Just Another Sucker

She would call the barman and he would find the roll of money in my pocket, then he would call a cop. Once the cop arrived, I would be a parcel of meat to be handled safely and surely back into a cell, but not for four years: it would be a much, much longer sentence this time.

Fingers tapped lightly on the glass door of the booth. I put the handbag on the shelf and turned, then I opened the door.

The woman moved slightly to one side to let me have room to come out.

‘I think I left my handbag…’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I was going to give it to the barman.’

Maybe the best thing I could do was to push past her and get onto the street before she had time to open the bag and find the money missing. Once I got on the street I could throw the money away, then it would be her word against mine.

I started to make the move, then stopped. The barman had come from behind the counter and was blocking the exit. He was looking puzzled, and he came forward, still keeping his vast bulk between me and the door.

‘Is this guy annoying you, lady?’ he said to the woman.

She turned her head slowly. I had a feeling that whatever the emergency she would always remain poised and unruffled.

‘Why, no. I stupidly left my handbag in the booth. This gentleman was going to give it to you to keep for me.’

The barman looked suspiciously at me.

‘Is that a fact?’ he said. ‘Well, okay, if that’s what he says.’

I just stood there like a dummy. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t have spoken even if I had known what to say.

‘Anything of value in the bag, lady?’ the barman asked.

‘Oh, yes. It was stupid of me to have forgotten it.’

She had a clear, hard voice. I wondered vaguely if her eyes, hidden behind the sun goggles, were as hard.

‘Hadn’t you better check to see if anything is missing?’ the barman said.

‘I suppose I’d better.’

I wondered if one quick punch would get me out of this. I decided it wouldn’t. The barman looked as if he had taken a lot of quick punches in his day, and he looked as if the diet had agreed with him.

She moved past me into the booth and picked up the bag.

I watched her, my heart scarcely beating. She stepped out of the booth, opened the bag and looked inside. With slim fingers, the nails painted silver, she moved the contents of the bag about, her face expressionless.

The barman breathed heavily. He kept glancing at me and then at her.

She looked up.

Here it comes, I thought. In half an hour from now, I’ll be in a cell.

‘No, there’s nothing missing,’ she said. She turned her head slowly to look directly at me. ‘Thank you for taking care of it for me. I’m afraid I am very careless with my things.’

I didn’t say anything.

The barman beamed.

‘Okay, lady?’

‘Yes, thank you. I think we might celebrate.’ She looked at me. The round green globes of her goggles told me nothing. ‘May I buy you a drink, Mr. Barber?’

So she knew who I was. It wasn’t all that surprising. The day I had been released, the Herald had run a photograph of me, saying that I had been released from jail after spending a four-year stretch for a manslaughter charge. They hadn’t forgotten to mention that I had been drunk at the time. It had been a good photograph and it had been on the front page where no one who read the Herald could miss it. Just a sweet trick that Cubitt would dream up.

There was a steely quality in her voice that told me it might be healthier for me to accept the invitation, so I said, ‘Well, it isn’t necessary, but thanks.’

She turned to the barman.

‘Two highballs with lots of ice.’

She moved past him to the table when I had been sitting and sat down.

I sat down opposite her.

She opened her handbag, took out the gold cigarette case, opened it and offered it to me.

I took a cigarette. She took one too. She lit mine with the gold lighter, then her own: by this time the barman had come back with two highballs. He put them on the table, then went away.

‘How does it feel, Mr. Barber, to be out of prison?’ she asked, letting smoke drift down her nostrils.

‘All right.’

‘I see you are no longer a newspaper man.’

‘That’s correct.’

She tilted the high glass, making the ice cubes tinkle and she regarded the glass as if it interested her more than I did.

‘I’ve seen you come in here quite often.’ She waved silver nails to the window. ‘I have a beach cabin across the way.’

‘That must be nice for you.’

She picked up her drink and sipped a little of the highball.

‘Do these frequent visits to this bar mean you haven’t fixed up a job yet?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you hope to get fixed up pretty soon?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It can’t be easy, of course.’

‘That’s right.’

‘If employment was offered to you, would you be interested?’

I frowned at her.

‘I don’t get this. Are you offering me employment?’

‘It is possible. Would you be interested?’

I reached for the highball, then changed my mind. I had had more than enough to drink.

‘Doing what?’

‘It would be very well paid, very confidential and with a small element of risk. Would that worry you?’

‘You mean it would be illegal?’