You'll Get Yours. Thomas Wills

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You’ll Get Yours

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1952 by James Brown Associates.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

       ONE

      I LIE on the bed in my shorts, my legs spread-eagle, the back of my head resting on my hands to keep it from the soaking pillow. The window is shut and the blinds are drawn, just as I found them, and it is very hot.

      I have not moved for the past hour, not since five minutes after I slipped into the room past the dozing Mexican clerk in the shabby little foyer below. Not even to light a cigarette. I even breathe through my mouth.

      Next door it is not so quiet. The bottle clinks against the edge of the glass. Then the bottle thumps heavily on the table top. There is no rattle of ice. Ice? In this godforsaken hole?

      He has been at it since I arrived, and for who knows how many hours and days and weeks before.

      Drink hearty, Archie. Down the hatch, kid. Bottoms up, you son of a bitch, you’re drinking your last.

      It has been getting dark in a hurry. When the sun goes down in little Tia Rosa, it sinks.

      Tia Rosa, end of the line.

      I swing my legs slowly to the floor and stand up. The outline of my body remains on the sheet, a silhouette in sweat. It is time for the blood. Archie St. George’s. The tears? They’ve all been shed back in New York. By three beautiful women.

      Back to the chair, to my tourist suit; white palm beach jacket and trousers, brown-and-white shoes, white shirt opened at the neck, white panama hat. I dress silently and unhurriedly.

      A cough sounds through the cracked, paper-thin partition. A hacking cough. Too much tobacco, too much cheap whiskey, too much everything. That’s all right, Archie. Dr. Glines is right next door. He’s got the prescription for that cough, kid. I buckled the holster to my chest, went back to the bed and got the .38 from beneath the pillow. This’ll fix that cough.

      I pull the blind away from the window. The narrow dusty road beneath the window is no longer yellow but black. The shack across the street is not white any more. The only sign of life in the village is on the corner. There a dim light flickers. That’s La Cantada, the local ginmill.

      I’m not worried about that. When I leave I’ll be heading in the opposite direction. My car is in a lean-to four blocks away. In an hour I’ll be back in Brownsville, USA, and heading north again. Maybe Archie will come home again, too. In a baggage car, in a steel box with Railway Express stickers all over it. Addressed to me, maybe.

      Okay, Archie. Drink up. I can’t wait to see your face.

      I had my fingers on the knob of the door that connects the rooms when the heels clicked in the hallway outside. I took my hand away.

      It couldn’t be her. But who else walks like that? The steps slowed. They were cautious now. They passed my door and then stopped.

      There was a light knock on his door. Then a voice.

      “Archie? Are you in there, Archie?”

      It was her. I found myself staring at my hands. They were fists, shaking fists. I felt rage knotting my forearms, tightening my chest.

      He didn’t answer. I heard him cross the room unsteadily. He opened the door to her.

      “What the hell are you doing here?” he said. The liquor was strong in him.

      “I want to come in,” she said.

      “Why?”

      “Let me in, Archie.” Her voice was on hands and knees.

      “Why sure, baby. Sure. For you, anytime.”

      The door closed. There was silence. I knew exactly how she would walk inside, then stop and look around at the cheap, dingy room. I could see him, too, standing near the door, leaning against it with his shoulders, going over her with his brown eyes.

      Archie said, “Okay. Now what?”

      “How long have you been here, Archie?”

      “Too goddamned long.” His voice was thick; surly and thick. There wasn’t a trace of the old smoothness left. “I hope you brought money, baby, ’cause I’m coming back.”

      “Are you?”

      “You bet your life I’m coming back.”

      “What about Barney?”

      He laughed. “Barney? You think I’m down here on account of Barney?”

      “He’s looking for you, Archie. He’s going to kill you.”

      He laughed again.

      “It isn’t anything to laugh at,” she told him.

      “Sure it is. It’s the yak of the year, baby. Barney Glines is a goddamned boy scout. And you. You know what you are? A goddamned girl scout.” His voice toughened. “What the hell’d you come down here for anyhow?”

      “What do you think, Archie?”

      “I thought you and me were all washed up, baby. Out of sight out of mind, they always say.”

      “It didn’t work out that way, Archie.”

      “So I see. I didn’t think I’d made that much impression.” His voice was a leer.

      Hers was soft and beguiling. “But you did. You made a very big impression, Archie.”

      “How’d you follow me, baby?”

      “It wasn’t easy.”

      I’ll say it wasn’t. It had taken me three long weeks to get to him. I had to give her credit.

      She said, “But I’m here now.”

      “In the flesh,” he said. “How’s about a little drink, baby? To celebrate?”

      “All right.”

      The bottle touched two glasses.

      “Got to take it straight,” he told her. “This isn’t the Waldorf.”

      “Or the Park East.”

      That got a chuckle out of him. “No,” he said, “it’s not even the Park East. Here’s to you, baby.”

      “Here’s to you, Archie.”

      A pause. When he spoke again I knew he was next to her. His voice was deep in his throat.

      “You look awful good.”

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