Read 1957 - The Guilty Are Afraid for Free Online

big-shotting themselves to death.”
    I looked around.
    A short, thickset man in a white guard’s uniform, his peaked cap at the back of his head, gave me a friendly grin. His face was red and sweaty, and as he came closer, I smelt whisky on his breath.
    “It takes all kinds to make up the world.”
    “Damn right. All this crap though is so much waste of good money.” He waved his hand at the signs. “As if they should care who parks where.” His small, alert eyes travelled over me. “You looking for anyone in particular, buster?”
    “Old man Creedy,” I told him.
    “That a fact?” He blew out his cheeks. “Rather you than me. I’ve had all I can stomach. This is my last day here and am I rejoicing!” He leaned forward and tapped me lightly on the chest. “Why is it money always goes to the punks? This guy Creedy: nothing ever pleases him. His shoes aren’t shined enough, his car isn’t clean enough, the roses aren’t big enough, his food either isn’t hot enough or cold enough. He’s never happy, never satisfied; always moaning, yelling or cursing and driving a guy nuts. If I had the tenth of his money I’d be as happy as a king, but not him.”
    I sneaked a look at my watch. The time was four minutes to three.
    “That’s the way it is,” I said. “Just one of those things. I’d like to continue this theme, but I’m due to meet him at three and I’m told he takes it badly if he’s kept waiting.”
    “He certainly does, but don’t kid yourself that being punctual will mean you’ll see him when he’s fixed for you to see him. I’ve known guys wait three or four hours before they get to him. Well, you’re welcome. I’d rather have a meeting with a dose of cholera.” He pointed. “Up those steps and to the left.”
    I started off, then I had a sudden idea and I turned back.
    “Would you have anything to do around six o’clock tonight?”
    He grinned.
    “I’ll have plenty to do around six o’clock tonight. I’m celebrating. I’ve been with this old punk for twenty months. I’ve got a lot of drinking to get in to soothe the pain out of that stretch. Why?”
    “I’ve some celebrating to do myself,” I said. “If you’re not tied up with anyone, maybe we could do it together.”
    He stared at me.
    “Are you a drinking man?”
    “On special occasions: this could be one.”
    “Well, why not? My girl doesn’t approve of me drinking. I was planning to have a lone bender, but I’d as soon have a guy with me. Okay. Where and when?”
    “Say seven. You know a good place?”
    “Sam’s Cabin. Anyone will tell you where it is. The name’s Fulton. First name, Tim. What’s yours?”
    “Lew Brandon. Be seeing you.”
    “Sure thing.”
    I left him, took the steps three at a time, turned left, walked the length of an ornate terrace to the front entrance. I had a minute in hand as I tugged at the chain bell.
    The door opened immediately. An old man, four inches over six foot, thin and upright, wearing the traditional clothes of a Hollywood butler, stood aside with a slight bow and let me walk into a hall big enough to garage six Eldorado Seville Cadillacs.
    “Mr. Brandon?”
    I said he was right.
    “Will you come this way, please?”
    I was led across the hall, out into the sunshine that blazed down on a patio, through french doors and along a passage to a room containing fifteen lounging chairs, a carpet so thick and soft it made me think I was walking in snow, and a couple of Picasso paintings on the wall. Six weary-looking businessmen, clutching despatch cases sat in some of the chairs. They stared at me with that numbed indifference that told me they had been waiting so long they had not only lost their sense of time, but also their sense of feeling.
    “Mr. Creedy will see you before long,” the butler said and went away as quietly and as smoothly as if he had been riding on wheels.
    I sat down, balanced my hat on my knees and stared up at the ceiling.
    After the others had