Strictly For Cash (8 page)

"I'm sorry, boy. You want to take it easy. You don't want to get worked up. I guess there's been a misunderstanding about who was driving."

"There damn well has!" I said. "That sergeant of yours ..."

"Never mind about the sergeant. He's been taught to bawl people out. It's the system. I never could cotton on to it myself," and he grinned at me.

I was still a little suspicious of him, but in spite of that, I was beginning to like him.

"Where did she pick you up, boy?" he went on. "You were walking along some road and she overtook you and you showed her your thumb. Is that what happened?"

"No; you've got it all wrong. Look, will you let me tell you what did happen: right from the start?"

"That's just what I want you to do," he said, and took out a note-book. "Mind if I make a few notes? I'm not as young as I could be, and my memory ain't what it was," and he winked to show me he was kidding.

I gave him the whole works. I told him about Pittsburgh, how I wanted to get into the big money, how I'd hitch-hiked to Pelotta, how I had busted MacCready's jaw and doublecrossed Petelli. I went on to tell him how Della had offered to help me, how Pepi and Benno had chased us, and how the other car had crashed into us.

It took time, and I had scarcely a whisper left in me by the time I was through, but I was so glad to get it all off my chest that I didn't care how I felt.

Riskin never said a word all the time I talked. He made notes, scratched his ear from time to time, but he didn't interrupt.

"That's a very comprehensive story," he said when he was sure I hadn't anything more to tell him. "Now you take it easy, boy. You've nothing to worry about. Maybe you'd better take a nap. You look tired: like me. I'm always tired, but the Chief never gives me any time for naps." He stood up. "Well, so long. I'll be in again in a day or two. If there's anything else you remember, just let me know."

"There isn't anything else to remember," I said. "You've got the lot."

"That's fine. Well, you take a nap. So long for now."

I watched him tiptoe out of the ward. Up to now I hadn't had any use for a cop, but that little guy was different. I decided he was the nicest cop of them all.

Two days went by. I was making progress. The doctor was pretty pleased with me.

"You keep on like this," he told me, "and we'll have you up in a couple of days. You have a constitution of an elephant, and a head like granite."

I grinned at him, but I wasn't all that easy. I was wondering what Riskin was up to, and if he were going to show up.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the town," I said. "I've heard enough about Lincoln Beach, but I've never had a chance of looking it over."

He looked surprised.

"This isn't Lincoln Beach. What gave you that idea? This is Miami."

"Miami?" I stared at him. "But they have a hospital at Lincoln Beach, haven't they?"

"Of course. It's a wonderful hospital." He smiled. "Almost as good as this one."

"Then why didn't they take me there? What was the idea of driving me over two hundred miles to Miami ?"

"It wasn't two hundred miles," he said patiently. "It was more like seventy. As you were nearer to Miami than Lincoln Beach, they brought you here."

I began to get excited again.

"But I hadn't even reached Lincoln Beach before the crash," I said. "We were only a few miles outside Pelotta, on our way to Lincoln Beach, when that car hit us!"

"Don't bother your brains about it," he said, getting his bedside smile hitched to his face. "It'll straighten out in a few days."

And when he left me, I lay there, feeling cold, wondering if the bang on the head had affected my brain, wondering if I were going crazy. I began to long for Riskin to come and see me. Every time anyone came into the ward, I raised my head and looked eagerly to see if it were him. I got so my heart pounded every time that door opened.

The next morning they moved me out of the ward.

"What's the idea?" I asked the nurses as they pushed the bed along a corridor. "Where are you taking me?"

"Doctor thought you'd like to have a room to yourself," the fat nurse said. "He wants you to rest more than you're doing."

That wasn't the reason, I told myself. Maybe they thought I was nuts and wouldn't be safe with the others. I began to get excited.

"I don't want to be alone!" I said. "Take me back! I'm fine as I am. I don't want a room to myself!"

The doctor appeared from nowhere.

"There's nothing to get excited about," he said. "You'll like this room. It's got a wonderful view."

I thought if I made too much commotion they'd put me in a strait-jacket: that's the kind of state I had worked myself into.

It was a nice room, and the view was swell, but I hated it. I had a feeling I had been put in there for a purpose, and I wanted to know what that purpose was.

In the evening, around six, when I was lying there alone, looking out of the window at the ocean and the pleasure boats and people surf-riding, the door pushed open and Riskin came in.

"Hello, boy," he said, easing the door shut, "how are you coming?"

"Why have they put me in here?" I said, trying to sit up. "What's the idea?"

He tiptoed across the room to the bed.

"Hey, hey, what's biting you? Don't you know a room like this costs dough?"

"Then what's the idea?"

He reached for a chair and sat down.

"I don't think that doc likes his other patients to see me coming in here," he said. "Maybe it's that. He's a nice guy, that doc. Maybe it occurred to him it might be embarrassing for you to have policemen asking questions with everyone in the ward trying to listen in. That might be an idea, too."

I looked at him for a long moment, then I drew in a deep breath, and ran my fingers over my face, feeling it was damp and hot.

"That angle didn't strike me. Know what? I was beginning to think I was going nuts, and that's why they had taken me out of the ward."

He produced a packet of cigarettes.

"Like a smoke, boy?" he said. "You don't want to get those ideas into your head." He struck a match and lit the cigarette for me. Then he lit one for himself. "I bet if the nurse catches us she'll raise blue murder," he went on. "Still, that's what nurses are for, aren't they?"

I grinned at him. I was feeling much, much better.

"I wish you had come before. I was getting worried."

"I've been busy." He examined the end of his cigarette, then his pale, sharp eyes looked right into mine. "I've got a little shock for you. Think you can take it?"

I drew on the cigarette, aware my heart was beginning to pound.

"I guess so. What is it?"

"That car wasn't a Bentley; it was a Buick convertible: a black job, with red-leather upholstery, disc wheels and built-in head and fog lamps. You were found in the driving seat. She was found wedged down in the back seat. They had to cut the front seats away to get her out. There was no third person found. There was no other car, either. I've been over the ground myself. I've seen all the photographs. I've seen the Buick. I've talked to the cop who found you."

I lay still and stared at him. I wanted to tell him he was lying, but the words wouldn't come. I felt the blood leave my face. The cigarette slipped out of my fingers and dropped on to the floor.

He bent and picked it up.

"Take it easy, boy," he said. "I warned you it'd be a shock. There's nothing to worry about. You don't have to look so scared."

"You're lying!" I said in a voice I didn't know was my own.

"Here, take your cigarette," he said. "Relax. Let's go over this thing together and see if we can make some sense of it."

I wouldn't take the cigarette. I was feeling sick. I had a sudden urge to jump out of bed and run before they could put me in a padded cell. I didn't believe he was lying: and yet I had to believe it.

"You told "me this car hit you on the night of July 29th," he went on mildly. "The smash you were in took place on the night of September 6th. I've seen the cop's note-book. The hospital records say the same thing. Well, now, what do you make of that ?"

"I don't make anything of it. All I know is we hit that car after my fight with the Miami Kid, and that was on July 29th. I'm telling you the truth!"

"You thin
k
you are. I'm sure of that, but it didn't happen that way. I told you I've been busy. I have. I think I've got the key to this business. I've talked it over with the doc. He thinks I'm on the right track. Maybe it's going to be difficult for you to accept the explanation, but let me put it to you. The doc says it may take weeks for you to get your memory back. You've had a brain injury, and until things settle down you are likely to get all kinds of odd ideas into your head. You mustn't worry about them. The doc says so, and he knows what he's talking about. Now will you try to accept what I'm going to tell you? Get your mind in a receptive mood if you can. It'll make things easier for us both. Think you can?"

I licked my dry lips.

"Go ahead and tell me."

"There was a car smash on the night of July 29th, a few miles outside Pelotta. Two cars going in opposite directions and travelling at high speed nudged each other and both turned over. One of them was a black Bentley which caught fire. The driver of this car was a guy named Johnny Farrar, a boxer. He was killed."

That really got me going. I struggled up.

"Are you crazy?" I shouted. "I'm Farrar! I'm Johnny Farrar! What are you trying to do? Send me nuts or something?"

He parted my arm.

"Take it easy, boy. You and me have got to work this out together. Give me a chance, will you? You'll see where I'm heading if you'll let me tell you without getting excited."

I dropped back on the pillow. I was sweating and scared and shaking.

"The accident was fully reported in the local papers," he went on. "They gave every detail. You can see the report in a moment. It's obvious to me you must have read about that smash in the paper. It made an impression on your mind. Five weeks later you get into a smash yourself. You get concussion. You have a brain injury. Unconsciously you have identified yourself with Farrar. When you recovered consciousness you are sure you are Farrar. You're sure it was you who had the smash on July 29th. Do you get the idea? It'll take a few weeks for you to get over this delusion, but you will. The doc says so, and he ought to know. All you've got to do is to take it easy and rest. It'll come back the way it happened if you don't worry about it. But what you've got to get out of your mind is you're Farrar. You aren't. You weren't in that smash with the other car on July 29th. You're not a boxer, and you never fought the Miami Kid. Get that through your head and you're three-quarters home." "Do you think for one moment I believe a yam like that?" I said through clenched teeth. "I know I'm Farrar! I did fight the Kid! I've got friends who can prove it! There is a guy in Pelotta who knows me. Bring him here and let him identify me. His name is Tom Roche. He owns a cafe."

"That's right," Riskin said. "I've talked to him. His name was in the paper. He and his wife, Alice, and a guy named Solly Brant, identified the body. Because you read about them, you're imagining they are your friends."

I clutched hold of his arm.

"Identified what body?"

"Farrar's body. Here, take a look at this. You'll find it all there, just as I told you."

He took a newspaper out of his pocket and gave it to me. It was all there, just as he had told me, but there was one thing he had missed out. It said in the paper that I had stolen the Bentley, and the owner hadn't come forward to claim it.

I threw the paper on the floor. I felt I was suffocating.

"I've tried to trace the Bentley," he went on, "but the licence plates are phoney. I have traced the Buick."

"You have! Who does it belong to?" I asked in a strangled , voice.

"To you, boy. Your name is John Ricca, and your address is 3945, Apartment 4, Franklin Boulevard, Lincoln Beach."

"You're lying!"

"I wish you'd take it easy," he said. "I told you it'd take a little time for you to accept what I'm telling you. You've been identified."

It only needed that.

"Who identified me?"

"Your cousin. That's why you're in this private room. As soon as he found out who you were, he arranged for you to have the very best treatment."

"I haven't a cousin, and my name's not Ricca!" I cried, pounding the sheet with my fist. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"He's your cousin all right. He took a look at you last night when you were asleep. He identified you right away. The car's registration clinches it."

"I don't believe a word of it!" I was shouting at him. "I haven't a cousin, I tell you! Do you hear me! I'm Farrar!"

He scratched his ear while he looked at me. There was that exasperated but kindly expression on his face people get when they are talking to lunatics.

"Well, look, boy, try to take it easy. Maybe you'd better see him. Maybe you'll know him when you see him."

My heart skipped a beat, then began to race.

"Him? Who do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"Your cousin, Ricca. He's waiting outside."

He came into the room as silently as a ghost: a short, fat man with a pot belly and short, thick legs. His face was round and fat, and small, purple veins made an unsightly network over his skin. He had snake's eyes, flat and glittering and as lifeless as glass. He was going bald, and had taken pains to spread his thinning black hair over the bald patches without much success. His thick, red lips were set in a meaningless, perpetual smile.

One thing I was certain of: I'd never seen him before i
n my
life.