Well Now, My Pretty Part 16

"I don't look for trouble."

"Well, my love of a hubby doesn't know trouble when he sees it. But it wasn't all that bad."

In spite of the small talk, O'Toole didn't neglect to look the car over. He remembered the wanted car was a Buick coupe and this was a Buick coupe.

"Something new, Tom?" he asked.

"No . . . my G.o.ddam car broke down. I borrowed this. What's all the commotion about?"

"Commotion? Don't you read the papers? There's been a two-and-a-half-million-dollar steal from the Casino. We have the robbers holed up in the City so orders are to check every outgoing car."

"Is that right?" Sheila thrust her bust in O'Toole's direction. "Well, what do you know! Two and a half million . . . wheeee!"

O'Toole regarded her. Whiteside certainly had it good. Imagine getting this frill into bed every night.

"I'll have to check the car, Tom," he said, getting back to business.

"Go right ahead." Tom gave him the ignition key. "I'm just returning this car and then picking up my own ruin."

O'Toole checked the boot, then gave Tom back the key.

"Who did you borrow this from?"

"Oh, a guy . . . one of our clients," Tom said, flicking sweat off his face.

O'Toole leaned into the car and looked at the licence tag. Then he stepped back and wrote in his notebook: Franklin Ludovick, Mon Repose, Sandy Lane, Paradise City.

Tom watched him, feeling sick.

"Okay, go ahead. I'm off duty in five more minutes. Gee! Will I be glad!"

"I bet. Be seeing you," and Tom engaged gear and drove through the road block.

"Phew!" Sheila sighed softly.

Tom said nothing. He was thinking of the carton loaded with more money than he thought existed now in their sitting-room.

There must be a big reward, he thought. The insurance people would be covering the Casino. But it was a mistake not to go to the police right away. How could he explain the delay? He moved uneasily. He thought of what Sheila had said. She must be crazy! Glancing at her hard, cold face, he felt a p.r.i.c.kle of fear. She couldn't really mean to stick to all that money!

He turned off the highway and began to drive up the dirt road.

"They could be there, waiting for us," he said suddenly.

"They? There's only one . . . he's over sixty and frail. You heard what was said on the radio," Sheila said scornfully. "Don't tell me you're scared of a man like that?"

But Tom was scared.

"This is out of our cla.s.s. A man like that . . . he could have a gun."

"So what? So he has a gun . . . we have two and a half million dollars! If you can't handle him, I know I can!"

Tom moved uneasily.

"How you talk! Always the big mouth! I still think we should go to the police."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake! We're not going to the police!"

They came within sight of the Sting Ray. He pulled up and got out of the Buick.

The note he had written was still under the windscreen wiper. He slipped it out and shoved it into his pocket. Well, he thought, beginning to relax, at least here's luck. This guy didn't find my car.

Going back to the Buick, he took out the new oil pump he had picked up at the G.M. garage and then set to work to change the dud for the new one.

Sheila walked into the glade and Maisky saw her. He watched her as she wandered around. In spite of his anxiety, his elderly l.u.s.t was aroused. He eyed her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the slow roll of her b.u.t.tocks as she walked.

This, he thought, could be one h.e.l.l of a lay.

He was sorry when she went down the path on to the dirt road and he lost sight of her. He heard them talking, then a car started up. With a grinding roar and a rattle, the car moved off.

Maisky steeled himself, then walked down the path to the Buick. His hand was shaking as he unlocked the boot. He lifted the lid and then stood motionless. In a frenzy of sudden rage, he spat into the empty boot.

They had found and taken the carton!

Tom drove his car into the garage and cut the engine. Sheila slid out of the car and shut the garage doors. They walked quickly through the kitchen and then into the sitting-room. They stood looking at the carton, then Sheila lifted the lid.

"I never thought I would live to see so much money," she said huskily. Squatting down on her heels, she picked up one of the packets and pressed it to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Two and a half million dollars . . . it's a dream!"

Tom dropped into a lounging chair. He felt shaky and scared. "We can't keep it. We must tell the police."

She dropped the packet of money back into the carton.

"We are going to keep it . . . all of it." Going to the c.o.c.ktail cabinet, *she poured two big whiskies and gave him one. "Here . . ."

Tom swallowed the drink at a gulp. The spirit immediately hit him. He felt suddenly fine and a little reckless.

"No one knows we have it," Sheila said, sitting down and sipping her drink. "We must now use our heads. This is a gift . . . make up your mind about it. We are going to keep it."

Tom felt the whisky move through him.

"Okay . . . so suppose we are crazy enough to keep it? We can't spend it. Everyone knows in this G.o.ddam town that we never have any money. So what do we do with it?"

She looked thoughtfully at him, thinking this was a step in the right direction. At least he was becoming cooperative.

"We wait. In a few months' time it will be safe to move it out of here. They can't keep the road blocks going for ever. When things cool down, we'll blow."

Tom ran sweating fingers through his hair.

"So? What the h.e.l.l do we do with this right now? Leave it here?"

"No . . . we'll bury it. That patch of ground under the kitchen window . . . we'll bury it there."

He stared at her, worried. She seemed to have an answer for everything.

"You realise we could go to jail for twenty years?"

"You realise we now own two and a half million dollars?"

Tom got to his feet. She was too strong for him. Maybe she could steer this thing right. He knew he was doing wrong, but even against his p.r.i.c.king conscience, the thought of owning all this money was too much for him.

"Okay. This is your funeral. I've got to go. Look at the time. I'm late already. What are we going to do with this box right now?"

Sheila hesitated, then said, "Let's put it in the spare bedroom. We can cover it with the eiderdown."

"If we are going to go through with this, you will be chained to this house. You can't go out. You realise this?"

"Do you think that's so rough? Keeping watch over this kind of money isn't a hardship."

"It could go on for months."

"So, okay. I'll stay right here for months."

He hesitated, then gave up.

"I still think we're playing this wrong. We should tell the police."

"I told you . . . I'm handling this. We don't tell the police."

He stared at her, then raised his hands helplessly. He knew he was being weak . . . stupid . . . but all this money. . .

"Well, all right."

"Let's get it in the bedroom."

They dragged the carton into their bedroom and pushed it against the wall. Sheila took the eiderdown off the bed and draped it over the carton.

"You get off. You'd better bring something in for supper." Tom felt a sudden overpowering desire for her.

"If we are going through with this together," he said, his voice shaking and husky, "then we'd better go the whole way."

She recognised the despairing desire in his eyes and she once again recognised her complete power over him.

"Oh, well . . . if you must."

She slid down her slacks and stripped off her panties. Then she dropped back flat across the bed. When he thrust into her with desperate urgency, she clutched hold of him, making a response to please and control him. As he shuddered, clinging to her, she stared up at the fly-blown ceiling, so bored with him she could scream.

When he had gone, she took a shower. Then walking, naked, into the bedroom, she took the eiderdown off the carton and squatting on her heels, she spent a long time fondling the money.

Here, she thought, was power . . . the key to unlock the door that would lead into the world she had always dreamed about. Her first buy would be a mink coat, then a diamond necklace, and then every other jewel that caught her eye. She thought of a six-bedroom house with a bathroom to every bedroom, a vast lounge, a big garden, immaculately kept by Chinese labour. Then a maroon-coloured Bentley car and a j.a.panese chauffeur in a maroon-coloured uniform. There would be a motor-boat, of course: possibly a yacht. She wasn't sure about this as she had never been on the sea. She had it all planned: it was a dream she had had ever since she could remember. Well, now it was within reach.

She stood up, running her long fingers over her body, lifting her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and sighing. Then she began to dress.

Somewhere along the line, Tom would have to go. He didn't fit in the picture. He was too small-time . . . too narrow . . . too scared. She had in mind a dark, tall, well-built man who would know how to handle money, who would have the respect of head waiters, and who would know how to take care of a girl. Yes, some time in the future, she must lose Tom, but the time hadn't come yet.

Unable to resist the temptation, she took three five-hundred dollar bills from the carton, then she closed the lid and replaced the eiderdown. She slid the folded bills down the top of one of her stockings. It was exciting to feel so much money pressing against her skin.

She went to her wardrobe and regarded the contents with contempt. G.o.d! What a collection of ghastly rags! She put on a pleated grey skirt and a cream-coloured sweater.

Having done her face and hair, she walked into the sitting-room. She looked at her cheap wrist.w.a.tch. It was a few minutes after eleven-thirty. Tom wouldn't be back until six. Usually, she went out, but now she found herself chained to the bungalow. There was nothing to read in the house. She frowned, suddenly realising that from now on until they left the bungalow for good she would be a prisoner here. With all that money to spend . . . what a waste of time!

She felt hungry and realised there was nothing to eat in the house. She hesitated, then getting up she called the Sandwich Bar at the end of the street. She ordered two chicken sandwiches and a bottle of milk. The man said he would send her order over right away.

She turned on the TV set, but at this hour the programme was so dull, she immediately turned it off. A boy arrived a quarter of an hour later with the food. She paid him, noting she had only three dollars and a few cents in her purse.

She ate the sandwiches while moving around the lounge. She was restless and kept thinking of all that money in the bedroom. She kept thinking what a waste of time it was to have to wait when she could now start a spending spree.

As she finished the last of the sandwiches, the front-door bell rang. The sound made her jump and she stood motionless, her heart hammering. Then, when the bell rang again, she went to the front door.

Harry Dylan was standing on the doorstep.

"I guess you forgot our little date," he said and waved a bottle of Old Roses at her. "The wife's gone shopping. I thought I'd look in."

She eyed him, hesitated, then decided he was better than boredom.

"Well . . . come in."

"Mr. Whiteside's gone to work, hasn't he?" Dylan was eyeing her figure. The tip of his tongue moistened his lips.

"Yes . . . he's gone to work."

She led the way into the sitting-room.

"Here are the receipts and the parcel."

She looked at the electricity and gas bills and tossed them on the table.

"My husband will settle with these." She stared at Dylan. "He never leaves me any money."

"I guess most husbands are like that," Dylan said and laughed nervously. He couldn't keep his eyes to himself. "Well, how about a drink, Mrs. Whiteside?"

"Why not?"

She got gla.s.ses, charge water and ice. All the time she moved around, she was aware of his eyes on her body. Well, let him look, the poor dumb fish, she thought. It's not costing me anything.

"You heard about the Casino robbery?" he asked, measuring out two big drinks. "Quite something. Two and a half million dollars! It's my bet they will never see that again!"

She sat down, deliberately careless with her skirt. She let him see the colour of her panties before she adjusted her skirt. He slopped some of the drink.