Dead Man by James M. Cain

Author:James M. Cain [Cain, James M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2021-10-26T00:00:00+00:00

3

He brushed wisps of hay off his denims. They had been fairly new, but now they were black with the grime of the coal gond. Suddenly his heart stopped, a suffocating feeling swept over him. The questions started again, hammered at him, beat into his brain.

“Where that coal dust come from?”

“I don’t know. The freights, I guess.”

“Don’t you know it ain’t no coal ever shipped into this part of the state? Don’t you know that here all they burn is gas? Don’t you know it ain’t only been but one coal car shipped in here in six months, and that come in by a misread train order? Don’t you know that car was part of that train this here detective was riding that got killed? Don’t you know that? Come on, out with it. WHERE THAT COAL DUST COME FROM?”

Getting rid of the denims instantly became an obsession. He felt that people were looking at him on the street, spying the coal dust, waiting till he got by, then running into drug-stores to phone the police that he had just passed by. It was like those dreams he sometimes had, where he was walking through crowds naked, except that this was no dream, and he wasn’t naked, he was wearing these denims, these telltale denims with coal dust all over them. He clenched his hands, had a moment of terrible concentration, headed into a filling station.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“What’s the chances on a job?”

“No chances.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t need anybody.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“There’s about forty-two other reasons, one of them is I can’t even make a living myself, but it’s all the reason that concerns you. Here’s a dime, kid. Better luck somewhere else.”

“I don’t want your dime. I want a job. If the clothes were better, that might help, mightn’t it?”

“If the clothes were good enough for Clark Gable in the swell gambling-house scene, that wouldn’t help a bit. Not a bit. I just don’t need anybody, that’s all.”

“Suppose I got better clothes. Would you talk to me?”

“Talk to you any time, but I don’t need anybody.”

“I’ll be back when I get the clothes.”

“Just taking a walk for nothing.”

“What’s your name?”

“Hook’s my name. Oscar Hook.”

“Thanks, Mr. Hook. But I’m coming back. I just got a idea I can talk myself into a job. I’m some talker.”

“You’re all that, kid. But don’t waste your time. I don’t need anybody.”

“Okay. Just the same, I’ll be back.”

He headed for the center of town, asked the way to the cheap clothing stores. At Los Angeles and Temple, after an hour’s trudge, he came to a succession of small stores in a Mexican quarter that were what he wanted. He went into one. The storekeeper was a Mexican, and two or three other Mexicans were standing around smoking.

“Mister, will you trust me for a pair of white pants and a shirt?”

“No trust. Hey, scram.”

“Look. I can have a job Monday morning if I can show up in that outfit. White pants and a white shirt. That’s all.”

“No trust. What you think this is, anyway?”

“Well, I got to get that outfit somewhere.

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