There is also the threat of Charley himself returning. Had a bad moment when I found a letter from Tom Landy at the American Express saying he would be in Nice for a day. I lunched with him and he mentioned a “Mr. Peters” had looked him up in Rome and asked about the Gil Fletcher story. From Tom’s description, I’m certain “Mr. Peters” was Charley, and of course Tom, having no reason to keep it quiet, had casually mentioned I’d flown down to Rome to give him the story.
While I’m sorry if Charley knows I crossed him, I’m not especially afraid. His muscles will respect my gun. Plus the fact that I doubt if he’d dare return to Nice so soon.
It isn’t that I expect to shoot anybody, Charley or the thugs chasing him; at least I hope I won’t have to. I’ve already reported to the police about seeing suspicious characters around the building several times—to cover myself if I must pull the trigger. Hairy Ears wanted to know why I’d moved into the apartment. I gave him my sad story about lack of funds. That was the day my five hundred-dollar bills were returned to me. I don’t know if I’m completely off the police hook or not. The few times I’ve been out, I’m almost certain I had a police tail. I don’t mind; remembering Charley’s iron fists, I can use a bodyguard when I’m away from my carbine.
But in the apartment I merely keep the gun handy and don’t worry about Charley’s thug friends, if they should show. Or Charley. With Charley it will merely be a matter of having him believe I’ll kill him if he starts anything. He’ll believe it.
With whoever may be chasing him, all I want from the gun is time—time to explain that I’m not Charley, haven’t the smallest idea where he is, and whatever they’re hunting for isn’t around the apartment. My one fear is a dumb hood’s shooting first, finding it was all a mistake later. Or hurting Pascale. But since I rarely go out, it’s really a minor worry.
Mostly we sleep late, sunbathe on the terrace, listen to the hi-fi. When Pascale leaves for her restaurant I start typing. Twice a week we go to the plage for a fast swim, and I pick up my mail. I explain to Pascale we don’t go out more because I must work, and she’s impressed by the growing pile of manuscript. It’s also a cover for the presence of the carbine: she really believes I’m writing a war book and have the gun handy because I’m constantly describing it in the novel.
As I’ve told you, it’s a wonderful life but I have no intention of wearing the bubble thin. My money won’t last many more months, anyway, although I’m living ridiculously cheap—paying only for what we eat and drink, Pascale’s frequent trips to the beauty parlor, and whatever we buy on our few scooter rides into Italy. Happily, Pascale is tight-fisted with a franc and loves to shop for a bargain. But even at this slow rate, my money is running out. I’m glad. It will help me—force me—to leave Pascale.
To my amazement André came through with a hundred-thousand-franc offer to start his TV scripts. Although I hated to take time off from this book, I wasn’t in any condition to quibble about being underpaid, and I dashed off two half hour scripts for him. He’s busy in Paris trying to raise money for the rest of the series, on the basis of my scripts and a rough outline of the series. When I stressed that even if he managed to go into production I’d be out as the writer, he told me it didn’t matter; there are plenty of French writers who can handle the hardboiled detective yarn as well as we American hacks.
I’ve had a number of letters from my agent, who claims he still has a Madison Avenue eager-beaver running himself ragged to do a TV series in Puerto Rico based on my West Indian yarns. I’ve written him I’d be happy to script the series for expense money and a percentage, provided I don’t have to be in San Juan before March. I’ve also suggested to Doris she take her vacation then. By March I will indeed be fed up with a “beautiful child” and anxious to have a woman again. Or so I keep telling myself.
Of course I appreciate the delicious irony of me, the observer, ending up in the saddle, if only for five or six months. By nature a spectator has to play a secondary role. But then I’ve always been a secondary type. The truth is, if the world had more secondary jokers and fewer clown breaking their necks to be in the main event, our planet might not be in such a mess, the tension and….
Excuse me for a moment, I’ve rigged up a system of lights which go on whenever anybody uses our little private elevator, or tries to open the locked door blocking the stairs. The light has just gone on, so I’ll have to leave the typewriter for my carbine. I honestly hope this is “der tag,” that either Charley or his goon shadowers will show, so I can talk, or shoot, some sense into them.
Then, I love swimming and have much skin diving to do around Vintimille. I….
Excuse me again—all the lights have gone on.
This edition published by
Prologue Books
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
www.fwcrime.com
Text Copyright © 1961 by Ed Lacy
Cover Art, Design, and Layout Copyright © 2012 by F+W Media, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this
novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The
resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3992-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3992-3
Ed Lacy, The Freeloaders
