Free Clemmie by John D. MacDonald

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Let go me.”
    Craig let go and stepped back quickly and warily. The short man spat and turned around. He had the blunt face of an ex-fighter, cropped gray hair. He seemed to be about fifty, and solid as the stub of a tree. He was not breathing hard.
    “You could have killed him,” Craig said. The girl was standing six feet away, hand to her cheek.
    “Maybe I did, hey. Let me know. Pepper Henry is thename. I’ll be right there in that there bar.” He worked his hands, flexing the knuckles. He spat again and walked away with a shoulder-rolling strut.
    Craig and the girl went to the unconscious man. “Dewey is such a tiresome slob,” the girl said. “Is he breathing?”
    Craig found the man’s pulse. It was steady and regular. “He’s not dead. His face is an awful mess, though. He’ll have to go to a hospital.”
    “
I’m
not going to take him there. They can come and get him. Let’s not phone from the bar.”
    “There’s a pay phone in the lunchroom.”
    “Wait a minute. Can you sort of roll him over? Just get him stretched out flat.”
    He moved the man gently. The man moaned but made no other sign of returning consciousness. She worked his wallet out of his hip pocket, opened it, took out the bills and put them in her pocket.
    “Is it right to do that?”
    “Don’t be a moralistic ass, my friend. It’s my money. Anyway, the first character who cuts through here will take it away from him. Get his watch too. I’ll make sure he gets it back.”
    Craig unstrapped the man’s watch. She took it and put it in her pocket. He could not figure her out. He could not see her distinctly. Her voice had a finishing-school flatness to it, that husky polish rubbed there by money.
    They went down to the lunchroom and she went back to the booth. It was the first time he had seen her in bright light, as she walked away from him. She had a trim little figure. Her hair was shiny black, and red-ribboned into a high pony tail. She wore a basque shirt with narrow, horizontal red and white stripes, lusterless black pants that came midway between knee and ankle and were slit at the sides, flat sandals with red straps. She walked with utter confidence; pony tail bobbing, small buttocks flexing under the tight pants, arms swinging, sandal heels clacking on the tile floor.
    Just as his coffee was brought she sat on the low stool beside him and said, “Same for me, please.”
    He turned toward her and they studied each other with frank curiosity. She looked to be about twenty. Her features were small and pointed and quite delicate. Her face was heart-shaped. Black, shiny bangs came almost tothick, unplucked eyebrows. Her eyes were a very pale blue.
    “Clemmie Bennet,” she said, and smiled widely and held out her hand. Her teeth were small and even and very white. They looked like the milk teeth of a child. He took her hand. She winced and pulled it away. She had gouged the heel of her hand on the cinders. “Damn,” she said. She dipped a paper napkin in his water glass and scrubbed at the hurt. Her hands were small and broad, with short fingers, thick pads at the base of the fingers.
    “Craig Fitz,” he said.
    She looked at him and tilted her head a little to one side. “You’re older than I thought. You know, you’ve got a hell of a reliable look. They could send you out with brandy around your neck.”
    Craig was suddenly and uncomfortably aware that she had nothing on under the tight basque shirt. Her breasts were small and sharply conical. “I’m the reliable type,” he said.
    “Maybe some day you’ll meet Dewey and he should thank you. He was being a slob and he had to stop for another drink so he could keep fighting with me. But he was yammering at me so loud they couldn’t hear the television fight and they couldn’t shut him up so that wide little man took him outside. Pathetic. Dewey couldn’t sucker-punch a stud butterfly. You should see him stripped. He looks like he