Roughneck by Jim Thompson Page A

an oil man," he shrugged. "He's only here about a week out of the month. What are you so jumpy about, anyway? I've never got you into any trouble, have I?"
           "Oh, no!" I said. "What about the time you hooked me into taking that cop's pants and the time you got me mixed up in the Capone gang, and the time—well, that last time in Lincoln when you had me drive the cab for you?"
           Allie grinned and reached for the bottles. I asked him how he'd gotten away from the country club that night.
           "Nothing to it," he said casually. "I gave the doorman my cigar to hold. Then, I helped the babe into the cab and drove off."
           "Without any clothes on?"
           "Well, it was a warm night. We dressed down the road a ways...Speaking of clothes, incidentally, let's go back here."
           We went into one of the outsize bedrooms, and Allie rolled back the closet doors. Inside were at least a dozen men's suits, three or four topcoats and racks of shoes and ties. Allie indicated that I was to help myself.
           "They won't be a perfect fit, but it'll be good enough. And don't argue about it. You're just going to borrow them for the night."
           "But why? I can't—"
           "How would you like to edit a magazine? Be the publicity man for a big fraternal order?"
           "Well, fine, but—"
           "Then do what I tell you, and I'll order up dinner for us."
           I could get no further information out of him at the moment, so with considerable hesitation I exchanged my clothes for some of the splendid garb in the closet. Except for the shoes, which were a trifle large, everything fitted me perfectly. By the time I had finished dressing, the waiter arrived with our dinner—two outsize porterhouse steaks with all the accessories for a modest banquet. Allie signed the check (using the tenant's name, of course) and wrote in a five-dollar tip for the waiter.
           "The guy never checks his bills," he explained as we sat down to the meal: "I throw parties up here all the time."
           He went on to explain at some length and somewhat apologetically that he had not, appearances to the contrary, sunk to doing an honest day's work for an honest day's pay. With the elevator boys and charwomen acting as his agents, he was working several small but profitable rackets in the building—selling chances on punchboards, peddling raffle tickets and so on, collecting a cut from the office to office peddlers. Also, needless to say—although he said it—he was stealing.
           "Nothing very big, you understand. A few bucks' worth of stamps in one place and a few typewriter ribbons in another and a box or so of stationery in another. I got a guy that takes the stuff for a short profit."
           I shook my head. "Allie, what makes you go on like this? Why don't you do something with your life? You're smart. You've got a nice personality and you make a good appearance. If you'd act sensible, stop making like a cheap crook—"
           He was grinning at me thinly, looking me up and down. "Yeah, Jimmie? What would it get me? Rides on freight trains? Ten-cent meals and a job digging ditches? Rags for clothes and a weedpatch for a bed?"
           "Well, all right," I said, stubbornly. "Maybe I'm not doing so good right now, but I'll pull out of it. I—"
           "Right you are," Allie nodded. "You're on your way to pulling out of it right now. After tonight you'll be sitting pretty."
           "How? Just what am I supposed to do, anyway?"
           "You know all about publicity, don't you? How to put out a small magazine?"
           "Well, I don't know 'all' about it, but—"
           "You know enough. Just let these guys that I introduce you to know that you know. I'll do the rest."
           Again, I could get no more information from him. He did insist—he swore to it—that he would involve me in no