Enchanted Isle by James M. Cain Page B

stand and there was my cab where I’d left it. I got in and told the driver, “Police station, please.”
    “OK...Something wrong, Miss?”
    “I want to report a theft.”
    “Police station’s where you do it.”
    But then, after two or three blocks I panicked; I was so terrified. I realized what it would mean, that I would be questioned and would have to tell it all, not only about the money but also about the coat, so I’d have to give it up. I said, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the police station yet. I must find a place to stay, so I’ll be settled down before I do anything. Where can I go, do you know?”
    “You mean like to a motel?”
    “I doubt if they’d take me in.”
    “They don’t like young girls, that’s right.”
    “I have to go somewhere, though.”
    “How about to the Y? They might take you in.”
    “I don’t know much about them.”
    “Oh, they will take you in, of course. That is if you can pay? You got money, Miss?”
    “I have some, yes.”
    “Be around five dollars a night.”
    “I can afford that much.”
    “Maybe a little bit more now. Say, this inflation really hurts. Everything’s going up—except us. We have to charge the same.”
    “Y’s fine. Take me there, please.”
    So we were passing a park, one of dozens they have in Savannah, and he drove around it so we were headed back the way we had come. And I began thinking of how I’d have to buy a paper for the want ads it would have, and I would begin, where I left off in Baltimore, trying to find a job. And then all of a sudden I upchucked—not really, not the way Rick wanted to do, to make a mess there in the cab. I mean in my mind, so everything came up. It all came up in a flash, what Rick had done to me, how rotten it was, and how I refused to take it, lying down, sitting down, or any other way. I said to the driver, “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind again. Back to the bus terminal, please.”
    “The terminal it is.”
    I knew what I had to do.

11
    I GOT TO WASHINGTON around ten o’clock and, instead of taking the bus out, went all the way by cab, as I was pretty tired by then and wanted to get there. So it was $4.25, and I gave the driver five dollars. Then I went up to the front porch, walking on the grass so my footsteps wouldn’t be heard. I peeped in the front window and couldn’t see anything, but a light was on in the living room, so I knew somebody was home. I let myself in with my key, making as little noise as I could, and then from the hall saw Steve asleep in the chair by the arch, the one to the dining room. He was all sprawled out, his necktie pulled to one side, his shirt open at the throat, his belt unbuckled, and his pants half unzipped, while beside the chair on the floor were six or eight beer cans standing around. I set the bag down, opened the closet and hung up the coat, then went in the living room and sat down in the chair by the door. Everything looked the same, the furniture a little bit scuffed, the rug with rose border, the aquarelles of Venice, and the color TV by the fireplace. It came to me about Steve, that if he was more or less drunk he might start something with me, so I got out a knife I had bought at the newsstand in Savannah. On the box it said “BOY SCOUT,” but it was really a switchblade. I took it out of my handbag and sprung it open by pressing the button.
    But at the click he opened his eyes.
    Then he sat staring at me like a goof. He was big and thickset, maybe thirty years old, with kind of a bull look, but at the same time kind of a frog look. So he stared for some little time, then rubbed his eyes and stared some more. Then: “Mandy, is that you?”
    “Well, who do you think it is?”
    “I mean are you really there?”
    “I think so, yes.”
    “Can I come over and touch you?”
    But at that I picked up the knife and warned him, “I don’t mind being touched, but if you start something with me, you’re getting this in the gut. Did you hear