Texas by the Tail Page 4

  He hung up the receiver, and beamed at them. Mitch pulled Red onto his lap, signaling her with a sharp little pat. Red responded promptly.

  “This is a nice man, Mitch. Maybe we should give him a little present.”

  “But he already has everything,” Mitch said. “Dandruff, fallen arches, a sixty-four-inch bust—”

  “Well, let’s see,” said Red, as Turkelson chortled helplessly. “Why don’t we give him a bucket of bread-and-butter sandwiches? He’s obviously on the point of starvation.”

  “One bucketful wouldn’t put a dent in that yawing void. Do you suppose we could trust him with money?”

  “It’s now or never,” Red said. “After all, he’s a pretty big boy—horizontally.”

  “We’ll give him this one chance,” Mitch declared. “Turk, you are to spend five bills of that rebate on bread-and-butter sandwiches.”

  Turkelson flatly refused to accept the five hundred. After all, friends were friends.

  He refused to accept so much, friends being friends.

  He absolutely would only accept it, because they were friends and friends should help each other. And since they were helping him, he must now help them.

  “There’s some big action at Zearsdale Country Club. I can get you a guest card.”

  “Can you put me in a game?”

  “With that crowd? I couldn’t put Jesus Christ in it!”

  Red and Mitch groaned in unison. They razzed him mercilessly, Turkelson chuckling and shaking and growing red with delight. He had been pretty embarrassed about the money (although God knew he could use it), and the razzing helped to dispel it.

  “Catch this character”—Mitch jerked a thumb at him. “He’d actually get us a guest card to a country club!”

  “It pays to have influence,” Red said. “I bet he could even get our names in the telephone book.”

  “He’s all heart,” Mitch said. “P-o-t, heart.”

  Laughing, the manager held up his hands. “All right, all right! But I do have something; I’ve just thought of something. Winfield Lord, Jr., is checking in here next week, and I know I can put you in with him. I can come right out and tell him that you’re a gambler, and he’ll be up here pounding on your door.”

  He beamed from Red to Mitch, very pleased with himself. Then, slowly, his smile faded and he looked almost comically plaintive.

  “Please,” he pleaded, “can’t I do anything to suit you two?”

  “You can stop using dirty words in my presence,” Red said.

  “Huh? But—”

  “Like Winfield Lord, Jr.,” Mitch explained.

  “So all right, he’s a real stinker,” the manager conceded. “So hold your nose, and grab for that sweet-smelling Lord money. My God, the Lords own half the state of Texas, and—”

  “How fast money goes in Texas,” Mitch said. “Winfield Lord’s part of it, anyway. Ten years, twenty million. All he has left now is a rubber checkbook, and the world’s nastiest disposition.”

  “We take his checks,” Turkelson said. “We’ve never had a minute’s trouble with them either.”

  “That’s different. His mother would make good on a legitimate expense.”

  “I happen to know that Frank Downing has taken his paper, too. More than fifty thousand dollars worth, and he got every nickel of it.”

  Mitch said that that also was different. No one was allowed to cool-out on Frank Downing. Winfield Lord’s mother had had the choice of paying off, or keeping her son on the Lord ranch for the rest of his life.

  “Downing, Frank Downing,” Red mused. “Now, don’t I know that name?”

  “Of course, you do,” Mitch told her. “He runs that store outside of Dallas. Kind of a Texas Monte Carlo except that Frank’s place is probably bigger.”

  Turkelson coughed, running a finger between his tight wing collar and the folds of his neck. He said hopefully that perhaps the situation had changed with Winfield Lord, Jr. Maybe Mama Lord was loosening the strings of the bottomless Lord purse.

  “I hardly think so,” Mitch said. “News like that gets around.”

  “But you can’t be sure!” Turkelson turned to Red. “It’s worth a try, don’t you think so, Red?”

  “I think whatever Mitch thinks.”

  “Mitch is the boss, huh?” Turkelson twinkled.

  “Of course he’s the boss! What’s so damned funny about that?”

  Mitch kissed her, cuddled her protectively in his arms. “Red’s my lamb,” he smiled firmly. “Don’t you tease my lamb, Turk.”

  “Certainly, she’s a lamb. Haven’t I always said so?” The manager gestured plaintively. “But, Mitch, I do wish you could see this Lord thing. After all, you’re already here and he’s going to be here. What can you lose but a little time?”

  Mitch hesitated thoughtfully, examining the project in his mind; deciding that Turkelson was probably right. There was nothing to lose, and this was certainly no time to overlook a bet. But still…still, something seemed to hold him back. From some deep recess in his mind, a voice whispered darkly, pointing out that Lord was a bastard and that no good was to be had of him.

  But—but maybe personal feelings were getting in the way of his reason. Lord had once tried to paw Red. He was too drunk to know what he was doing, of course—even to recognize who she was—but a thing like that…

  Mitch sighed, pulled in two ways, almost irresistibly tugged by the need to be practical, yet still stubbornly resisting.

  “Let me brood about it a little,” he said, at last. “I’m kind of getting an idea for beating the bad-check angle, but I want to kick it around for a day or two. If it comes up yes, you’re down for ten percent.”

  “Oh, now,” Turkelson protested feebly. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Ten percent—which you’ll earn,” Mitch said. “Meanwhile, we’ll take that Zearsdale guest card. I can’t get in the action, naturally, but at least I can show Red off.”

  Red kissed him, and stuck her tongue out at Turkelson. Chuckling, the manager stood up, promising to bring the guest card right away.

  “You’d better not,” Red declared. “You put that card in our room box!”

  “But I’ll be glad to—”

  “Would you be glad to get killed?” Mitch demanded. “Red, you must tell this man about the birds and the bees.”

  Turkelson departed, chortling.

  Mitch and Red returned to the bedroom.

  They had a late and light lunch in mid-afternoon. Then, as Red summoned a beautician from the downstairs salon, Mitch went to see about renting a car. He had some trouble deciding between a sedan, a Lincoln Continental, and a black Jaguar convertible-coupé. Finally, feeling that the sedan might be a little showy, he settled on the Jag.

  It was not a good choice. He was aware of that around eight o’clock that night, as he turned into the long curving driveway which led up to the club. Ahead of them, in a boxcar-length Rolls with both chauffeur and footman, rode an elderly man in full evening dress. He kept staring back through the rear window, then leaned forward to consult with the two liveried servants, who also looked back briefly. Debouching finally at the entrance, the elderly one gave the Jaguar and its occupants the ultimate in quizzical stares, turning away with a look of such wry wonderment—an I’ll-be-damned, what-have-we-here look—that Mitch almost winced.

  So the car was all wrong. It was wrong by the mere fact of Red and Mitch being in it. There was prompt proof of that, if any further proof were needed.

  A cutdown jalopy came roaring up the drive, throwing gravel over the Jaguar as it skidded to a stop. A half-dozen teenage boys and girls swarmed out of it, dressed in odds and ends of clothing; ran shouting and laughing into the clubhouse. The doorman, dressed like a coachman even to his whip, looked after them fondly. Then, turning back to Mitch, he critically examined the guest card.

  “You were meeting someone, sir?” He poked the card back at Mitch. “Perhaps I could notify them for you.”

  “We�
�re not meeting anyone.”

  “I see. Hmm. The term guest is used rather literally here, sir. These cards are only honored, ordinarily, that is, at the request of a member.”

  “I’ve used a great many guest cards,” Mitch said coldly, “and I’ve never heard of such a practice.”

  “Obviously. So under the circumstances…” He signaled with his whip, and a uniformed attendant came running to remove the Jag. “We’ll have the car readily available for you, sir.”

  Mitch could feel Red’s hand tremble on his arm. Taking her up the three long steps of the club building, he smiled down at her reassuringly. But he felt none of the calm which he was trying to convey. His principal emotion was one of fury; a raging anger with himself for bringing her here.

  Turkelson should have known what he was sending them into. Turk probably had known, as much as one could know by hearsay. But he would justifiably expect Mitch to be at least as well-informed. Information was half of Mitch’s job. In the Pavlovian maze of the heavy hustle, he must always spot the proper tunnel, correctly associate action and reaction, sound with deed, word with word. Oil was a three-letter word if you were content to get your kicks from birdwatching. But if you liked the big time, you had better spell it Zearsdale. Jake Zearsdale. The unquestioned head of the fabulous “Houston Hundred.”

  Zearsdale was the founder of the club. Its membership was limited allegedly to the families and connections of the Hundred. Presumably, one of them owned the hotel-apartment where Mitch and Red were staying—what more likely owner for such an establishment? So business being business, a few guest cards were made available. Which did not necessarily mean that they would be honored. That would be looked into after the guest arrived. Nor would anyone be a bit interested in whether he was affronted.

  He was an outsider, wasn’t he? He could neither hurt nor help the Clan. Well, then!

  But that, that attitude, wasn’t Texas, of course. It was only the wealthiest-people-in-the-world Texas. Mitch had always found Houston an exceptionally friendly city. He had simply been asking for it in coming to a place like this.

  Immediately inside the doorway of the club building stood a squat, broad-shouldered man in a dark dinner jacket. He was frowning as he watched the door, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His sharp, cold eyes stopped them like a wall, and for a moment it seemed that he would not unclasp his hands from behind his back and take the card which Mitch extended.

  At last he did so, however, and he returned it with a wisp of a smile upon his thick, broad mouth. The cold eyes warmed as he looked from Mitch to Red, and he spoke with a voice which was faintly musical.

  “The bar? Allow me to show you, please.”

  He guided them down the vaulted corridor to a vast room which whispered with music and the hum of acoustically stilled voices. Then, having led the way through the dimness, he saw them seated at the bar, snapped his fingers at an attendant and departed with a low bow.

  Icy martinis were set in front of them. The barman hovered obsequiously, lighting their cigarettes, moving the ashtrays a fraction of an inch closer. Assured that they needed nothing else, he at last left them alone. Mitch lifted his glass to Red, murmuring that the atmosphere had warmed considerably.

  Red agreed that it had, but she still didn’t like the place. “Let’s leave as soon as we can, honey. We don’t belong here, and this gang knows it.”

  “Oh? I’d say we’d made the grade with flying colors.”

  “And footprints on the seat of our pants. Please, Mitch…”

  “I thought we’d have dinner. Maybe a dance or two.”

  “We can have it somewhere else.” She studied his face, frowning. “You surely aren’t going to try for anything here, are you?”

  Mitch hesitated, taking a sip of his drink. As she prompted him anxiously, he started to reply, then abruptly broke off. A man was on the point of passing them. A tall man, whose dinner attire was perhaps an unmeasurable fraction too elegant, whose face was completely expressionless.

  As he went by, his knuckles rapped Mitch’s spine. Lips barely moving, he spoke two words.

  “Get out.”

  6

  In the rationalizing part of his mind, Mitch was inclined to blame his mother for his marriage to Teddy. He was subconsciously seeking a mother, he believed, when he allowed Teddy to trap him. In his leniency with Teddy, he was making amends to his mother for his actions at their last meeting. Their one and only meeting since the death of his father.

  Admittedly, his thoughts on the subject were very confused. It was impossible to think of Teddy without being confused. Almost as hard as it was to think of Teddy as a mother-type. What Mitch thought about the first time he saw her was certainly not motherhood, but rather that joyous biological preliminary to woman’s noblest estate.

  He was night bellhopping at the time. Teddy, so he had learned, was the highly paid night auditor for an oil company. Finishing her duties, she would eat in the hotel’s coffee shop just as dawn was breaking, then have a cab called to take her home. It fell to Mitch, his second night on the job, to call the cab.

  She was a very wholesome-looking young woman, with corn-colored hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Severely dressed, she still had a lot of stuff to show. And Mitch found himself looking at it as they waited together at the taxi entrance. He also found, after a moment, that she was studying him out of long-lashed green eyes. Embarrassed, he was about to shift his gaze when the eyes squinched shut in a double wink—an enticing nose-crinkling wink—and she growled at him. Yes, growled!

  “Grrr,” she said. “Rrrruff!”

  “W-Wh-at?” he said.

  “Grrr, woof!” she said. “Bow-wow!”

  Well, Mitch didn’t have to be hit in the face with a pie to know when dessert was being passed. In a little more time than it took to get her telephone number, he was at her apartment, figurative fork in hand. He warmly declared himself ready to share the bed which she was obviously preparing to retire to. Teddy demurely demurred.

  “I’m saving my candy for my daddy,” she explained. “I figure that if a man buys the box he ought to get all the pieces.”

  Mitch suggested that they lie down and talk it over. Teddy primly shook her corn-colored head.

  “Now, you wouldn’t want to rob my future husband, would you? You wouldn’t want to take something that was rightfully his?”

  “Well, look,”—Mitch frowned. “If that’s the way you feel, why did you, uh—”

  “I thought you might like to examine the merchandise,” Teddy said. “I mean, how could you make a commitment unless you knew what you were getting?”

  “Uh, w-what—huh!” Mitch gasped.

  “But please handle with care,” Teddy murmured, as she shyly shed her negligee. “None of these items can be replaced.”

  Crazy? Sure, it was! Who said different? Mitch was pretty crazy himself by the time she shoved him out the door, politely wishing him a good day’s sleep. A good day’s sleep, for God’s sake, after all that seeing and not a single sampling!

  He had never felt so frustrated. So furious. So—yes—flattered. Here was obviously a very high-class girl, a woman rather, who not only had everything it took downstairs, but a brain to go with it. A woman like that could have any man she wanted; she probably had to fight them off with a club. Yet she had chosen him, Boy Nobody, and she was prepared to go to any lengths (well, practically any) to get him.

  And how could you knock a thing like that?

  He was back in her apartment the next morning, and the next, and the next. Weakening, he tried to get at the reason behind her behavior, the why of her desire for marriage with him. But the answer, no answer, was always the same. “Because you’re my sugar, my own sweet daddy.”

  “But you don’t even know me! You never saw me until a few days ago.”

  “Oh, yes I do,” she smiled serenely. “Oh, yes, I did.”

  “But how could you? I mean, when?”


  “I know my daddy,” she said. “I’d know my sugar anywhere.”

  At the end of the week, he married her. There were one hundred and ten delicious pounds of reasons for doing so, and no apparent reason not to.

  On their wedding night they both got sozzled on champagne. So sozzled that he was a little hazy about his share in consummating the marriage. But awakening to the sound of Teddy’s sobs, he charged himself with brutality. She shook her head, hugging him fiercely.

  “I’m j-just so happy, darling. S-So glad you’re not d-dead!”

  “Hmm, what?” Mitch mumbled foggily. “Who’s dead?”

  “I know you couldn’t be, darling! Everyone said you were, even the general wrote me a letter. But I knew, I knew, I knew…”

  “ ’S’nice,” Mitch yawned, and was suddenly asleep again.

  He was not sure, the next morning, that it hadn’t been a dream. In fact, he hardly thought about it at all, Teddy being a woman to give a man much more interesting and delightful things to think about. When eventually he became alarmed and consulted a psychiatrist—a permanent resident at the hotel where he was working—and was advised that Teddy quite probably had cast him in the leading role in her own private sex fantasy, something with roots trailing back into puberty, he was incredulous and angry.

  It just couldn’t be, dammit! It couldn’t! Yet doubtless it was; he never had a better explanation for her. And the dream which he had become a part of—which Teddy had hooked him into being a part of—ultimately turned into a nightmare.

  Meanwhile, there was the meeting with his mother. A meeting which, in a negative way, had at least one plus quality. It almost made Teddy seem like a dull-normal person.

  It was about five years after his father’s death had separated them, before he saw his mother. She wrote occasionally and vaguely, and he replied. But his letters were often returned for want of a forwarding address. Once he got an urgent wire from Dallas, asking for a hundred dollars. One year she remembered his birthday three times, each with a ten-dollar bill. Finally, after a silence of almost a year, she wrote him that she was married and very happy.