Magician's Wife by James M. Cain

had spent a sleepless night in a passion of high intention, with all sorts of fine schemes spinning around in his head, finding himself in the morning helpless to carry them out or even to do anything about his wrecked apartment. For fear his morale might ebb, and perhaps to preclude any call to Sally, he had packed his bag in a hurry and driven across the bridge that spans the bay, at length winding up at the sea. Here, to his relief, high purpose didn’t recede, but gave way to dogged resolve, and so he had had a swim, in water just a bit cold, a dinner, and a nice, brooding sulk, and now was about to retire. However, he was joined by Mr. Reed, the hotel’s proprietor, who took his meat and rated a sociable chat. In a quiet, easy way he made a standard gambit: “Nice place you got here—nice town, nice house, nice ocean”—but was just a bit startled at Mr. Reed’s sour reply. “ Was nice,” he growled. “That’s all we can say, Mr. Lockwood—we had a nice place once. Now all we got is a mess—a roughhouse, nothing else but.”
    â€œOh? You mean this holiday thing?”
    He was alluding to the problem at Ocean City, as at other summer resorts, of teenage boys swarming in, so police have a job on their hands.
    â€œThat’s the climax of it, yes.”
    But there seemed to be more, and Clay knew he must listen. “You know what it puts me in mind of?” Mr. Reed went on. “California, during a brush fire. Fellow was telling me, guy that lives out there, what it’s like when they have one of them. It wasn’t threatening him—it was up the slope a ways, where it couldn’t possibly reach him. But his place was a short cut to it, so first comes it the bums, the extra help hired on by the state, to smack at it with their shovels, chop fire breaks, drag hose, squirt foam, and so on. Next comes it the bums’ girl-friends, and turns out they have quite a few, very noisy and not very well behaved. Then comes it the ice-cream trucks, the beer vendors, and the hot-dog brigade, ringing bells and sticking pennants up in the grass. Then comes it the Iowa tourists, who never saw a brush fire, out to take pictures of it. Then comes it the TV bunch, out to take pictures of everything, including the Iowa tourists. So what can this guy do? He didn’t start it—has nothing to do with it, really. But an Act of God is up there, a roaring, terrible fire. So maybe it does have beer cans around the edges, but if he squawks he’s a heel—maybe an atheist, yet. So all he can do is get tromped—and that’s how it is with us. We have an Act of God too— also with beer cans in front, an ocean that can roar as loud as a fire. And coming to see it are bums—not like in California, but bums just the same, in a way, boys. Not just a few, Mr. Lockwood, not just hundreds— thousands. And not only them but their girl-friends—what kind, I give you one guess. And not only them but the fly-by-nights, same as in California, with their ice cream, beer, and hot dogs. And tourists, and TV—giving the place a bad name. Three months from now, by Labor Day, when things come to a head, I don’t blame our cops for cracking down or our judge for getting tough. Why should it happen to us? Can you tell me, Mr. Lockwood? We weren’t doing nothing. We were just—”
    â€œHold on, Mr. Reed!” said Clay suddenly, taking his feet from the railing. “Hold everything! You’ve just given me an idea!”
    â€œI sure hope so. What idea, Mr. Lockwood?”
    â€œIf you can’t lick ’em, jine ’em!”
    â€œ Jine ’em? How?”
    â€œ Sell ’em! Ice cream. Beer. Dogs.”
    â€œOh, I see what you mean. Unfortunately I’m in the hotel business—I sell a shore dinner, two-eighty-one with tax. And would those kids pay that? I give you one guess. On top of which, the way most of them