The Peddler Read online

  Tony drank his beer, left the papers on the bar and went out. It was funny, he thought, but he didn’t feel much one way or another about the kill. It was almost as if it hadn’t involved him personally, as if it were merely something he’d read about. Two months away from the home town; that was a hell of a time. He found himself wishing the cops would hurry up and pin the job on somebody.

  He stood in the sunlight outside the cigar store, wondering what to do with himself. Recruit some whores. He grinned wryly. He’d started out in the racket pretty high up, worked his way almost to the top. Here he was now, practically a male streetwalker, working on the babes. He’d worked his way up to pimp.

  He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, then swore, turned and went back in.

  “Hey, pop,” he said to the gray-haired guy. “Where’s a place called Westbums? Some kind of book store.”

  The man gave him directions and Tony started walking. Maybe that blonde, June, had been thinking about the big dough he’d mentioned.

  chapter twelve

  Westburns was a small place on the main drag. Betty stood behind the counter, and she glanced up at him as he came in. He’d been thinking about her, rather than June, as he walked down the street. All he could remember about her— except for that last look as he and Ruth left the dance hall — was her black, long hair, and her blue eyes. He saw her even more clearly now than he had last night. Her nose was straight, narrow. Her lips were full and red, the mouth wide. She had high, prominent cheekbones, and maybe, thought Tony, that was what gave her the haughty air she had, that snooty look. There wasn’t a damn thing sensual about her face except maybe the generous lips and mouth. Her face, he decided, wasn’t pretty. But maybe you could call it striking. Her skin was so white and smooth that it made her black hair look blacker, her mouth more vivid. She wasn’t smiling as she looked at him.

  Tony walked over to the counter, feeling an inexplicable nervousness that was foreign to him. “Hello, Betty.”

  He couldn’t think of anything to say for a moment. Then, “Uh, is June around?”

  “Uh-huh. She’s in the booth. Sometimes when it’s slow like this we take turns listening to records.”

  He wished she’d quit looking at him so solemn like that; it was making him feel funny, exposed, as if he were standing there naked, casually passing the time of day. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking from her face.

  They stood facing each other on opposite sides of the counter for half a minute, then Tony said, “Well, I just came in to say hello to June. She’s in back, huh?”

  Betty nodded.

  He walked toward the rear of the store and up to the booth. He could hear the music softly, a jazzy number with plenty of hot, brassy trumpet. That June was a pretty brassy number herself. He looked in the glass window of the door. June was sitting in the cushioned seat, her legs apart and her dress up over her knees, the cloth sagging down between her legs. A hand rested on each thigh and she was keeping time to the music with an index finger of each hand. Her head rested on the cushion behind her, eyes closed, bright blonde hair bunched on her shoulders, half smile on her face.

  He tapped on the glass.

  She jerked her head around, eyes opening wide. He saw her Ups form “Tony!” but he couldn’t hear the words. She smiled. Then she crooked her finger at him, motioning him inside. He opened the door and stepped into the small booth, clicked the door shut behind him.

  “Hi, Tony. I didn’t think you’d be around.”

  “Said I would. Turn that thing down.”

  She turned a dial and the music became soft instead of the raucous blaring it had been. “Sit down.” She patted the seat at her side. There was barely room for two people, and sitting there June’s thigh was pressed tightly against his own.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said. “It’s sure dead today.”

  “Still dead?”

  “Not now it isn’t.” She grinned. “Kind of close in here, isn’t it, Tony?”

  “Not too close.”

  “Tony, I’ll tell you something. I sit in here and listen to these hot records, these hot licks, and it makes me hot. It makes me hotter than hell. You ever get like that?”

  “Not from records.”

  “I wouldn’t talk like this, but—well, last night. We’re sort of like old friends, aren’t we?”

  “Sure, June.”

  “Oh, man, I’m hot.”

  “Maybe I should have had a trumpet with me last night.”

  “You didn’t need one, Tony. But—this is different. Funny different. There’s a dozen kids in town the same way; once in a while we get together and put on some hot records and really go. It gets right down inside you.”

  Tony grinned. “That sounds real good.”

  “Oh, listen to that!” She turned up the volume a little, stretched her legs out in front of her and squirmed slightly, rolling back and forth on her hips. “Doesn’t that do something to you, Tony?”

  “What you’re doing does. Last night I kept thinking about the way you finish dances.”

  She sat up straight again. “That was the idea.” She looked at him. “Remember the little fun we had in the corner?” Her voice was soft, intimate.

  “Sure I remember.”

  She looked at him. Finally she said, “Do I have to draw you a picture?”

  “Hell, there’s a big glass window in this door, June. You want people watching?”

  They sat quietly for three or four minutes. Tony said, “Tell you something, June. A gal as full of hell as you, it seems a shame you don’t get anything but kicks out of it.”

  Her head was bent down as she listened to the records, blonde hair falling forward in front of her face. She looked sideways at him. “What could I get besides kicks?” Tony could hardly hear her, the music was so loud.

  “I mentioned something about it last night. Money, I mean.”

  She kept looking at him, red tongue curling out again to touch her upper lip. Then she looked away from him, down at the floor again, listened to a throaty alto sax.

  In a couple minutes Tony said, “I’ve got to beat it. I’ll see you later, June,”

  She sat up. “I want to see you, too. Tony, a little more before you go? A little bit?”

  He grinned at her. “Later, honey.” He went out. He stopped at the counter where Betty was reading a book. “So long,” he said.

  She looked at him from cool blue eyes. “You’ve got somebody’s lipstick on.”

  He’d forgotten about that. He pulled out a white handkerchief and scrubbed his mouth. Confused, he said, “Don’t you ever lose any of yours?”

  She dropped her gaze to his mouth for a moment, then looked back at his eyes. She didn’t say anything. She started reading her book again.

  Tony stared at her, frovmed. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “That myst be a damned interesting book. What is it, a Bible?”

  She didn’t look up. “Why do you swear so much?” she asked.

  He didn’t know quite how to answer such a stupid question. “Hell,” he said, “why not?”

  There wasn’t any more conversation, and Tony left. He walked down the street thinking. As for the night with Ruth, and what had just gone on with June in the record booth, he didn’t feel there was anything wrong or immoral or bad about what he’d done. But, he kept thinking, that business with June. He felt a little funny about it. And the reason was that he couldn’t help thinking Betty wouldn’t have liked knowing what was happening back there. She’d probably have felt it was pretty terrible. And, even as the thought rose in his mind, he was puzzled that he should be considering Betty’s attitude at all.

  Three days in this stinking burg. Three long, lousy days in this dead town—and with Ruth on his neck all the time. I kick your teeth in, Ruthie. Drop dead, Ruthie. Ruthie, you know what? You stink, Ruthie. How in hell did she get so nauseating in only sixteen years?

  Tony walked down the main drag, turned and went to the pool hall. He ordered a bee
r at the little bar, then another. He told the bartender to keep the beer coming till he slid off the stool.

  Friday afternoon. A stinking, lousy, dismal Friday afternoon. Saturday coming up, Saturday night, the big night in Napa. All kinds of excitement: taffy pulls, window shopping, read books. Oh, sonofabitch. Napa, the rip of creation, and he was stuck in it. God, to be back in Frisco. Tony had been away from San Francisco before, but always he’d known he’d be home again in a day or two—and even then he’d missed it. This might stretch into a couple months or more. He wanted to call Angelo, but he was to phone only on Saturday nights. He felt like getting in the Buick and heading for town, driving down Market, walking the streets. He could imagine himself walking down the little alleys with Betty, finding the small out-of-the-way restaurants and bars hidden off the streets. Getting one of the dark booths in the back of the room, a drink before dinner. He stopped, frowned. He’d done it again. Betty again. This wasn’t the first time he’d caught himself thinking about her, about going places, doing things with Betty. He shook his head, drank his umpteenth beer. Yeah, Tony, he said to himself, you better get out of this trap. You’re losing your marbles.

  He shook off his mood. “Hey, bartender,” he called. “Fill it up. Have one on me.”

  “Well, don’t mind if I do. Thanks.”

  “This is a metropolis,” said Tony. “This is the great heart of the wine belt. Where in hell is the heart of the whiskey belt?”

  The bartender looked at him oddly. He poured two beers.

  “You’re new around here, ain’t you, fellow?”

  “I’m old around here. I’m old and gray. I’m dead.”

  “Aw,” said the bartender.

  “Say, when does the next exciting thing happen?”

  “Huh? Say, fellow, I don’t know what you mean.”

  Tony shook his head. “I know. I don’t know why I asked. I’m sick of beer. Give me a bourbon.”

  “Look, fellow, you know I got no bourbon. Take it easy.”

  “Give me a bourbon before I wreck this place. I’ll throw it out on the street.”

  The bartender licked his lips. “Hey, now. Don’t get rambunctious. I don’t wanna have to call the cops.”

  “Rambunctious,” Tony repeated. “Oh, great. Stretch my galluses. Cops?” Tony laughed loudly. “Cops?” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a huge wad of bills. “There’s the cops, pops. There in my hand. There is the backbone of the cops.”

  The bartender looked at the money, then at Tony. He licked his lips again, moved his feet nervously.

  “Oh, hell,” Tony said. “Take out what I owe you and I’ll blow this trap.”

  The bartender pulled a ten-dollar bill from the mass of money. Tony shoved the rest into his pocket and left without waiting for his change.

  Hell, he might as well go to the hotel. He hadn’t been back to the bookstore. He didn’t want to see Betty again; he didn’t know why. June could wait; let her get steamed up enough and maybe she’d hear somebody blow Taps and bust wide open. But Ruthie was back at the hotel. At least there was a drink, too.

  Ruthie. Tony hadn’t sent any new flesh to Frisco yet. There was something to relieve the boredom. He’d send little Ruthie to a whorehouse. Bye-bye, Ruthie. He walked faster.

  Ruthie left the next day. Tony kissed her goodbye and put her on the bus.

  chapter thirteen

  Saturday night. In San Francisco, Tony knew, the clubs would be filled with well-dressed men and women out on the town, drinking and dancing and laughing, listening to the best bands, enjoying the best food and liquor, touching knees under tables, stealing caresses. Cabs would screech around comers, horns would honk, and the clang of street cars, cable cars, maybe burglar alarms, would be mixing with the scuff of feet on sidewalks and the bubble of sound spilling from the open doors of bars and lounges and cafes. There’d be noise, noise, movement, color, life and living, men and women. The San Francisco women, the proud, wise, lovely, soft-fleshed San Francisco women, with their dark-skinned, somber, hard-eyed men.

  In Napa there was a street dance.

  At six o’clock in the evening, there was no noise except for an occasional automobile, no babel of sound. This was the coffin six feet deep in the graveyard, and the lid was stuck. Tony was kicking the lid off tomorrow, though, heading down the road for somewhere, anywhere but here. The dance was to start at seven P.M. and it was going to be his last adventure in the Napa jungle. He’d seen Ruthie off in the afternoon, talked to a few other women he’d met in the last four days. Ruthie was his only “shipment” so far, but he wasn’t in any great hurry about that end yet. There was plenty of time. Too damn much time. That bastard Angelo was the reason for all this; he’d sent Tony out on the job that backfired. An easy guy to hate, Angelo. He sat up in that office of his and took all the gravy, while guys like Tony did the work. It was like way back when he’d done those jobs for Swan; Tony did the job, Swan got the money and credit.

  The street dance was held near the center of town, the block roped off at each end. When Tony got there at quarter to seven, there was already quite a crowd present. He hadn’t thought there were this many people in town. Not live people. A raised platform on the sidewalk was set up for the orchestra, which wasn’t yet present. Tony walked through the crowd, looking around him. There were a lot of young gals and guys, and some old ducks. He saw the slim girl he’d danced with at Hall’s Hall, and stopped and talked with her for a minute, then moved on.

  Knowing this was his last night here made him feel a little better. At least tomorrow he’d be on his way to some other place; maybe Fresno, Sacramento, he might even buzz clear down to L.A. and Hollywood. Hollywood should be a good spot for him to work in. Anyplace inside the state was O.K. Angelo had warned him not to cross the state line.

  When the music started, Tony asked a busty gal about twenty to dance. She was a little heavy, but comfortable to dance with. At first he didn’t talk much, but after fifteen minutes, and dances with three different girls, he found he wasn’t depressed any longer, was even beginning to enjoy himself. About a quarter to eight, just as another “set” was starting, he spotted June. He walked up beside her.

  “Hi, honey. How about a dance?”

  “Well, hi, Tony, sure. I was looking around for you. You been here all the time?”

  “Yeah. Since before this wild affair started.”

  She brushed her blonde hair with one hand, then moved into his arms, close against him. “Isn’t this music dismal, Tony? Doesn’t do a thing to me.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing, here on the street.” He grinned.

  “We get together in the oddest places, don’t we?”

  “Uh-huh. Always crowded.”

  She smiled broadly. “Maybe we can find a quieter place some time.”

  “You know it. Only it better be fast. I’m kissing this dump goodbye.” He pulled her closer to him. “Say, your chum around?”

  “What chum?”

  “Betty. The iceberg.”

  “Yes. We came down together. She’s dancing somewhere.”

  “You two are a funny pair, June. I mean she’s so distant and kind of held back, and you vibrate. I mean you’re really a hot number.”

  “What’s so funny about it? We don’t sleep together. Besides, we don’t go around much, just once in a while. What you always asking about her for?”

  “Just talking.” They danced quietly for a minute, then she said, “Tony, what did you mean? Are you leaving town?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? How soon?”

  “Tomorrow. Sooner the better.” He paused, squinted at her, then said slowly, “You’re still working for twenty a week, huh? Maybe by the time you’re fifty you’ll be able to save a couple hundred bucks.”

  She looked at him, running her tongue over her upper lip. “Tony, tell me more about these … friends of yours. These billionaires.”

  He squinted at her for a half second, then said, “They�
�re salesgirls, honey. They sell meat. Flesh, to be more specific.” He kept watching her face. “They sell little hot pieces of flesh, and there’s no ceiling on the price.” She licked her lips, looked straight back into his eyes, and he went on, “You’d be surprised how few vegetarians there are in San Francisco. A good salesgirl can make a small fortune in a few months or a year—if she handles it right.”

  She didn’t say anything. The dance ended and she slid up against him as the music stopped, rolled her loins back and forth against his.

  Tony said, “Let’s dance the next one, O.K.?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” She paused. “Salesgirls, huh?”

  “Yeah. You know, take a gal making, say, a double saw-buck a week. That’s about a thousand a year. Some of these girls I know make that much in a week.” That was true enough, but they were special cases. Tony saw no need to elaborate, however. The music started and they began dancing again.

  Halfway through the fox-trot Tony saw a girl near him, dancing, her back to him. But he knew from the long black hair and the slim waist, the shapely legs under the skirt of her green dress, that it was Betty. She didn’t see him, but when the dance ended Tony grabbed June’s arm and walked with her to the sidewalk near where Betty stood talking to the guy she’d been dancing with, and another girl. When the guy walked away Tony thanked June and said, “Save me twenty or thirty later. I got something to talk to you about.”

  “Salesgirls?”

  “Yeah, honey.”

  “O.K., Tony. And … don’t forget.”

  He walked over to Betty. “Hello, there,” he said.

  She looked around. “Oh. Tony. How are you?”

  “O.K. You notice something?”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t call you honey.”

  She smiled. “I’ll bet it was an effort. What are you doing here? You just don’t seem the type to be at a street dance, Tony.”

  “Who, me? I’m crazy about street dances. Say, this is living.”

  She shook her head and laughed softly. The other girl went off to dance with somebody and Tony and Betty were alone in the crowd.