He Won't Need it Now

     He slammed the door hard. He had a swift vision of her great eyes, wide with hate, her white teeth gleaming in the dark, then the Cadillac shot away from him.

     He looked up and down the street for a taxi.

     “I guess that honey hates my guts,” he said sadly, as a yellow taxi slid up to him.

CHAPTER IV

     DUFFY'S PLACE WAS a three-room affair on the top storey of an old-fashioned apartment house.

     The taxi-driver drew up at the kerb, just under the street light. Duffy got out of the cab, letting the door swing on its hinges.

     “This it?” the taxi-driver asked.

     “Yeah, that's right.”

     The taxi-driver looked at him. “You been havin' a good time?”

     Duffy shifted his head a little so that he didn't breath over the taxi-driver.

     He said, “You don't know the half of it.”

     The taxi-driver said, “The first half's good enough for me.” One of those smart guys.

     Duffy paid him off and slammed the door for him. He slammed the door so hard that the cab rocked. The taxi-driver scowled, but said nothing. He was smart all right, but he wasn't dumb. He rolled the cab away.

     Duffy walked up the steps, fumbled for his key and fumbled at the lock. “Jeeze, that Scotch was dynamite,” he said, as he poked at the lock. The key sank suddenly, and he turned it. I he hall was in darkness, but he knew his way up. He started to climb the stairs as the wall-clock struck four. The wall-clock hung in the hall. It had a little brittle chime that always irritated Duffy. Treading carefully, one hand on the rail and the other just touching the opposite wall, he went up silently. He had to go up four flights, but he was used to that. When he reached his landing he paused. A light was burning in his apartment. He could see the bright light coming from under the door.

     Two things crossed his mind. First, the cleaner had forgotten to turn the light off; and second, McGuire was waiting for him. It gave him quite a shock when he remembered McGuire. He had forgotten all about the poor guy. Too bad. He wagged his head. Maybe he'd be as sore as hell. He fumbled for his key again, and opened the door. The light quite blinded him for a second.

     Two men were sitting in his room, facing the door. Another one was standing by the window, looking into the street, peeping round the blind.

     Duffy jumped.

     “I bet you've been stealing my whisky,” he said.

     The man who was looking out of the window turned his head quickly. He was big. He had Mongolian eyes and a loose mouth. He had that battered, brutal face of an unsuccessful prize-fighter.

     Duffy looked at him, then he looked at the two sitting in the chairs. The nearest one was a little guy with tight lips and cold,, hard eyes. His face was white as cold mutton fat, and he just sat, with his hands folded across his stomach.

     The other one, sitting on the little guy's right, was young. He had down on his cheeks and his skin had that peculiar rosy tint that most girls want, but don't have. He looked tough, because he had screwed up his eyes and drawn down the corners of his mouth. Duffy thought he was just movie-tough.

     The little guy said, “He's here at last.”

     Duffy shut the door and leant against it. “If I'd known you were coming,” he said, “I'd been here sooner.”

     The little guy said, “Did you hear that? The bright boy said if he'd known we were coming, he'd been here sooner.”

     The other two said nothing.

     Duffy said, “Now you're here, what's it all about?”

     “He wants to know what's it all about,” the little guy said again.

     Duffy slowly closed his fists. “Must you repeat everything I say?” he asked. “Can't these two birds understand what I say?”

     The little guy eased himself back in his chair. “You understand him, don't you, Clive?” he said to the youth.

     “Clive?” Duffy was getting annoyed. “That's the name for a daffodil, ain't it?”.

     The youth sat up. “Listen, you long stick of ”

     The little guy giggled. “How do you think of such things?” he said.

     “What is this?” Duffy demanded. He looked across at the tough bird by the window.

     “Come on, come on,” the little guy said, suddenly looking bleak again. “Give it up.”

     “Give what up, for God's sake?” Duffy demanded.

     “Did you hear him, Clive, he wants to know what to give up?”

     The youth called Clive slouched out of his chair. He stood over the little guy, his face viciously angry. “You won't get anywhere with this stuff,” he said. “Turn Joe loose on him.”

     The big bird on the corner took a step forward. He seemed to be holding himself in with difficulty. The little guy waved his hand at him. “Not so fast,” he said, “we ain't got to get rough with this lug.”

     Duffy thought they were all screwy, and he wished he hadn't socked that pint away. Clive stood away from the little guy and glared at Duffy.

     The little guy looked at Duffy with stony eyes. “Get wise, bright boy,” he said. “We've come for the camera.”

     Duffy pushed his hat to the back of his head and blew out his cheeks. So that was it, he thought. He wandered over to the wagon and picked up a bottle of Scotch. “You gentlemen want any of this?” he asked.