A Swell-Looking Babe by Jim Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

Rhodes nodded mildly, and put down the platter. "This night work, son – do you really think it pays? You don't get your proper rest, and it costs more to-"
    "I know. We'll talk about it another time," Dusty cut in. "Now, please hurry, Dad."
    He waited in the car while the old man got ready. Impatiently. Trying to stifle his irritation. Probably, he decided, his father was right. He made more money by working nights, but his expenses were higher. There was this car, for example; bus service was slow and irregular late at night, so the car was virtually a necessity. And that was only part of, the story. There were usually two sets of meals to fix- – or to buy away from home. There was his father, free to do as he chose and always in need of money. Still…
    Dusty shrugged and shook his head. He wouldn't change jobs for a while, anyway. Not anyway until – and if – he went back to college. He didn't sleep well at night. He hadn't slept well since his mother's death, and, yes, even before that. Of course, it was hard sleeping in the daytime, but that was different. It wasn't like lying alone in the darkness and quiet, thinking and worrying and – and listening.
    … He drove the old man downtown, and opened the car door for him. Mr. Rhodes started to slide out of the seat, hesitated.
    "You know, Bill, we never did get around to talking about my case. I mentioned that letter the other night, and you said-", "I haven't forgotten," Dusty said. "We'll see about it."
    "Well…" Mr. Rhodes looked at him thoughtfully, sighed and put a foot on the sidewalk. "I thought I might go to a show after I get through here, Bill. If that's all right with you."
    "You do that," Dusty nodded. "Pick some place with air-conditioning."
    "Well, I-I'm not sure that-"
    "I am," Dusty said firmly. "You must have enough money, Dad. You couldn't help but have."
    "Well… well, maybe," the old man mumbled. "I guess I have at that."
    He got out and trudged away. Dusty drove home, and went to bed. This was one day, he thought, he'd really get some sleep. He was so tired that… that…
    He was asleep almost the moment that he climbed into bed. An hour later he was aroused by the laundry man.
    He put the laundry away, and went back to sleep. Another hour passed – roughly an hour. And the man from the cleaner's came.
    This time it was harder returning to sleep. He smoked a couple of cigarettes, got a drink of water, tossed and turned restlessly on the bedclothes. Finally, at long last, he drifted off into unconsciousness. And the phone rang.
    He tried to ignore it, to pretend that it was not ringing. It rang on and on, refusing to be denied. Cursing, Dusty flung himself out of bed and answered it.
    "Mr. Rhodes? Hope I didn't interrupt anything, but your father said I was to be sure to…"
    It was the optometrist.
    Dusty learned the amount of his bill, muttered a goodbye and slammed the phone back in its cradle. He returned to bed, but now, of course, sleep was impossible. His eyes kept popping open. His head throbbed with a surly, sullen anger. Unreasoning, focusing gradually on just one object… Why the hell did he have to go to a show today?
    Why couldn't he ever do anything except make a damned nuisance of himself? All he thought of was his own comfort, his own welfare. Lying and sponging to get money for those –
    Abruptly, Dusty got up. Sullenly ashamed, vaguely alarmed. He didn't really feel that way about his father. He couldn't be blamed much if he did, but he didn't. He didn't feel at all (hat way. He was just grouchy with the heat and work and not being able to sleep.
    There was still some coffee on the stove. He drank a cup, smoking a cigarette with it, and went into the bathroom. Today was as good a time as any to see those lawyers. A good time to get it over with, since he couldn't sleep. He came out of the bathroom, dressed and headed for town.
    … The building was an old faded-brick walkup, squatting almost directly across the street from