"Yeah . . . well, they won't take me alive. I don't know about you. I'd rather have a quick bullet than weeks in the Death House."

"Suppose you shut up?" Chandler said. "I want to enjoy this." Mish suddenly grinned.

"She can cook, can't she? Think she's talking to a cop right now?"

Chandler pushed away his empty plate.

"Want some coffee?"

"I never say no to coffee."

Chandler went into the kitchen. Mish rubbed the back of his neck, reached for the pack of cigarettes, shook a cigarette out and lit it.

He was staring into s.p.a.ce, wondering what eventually would become of him, his eyes bleak and lost, when Chandler came back with the coffee.

chapter six.

The sky was turning a vivid crimson as the sun sank behind the foothills. Tom Whiteside glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch. The time was eighteen minutes after eight.

"We'll use the dirt road," he said. "It'll save ten miles. We should be home in another hour."

Sheila Whiteside said nothing. She had been sulking now for the past hour, ever since they had had the row about the gold watch she wanted as her first wedding anniversary present. As Whiteside had pointed out, the watch cost $180, and where was he going to find that kind of money?

He glanced at her, then away. He was feeling depressed. What a vacation! he thought. He had had an idea that he was asking for trouble when he had insisted that they should go camping. Camping, for G.o.d's sake! But how else could they have afforded to spend two weeks away from home? They certainly couldn't have afforded a hotel or even a cheap motel. He had borrowed the camping equipment from a friend for free. It was a pretty good outfit with a fair-sized tent, cooking equipment and sleeping bags. But what a fiasco that had turned out to be! Sheila had stuck her toes in and had refused to cook. This was her vacation, she had declared. If they couldn't afford a hotel, then he could do the cooking. He could run the camp. She was going to sunbathe and do nothing.

Tom squirmed at the memory of those past two weeks. He hadn't been able to master the Calor gas cooker. The food was either burnt or undercooked. Sheila had lazed in the sun, wearing the skimpiest bikini, and the constant sight of her near nakedness had tried Tom almost beyond endurance.

He recalled with frustration they hadn't made love during the whole of those fourteen days. Several times he had made advances during the day, but this was something Sheila just wouldn't tolerate. Then at night she got into her sleeping bag, and how the h.e.l.l was a man to go into action when his wife was in a sleeping bag? Yet he had to endure the sight of her going around looking like an erotic dream, deliberately showing herself off, until there were times when he was fit to climb a tree.

How was it possible, he was continually asking himself, that a girl with such a body, with such beauty, could be so utterly frigid? What a trap! To look at her, you would think . . . as all his friends thought . . . she was hotter than a redhot stove. She was tall, broad shouldered with large, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a narrow waist, solid hips and long, lovely legs. She had natural ash-blonde hair, violet eyes fringed with thick eyelashes, a wide, beautiful mouth, splendid teeth and high cheekbones. There were times, when her eyes were alive and her lips curved into an inviting smile, that she could pa.s.s for Marilyn Monroe's sister.

Since he had been so lucky to have married a girl with her looks and her body and that inviting smile, he naturally expected a s.e.xual appet.i.te to go along with the other a.s.sets, but here he had been painfully wrong. The s.e.xual act meant less to Sheila than blowing her beautiful nose in a Kleenex.

As Tom coaxed his 1959 Corvette Sting Ray along the Miami highway, aware that there was no pull in the engine and the compression was getting flabbier with every mile he drove, he thought back to the time a" fourteen months ago a" when he had first met Sheila.

Tom had reached the age of thirty-two without finding success. He was a commission-only salesman working for General Motors branch in Paradise City. Tall, heavily built, dark, with pleasant, rather ordinary features, he had been struggling ever since he had left school to get into the high-income bracket he was sure his talents deserved. The trouble, of course, he was constantly telling himself and his friends, was that he lacked capital. With capital, a guy with his ideas couldn't fail to hit the jackpot, but without capital well what, could you do?

But the real trouble with Tom was that he lacked drive. He was a dreamer. He dreamed of riches, but he hadn't the energy or the ability to make money.

Had it not been for his father, Dr. John Whiteside, now dead, Tom would be out of a job. But some years ago, Dr. Whiteside had saved the life of Claude Locking's wife. This was something Locking, who was the manager of General Motors, could not forget. Because he was grateful to the memory of Dr. Whiteside, he tolerated his inefficient son.

Fourteen months ago, Tom had delivered a Cadillac, Fleetwood Brougham to a rich client who lived in Miami, taking the client's Oldsmobile Sedan in part exchange.

Tom had driven the Sedan back to Paradise City, feeling pretty good as he sat the wheel. This was the kind of car he should own, he told himself, instead of the crummy Sting Ray that was just about falling apart.

The run from Miami was hot and long, and he had decided, since he had made a good commission on the sale of the Brougham, that he would stop off at a motel for the night, have a decent dinner, get a good night's rest and then go on to Paradise City in the morning.

He pulled into the Welcome Motel around nine o'clock, parking the Sedan in one of the bays. After dinner, he went to his cabin, took a shower and went to bed.

He was tired, relaxed and well fed. He looked forward to a good night's rest, but as he turned off the light, a radio in the cabin next door started up, sending strident swing music through the thin part.i.tion and bringing him wide awake.

He lay in bed, cursing the noise for some twenty minutes, hoping that the radio would be turned off. A little after eleven o'clock with the noise still tormenting him, he put on the light, struggled into his dressing-gown and banged on the door of the adjacent cabin.

There was a pause, then the door opened and he found himself face to face with the most intriguingly beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Tom often thought of his first meeting with his future wife. She was wearing a light blue wool sweater that emphasised her firm, overdeveloped bust. Her short black skirt seemed to be painted on her. Her long legs were bare and her narrow feet were in cork-soled sandals.

He thought she was wonderful and overpoweringly s.e.xy, and when she smiled, showing her dazzlingly white, movie-star teeth, he was struck speechless.

"I bet you don't like my radio," she said. "Is that right?"

"Well . . ."

"Okay. I'll turn it off. I'm sorry." She looked beyond him at the Oldsmobile under the parking lights. "That your car?"

"Yes," Tom said, the lie coming easily. He put his hand on the door post and looked at her, his eyes moving over that incredible bust.

"Some car."

He grinned.

"Some girl."

They laughed.

"Why don't you come in?" She stood aside. "I'm Sheila Allen."

He moved into the cabin, closing the door. He watched her turn off the radio, his eyes on the solidness of her hips, feeling his blood move faster, thinking she wouldn't need a pillow under her in bed.

"I'm Tom Whiteside. I don't mean to be a crab. I was trying to sleep."

She waved him to an armchair and sat on the bed. Her skirt rode up and he could see her smooth white thighs. He looked away, rubbing his jaw as he sat down.

"You're lucky to be able to sleep," she said. "I can't sleep. I don't know why it is. I never get off before two."

"Some people are like that." He studied her. The more he looked at her the more infatuated with her he became. "I can sleep any time."

She found a pack of cigarettes, shook two out, lit them and gave him one. There was a slight smear of lipstick on the cigarette. It gave him a bang as he put the cigarette between his lips.

"You wouldn't be going to Paradise City tomorrow?" she asked.

"Why, sure. I live there. Are you going there?"

"Yes. There's a bus around nine . . ."

"Come with me."

She smiled, her big eyes opening wide.

"I was hoping you would say that. You work there?"

"That's right . . . General Motors."

"Gee! That must be a pretty good job."

He waved his hand airily.

"It's not so bad. I look after the whole district. Yeah, I can't complain. What are you planning to do in Paradise City?"

"Look for a job. Think I'll find anything?"

"Sure . . . a girl like you. Any ideas?"

"I'm not much good at anything . . . a waitress . . . a hostess . . . something like that."

"Not much good at anything? Who are you kidding?" He laughed. "You won't have to dig deep . . . not with your looks."

"Thanks . . . I hope you are right."

He regarded her, then asked, "Got anywhere to stay?"

"No, but I guess I'll find something."

"I know a place. I'll take you there. It'll be around $18 a week and it's nice."

She shook her head.

"Not for me. I haven't the money. I can't go higher than $10."

"Had it rough?"

"Rough enough."

"You leave it to me. I'll find you a place. I know the City like the back of my hand. Where are you from?"

"Miami."

"What makes you think Paradise City could be better than Miami?"

"Just a change of scenery. I'm a great one for changing the scene."

"Well . . ." He stared at her, then got to his feet. "I'll be leaving at nine tomorrow morning. That suit you?"

"Suits me fine." She stood up, smoothed down her skirt and then came close to him. "I'll pay for the ride if you want me to."

There was that look in her eyes that made him flush.

"I don't want any payment . . . it'll be a pleasure."

"Most men would." She turned her head and looked at the bed. "That kind of payment."

Tom would have given a lot to have taken her up on the offer, but he found he couldn't. This girl suddenly meant much more to him than a quick roll in the hay.

"Not me," he said, his voice unsteady. "Then nine o'clock tomorrow."

She leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. The feel of her soft lips against his sent his blood hammering.

"I like you . . . you're nice," she said, smiling at him.

He hadn't slept much that night. The following morning, he drove her to Paradise City and found her a tiny room for $8 a week. Away from her, he found he was continually thinking of her. In the past he had got around and had had a number of girls, but none of them affected him the way this girl did. He called on her the following evening. He had borrowed, without permission, the Oldsmobile Sedan, and he was wearing his sharpest suit. They had dinner at an expensive sea food restaurant on the outskirts of the City. It was understandable that Sheila believed she was being courted by a successful, wealthy young business man.

Ever since Sheila had been dumped, at the age of twelve, by her parents on a State highway and left there to fend for herself, she had been in and out of all kinds of trouble, just keeping clear of the Law. She had always looked older than her years. She was now twenty-two. From being a waitress, a dance hostess, a stripper and a receptionist at a two-dollars-a-night hotel, she had finally become one of Miami's many Call girls. This hadn't lasted long. She had helped herself to the contents of a client's wallet and had had to leave Miami in a hurry. She now had fifty dollars in her purse and she wasn't inclined to look for work. She saw Tom Whiteside was infatuated with her, and she decided the fifty dollars would last long enough to keep her until she married him.

They were married when one dollar fifty remained in her purse. It had been a close thing.

Both of them were in for a sharp disappointment. Sheila discovered that Tom lived in a small, shabby bungalow, left him by his father, and that he was neither wealthy nor successful. Tom found she was completely incompetent to run his home. She was lazy; she was frigid and she was continually asking for money.

They had been married now for twelve months. They made the best of a bad job. It suited Sheila to have a roof over her head and regular meals. It suited Tom to have a glamorous-looking wife. At least, if he didn't get any satisfaction from his marriage, he did bask in the envy of his friends, who thought Sheila was sensational.

He turned off the Miami highway on to the dirt road that led through the pine forest down to the Paradise City highway. He switched on his headlights. The sun had gone down behind the foothills. It was now turning dark.

Sheila said abruptly, "About that watch . . . you may not know it, but any decent husband gives his wife a wedding anniversary present. There's nothing else I want so much. I should have something I want."

Tom sighed. He hoped she had put the G.o.dd.a.m.n watch out of her mind.

"I'm sorry, baby. We just can't afford that kind of money. I'll find you a watch, but it's not going to cost $180."

"I want this watch."

"Yeah . . . I know . . . you told me, but we can't afford it."

"I must have been crazy to have married you," she said with an outburst of bitterness. "All those lies about your success. Success? What a joke! You can't afford anything! We don't even get a decent vacation. Camping! G.o.d! I should have had my head examined!"

"Would you kindly shut up?" Tom said. "You're no ball of fire youself. Look at the way you keep house . . . like a pigstye. All you're any good at is watching TV."

"Oh, knock it off!" Her voice was strident and hard. "You bore me. Mr. Successful who can't afford $180. Mr. Successful . . ." She laughed. "Mr. Cheapie, I would say."

The car slowed and Tom pushed down on the accelerator. The car continued to slow, not answering to the extra gas.

"Do you mind?" Sheila said, heavy sarcasm in her voice. "I would like to get home. You may like this dreary scenery, but I don't. Couldn't we go a little faster?"

The engine gave a splutter and died. They were going downhill and Tom quickly shifted the automatic gear stick into neutral. They continued to coast down the road as he cursed under his breath.