The Rip-Off Page 3

  “Forget it. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “You’re forty. Or so you stated on your loan-application blank. What do you do for a living, if you can call it that?”

  I said, Why ask me something she already knew? “That information’s also on the application. Along with practically everything else about me, except the number and location of my dimples.”

  “You mean you have some I can’t see?” She smiled, her voice friendlier, almost tender. “But what I meant to ask was, what do you write for this Hemisphere Foundation?”

  “Studies. In-depth monographs on this region from various aspects: ecological, etiological, ethological, ethnological. That sort of thing. Sometimes one of them is published in Hemisphere’s Quarterly Reports. But they usually go in the file-and-forget department.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said thoughtfully, musingly. “Very interesting. I think something could be worked out there. Something satisfactory to both of us.”

  “If you could tell me just what you have in mind…”

  “Well, I’ll have to clear it with Pat, of course, but…Thirty-five thousand a year?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I…What?” I gasped. “Did you say thirty-five thousand?”

  “Plus expenses, and certain fringe benefits.”

  “Thirty-five thousand,” I said, running a finger around my collar. “Uh, how much change do you want back?”

  She threw back her head and laughed, hugging herself ecstatically. “Ah, Britt, Britt,” she said, brushing mirth tears from her eyes. “Everything’s going to be wonderful for you. I’ll make it wonderful, you funny-sweet man. Now, do me a small favor, hmm?”

  “Practically anything,” I said, “if you’ll laugh like that again.”

  “Please don’t worry about silly things, like our bugging system. Everyone knows we have it. We’re out in the open on that as we are with everything else. If someone thinks he can beat it, well, it isn’t as if he hadn’t been warned, is it?”

  “I see what you mean,” I said, although I actually didn’t. I was just being agreeable. “What happens when someone is caught pulling a fast one?”

  “Well, naturally,” she said, “we have to remove him from the payroll.”

  “I see,” I said again. Lying again when I said it. Because, of course, there are many ways to remove a man from the payroll. (Horizontal was one that occurred to me.) My immediate concern, however, as it so often is, was me. Specifically the details of my employment. But I was not allowed to inquire into them.

  Before I could frame another question, she had moved with a kind of unhurried haste, with the quick little movements which typified her. Rising from her chair, tucking her purse under her arm, gesturing me back when I also started to rise; all in one swift-smooth uninterrupted action.

  “Stay where you are, Britt,” she smiled. “Have a drink or something. I’ll have someone pick you up and drive you home.”

  “Well…” I settled back into my chair. “Shall I call you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call you. Pat or I will. Good-night, now.”

  She left the table, her tinily full figure with its crown of thick blond hair quickly losing itself in the dining room’s dimness.

  I waited. I had another liqueur and more coffee. And continued to wait. An hour passed. A waiter brushed by the table, and when he had gone, I saw a check lying in front of me.

  I picked it up, a nervous lump clotting in my stomach. My eyes blurred, and I rubbed them, at last managing to read the total.

  Sixty-three dollars and thirty cents.

  Sixty-three dollars and—!

  I don’t know how you are in such situations, but I always feel guilty. The mere need to explain, that such and such is a mistake, et cetera, stiffens my smile exaggeratedly and sets me to sweating profusely, and causes my voice to go tremulous and shaky. So that I not only feel guilty as hell, but also look it.

  It is really pretty terrible.

  It is no wonder that I was suspected of the attempted murder of my wife. The wonder is that I wasn’t lynched.

  Albert, the maitre d’, approached. As I always do, I over-explained, apologizing when I should have demanded apologies. Sweating and shaking and squeakily stammering, and acting like nine kinds of a damned fool.

  When I was completely self-demolished, Albert cut me off with a knifing gesture of his hand.

  “No,” he said coldly, “Miss Aloe did not introduce you to me. If she had, I would have remembered it.” And he said, “No, she made no arrangement about the check. Obviously, the check is to be paid by you.”

  Then, he leaned down and forward, resting his hands on the table, so that his face was only inches from mine. And I remember thinking that I had known this was going to happen, not exactly this, perhaps, but something that would clearly expose the vicious potential of PXA. A taste of what could happen if I incurred the Aloe displeasure.

  For she had said—remember?—that they did not pretend or apologize. You were warned, you knew exactly what to expect if.

  “You deadbeat bastard,” Albert said. “Pay your check or we’ll drag you back in the kitchen, and beat the shit out of you.”

  5

  I was on an aimless tour of the country when I met my wife-to-be, Connie. I’d gotten together some money through borrowing and peddling the few remaining Rainstar valuables, so I’d bought a car and taken off. No particular, no clear objective in mind. I simply didn’t like it where I was, and I wanted to find a place where I would like it. Which, of course, was impossible. Because the reason I disliked places I was in—and the disheartening knowledge was growing on me—was my being in them. I disliked me, me, myself and I, as kids used to say, and far and fast as I ran I could not escape the bastardly trio.

  Late one afternoon, I strayed off the highway and wound up in a homey little town, nestled among rolling green hills. I also wound up with a broken spring, from a plunge into a deep rut, and a broken cylinder and corollary damage from getting out of the rut.

  The town’s only garage was the blacksmith shop. Or, to put it another way, the blacksmith did auto repairs…except for those who could drive a hundred-plus miles to the nearest city. The blacksmith-mechanic quoted a very reasonable price for repairing my car, but he would have to send away for parts, and what with one thing and another, he couldn’t promise to have the work done in less than a week.

  There was one small restaurant in the town, sharing space with the post office. But there was no hotel, motel or boarding house. The blacksmith-mechanic suggested that I check with the real estate dealer to see if some private family would take me in for a few days. Without much hope, I did so.

  The sign on the window read LUTHER BANNERMAN—REAL ESTATE & INSURANCE. Inside, a young woman was disinterestedly pecking away at an ancient typewriter with a three-row keyboard. She was a little on the scrawny side, with mouse-colored hair. But she laughed wildly when I asked if she was Luther Bannerman, and otherwise endeared herself to me by childish eagerness to be of help, smiling and bobbing her head sympathetically as I explained my situation. When I had finished, however, she seemed to draw back a bit, becoming cautiously reserved.

  “Well, I just don’t know. Mr.…Britton, is it?”

  “Rainstar. Britt, for Britton, Rainstar.”

  “I was going to say, Mr.—oh, I’ll make it Britt, okay? I was just going to say, Britt. We’re kind of out of the mainstream here, and I’m afraid you’d find it hard to keep in touch and carry on your business affairs, and”—she bared her teeth in a smile—“and so forth and so on.”

  I explained that I had no pressing business affairs, not a single so forth let alone a so on. I was just travelling, seeing the country and gathering material for a book. I also explained, when she raised the question of accommodations for my wife and family, that I had none with me or elsewhere and that my needs were solely for myself.

  At this, she insisted on pouring me coffee from the pot on a one-burner heater
. Then, having made me “comfy”—also nauseous: the coffee was lousy—she hurried back to a small partitioned-off private office. After several minutes of closed-door conversation, she returned with her father, Luther Bannerman.

  Of course, he and she collectively insisted that I stay at their house. (It would be no trouble at all, but I could pay a little something if I wanted to.)

  Of course, I accepted their invitation. And, of course, I was in her pants the very first night. Or, rather, I was in what was in her pants. Or, to be absolutely accurate, she was in my pants. She charged into my room as soon as the light went out. And I did not resist her, despite her considerable resistibility.

  I felt that it was the very least I could do for her, although quite a few others had obviously done as much. I doubt that they had fought for it either, since it simply wasn’t the sort of thing for which men do battle. Frankly, if it had been tendered as inspiration for the launching of a thousand ships (or even a toy canoe), not a one would have hoisted anchor.

  Ah, well. Who am I to kid around about poor Connie and her over-stretched snatch? Or to kid about anyone, for that matter. It is one of fate’s saddest pranks to imbue the least sexually appetizing of us with the hugest sexual appetites. To atone for that joke, I feel, is the obligation of all who are better endowed. And in keeping that obligation, I have had many sorrier screws than Connie. I have received little gratitude for my efforts. On the contrary, I invariably wind up with a worse fucking than the fucking I got. For it is also one of fate’s jokes to dower superiority complexes on girls with the worst fornicating furniture. And they seem to feel justified in figuratively giving you something as bad as they have given you literally.

  Of course, Connie’s father discovered us in coitus before the week was out. And, of course, I agreed to do the “right thing” by his little girl. Which characteristically was the easiest thing for me to do. Or so it seemed at the time. I may struggle a little bit, but I almost always do the easiest thing. Or what seems to be and never is.

  At the time I was born, promising was the word for Rainstar prospects. Thus, I was placed on the path of least resistance early in life, and I remained on it despite my growing awareness that promise was not synonymous with delivery. I had gathered too much speed to get off, and I could find no better path to be on anyway. I’m sure you’ve seen people like me.

  If I stumbled over an occasional rock, I might curse and kick out at it. But only briefly, and not very often at all. I was so unused to having my course unimpeded, that, normally, I figuratively fell apart when it was. It was the only recourse for a man made defenseless by breeding and habit.

  Both Connie and her father were provoked to find that my prosperousness was exactly one hundred per cent more apparent than real. They whined that I had deceived them, maintaining that since I was nothing but a well-dressed personable bum, I should have said so. Which, to me, seemed unreasonable. After all, why do your utmost not to look like a bum if you are going to announce that you are one?

  Obviously, there were basic philosophical differences between me and the Bannermans. But they finally seemed resigned to me, if not to my way of thinking. In fact, I was given their rather grim assurance that I would come around to their viewpoint eventually, and be much the better man for it. Meanwhile, Mr. Bannerman would not only provide me with a job, but would give Connie and me $100,000 life insurance policies as a wedding present.

  I felt that it was money wasted, since Connie, like all noxious growths, had a built-in resistance to scourge, and I had grown skilled in the art of self-preservation, having devoted a lifetime to it. However, it was Mr. Bannerman’s money, and I doubted that it would amount to much, since he was in the insurance business as well as real estate.

  So he wrote the policies on Connie and me, with each of us the beneficiary of the other. Connie’s policy was approved. Mine was rejected. Not on grounds of health, my father-in-law advised me. My health was excellent for a man wholly unaddicted to healthful hard work.

  The reason for my rejection was not spelled out to Mr. Bannerman, but he had a pretty good idea as to its nature, and so did I. It was a matter of character. A man with a decidedly truncated work history—me, that is—who played around whenever he had the money for playing around—again me—was apt to come to an early end, and possibly a bad one. Or so statistics indicated. And the insurance company was not betting a potential $100,000–$200,000, double indemnity—on my longevity when their own statistics branded me a no-no.

  With unusual generosity, Mr. Bannerman conceded that there were probably a great many decadent bums in the world, and that I was no worse than the worst of them. The best course for me was to re-apply for the policy, after I had “proved myself” with a few years of steady and diligent employment.

  To this end, he hired me as a commission salesman. It proved nothing except what I already knew—that I was no more qualified to sell than I apparently was for any other gainful occupation.

  I continued to be nagged by Papa and Daughter Bannerman, but I was given up on after a few weeks. Grimly allowed to “play around” with my typewriter while they—“other people”—worked for a living. Neither would hear of a divorce, or the suggestion that I get the hell out of their lives. I was to “come to my senses” and “be a man”—or do something! Surely, I could do something!

  Well, though, the fact was that I couldn’t do something. The something that I could do did not count as something with them. And they were keeping the score.

  Thus matters stood at the time of the accident which left me unscathed but almost killed Connie. I, an unemployed bum living on my father-in-law’s bounty, was driving the car when the accident happened. And while I carried no insurance, my wife was heavily insured in my favor.

  “Dig this character.” Albert, the maitre d’, jerked a thumb at me, addressing the circle of onlooking diners. “These bums are getting fancier every day, but this one takes the brass ring. What did you say your name was, bum?”

  “Rainstar.” A reassuring hand dropped on my shoulder. “He said it was, and I say it is. Any other questions?”

  “Oh, well, certainly not, sir! A stupid mistake on my part, sir, and I’m sure that—”

  “Come on, Britt. Let’s get out of here.”

  6

  We stood waiting for the elevator, Albert and I and my friend, whoever he was. Albert was begging, seemingly almost on the point of tears.

  “…a terrible mistake, believe me, gentlemen! I can’t think how I could have been guilty of it. I recall Mr. Rainstar perfectly now. Everything was exactly as he says, but—”

  “But it slipped your mind. You completely forgot.”

  “Exactly!”

  “So you treated me like any other deadbeat. You were just following orders.”

  “Then you do understand, sir?”

  “I understand,” I said.

  We took the elevator up to the street, my friend and I. I accompanied him to his car, trying to remember who he was, knowing that I had had far more than a passing acquaintance with him at one time. At last, as we passed under a streetlight, it came to me.

  “Mr. Claggett, Jeff Claggett!” I wrung his hand. “How could I ever have forgotten?”

  “Oh, well, it’s been a long time.” He grinned deprecatingly. “You’re looking good, Britt.”

  “Not exactly a barometer of my true condition,” I said. “But how about you? Still with the university?”

  “Police Department, Detective Sergeant.” He nodded toward the lighted window of a nearby restaurant. “Let’s have some coffee, and a talk.”

  He was in his early sixties, a graying square-shouldered man with startlingly blue eyes. He had been chief of campus security when my father was on the university faculty. “I left shortly after your dad did,” he said. “The cold-blooded way they dumped him was a little more than I could stomach.”

  “It wasn’t very nice,” I admitted. “But what else could they do, Jeff? You know how he was drink
ing there at the last. You were always having to bring him home.”

  “I wish I could have done more. I would have drunk more than he did, if I’d had his problems.”

  “But he brought them all on himself,” I pointed out. “He was slandered, sure. But if he’d just ignored it, instead of trying to get the UnAmerican Activities Committee abolished, it would all have been forgotten. As it was, well, what’s the use talking?”

  “Not much,” Claggett said. “Not any more.”

  I said, Oh, for God’s sake. It sounded like I was knocking the old man; and, of course, I didn’t mean to. “I didn’t mind his drinking, per se. It was just that it left him vulnerable to being kicked around by people who weren’t fit to wipe his ass.”

  Jeff Claggett nodded, saying that a lot of nominally good people seemed to have a crappy streak in them. “Give them any sort of excuse, and they trot it out. Yeah, and they’re virtuous as all hell about it. So-and-so drinks, so that cleans the slate. They don’t even owe him common decency.”

  He put down his coffee cup with a bang, and signaled for a refill. He sipped from it, sighed and grimaced tiredly.

  “Well, no use hashing over the past, I guess. How come you were in that place I got you out of tonight, Britt?”

  “Through a misunderstanding,” I said firmly. “A mistake that isn’t going to be repeated.”

  “Yeah?” He waited a moment. “Well, you’re smart to steer clear of ’em. We haven’t been able to hang anything on them, but, by God, we will.”

  “With my blessings,” I said. “You were on official business tonight?”

  “Sort of. Just letting them know we were on the job. Well”—he glanced at his watch, and started to rise. “Guess I better run. Can I drop you someplace?”

  I declined with thanks, saying that I had a little business to take care of. He said, Well, in that case.…

  “By the way, I drove past the old Rainstar place a while back, Britt. Looks like someone is still living there.”