Free The Beach Girls by John D. MacDonald

be worth twelve cents. The important money was for the land, which Jess had paid six hundred dollars for a long, long time ago.
    “Where will the people go, George, the ones living here?”
    “What do you care about that?” he asked in an irritable way. “You responsible for them? You haven’t been charging them as much as they should pay for years.”
    “They’re my friends.”
    “For God’s sake, Alice!”
    “And where’ll I go?”
    “With that money you can live about any place you feel like. Do some traveling, maybe.”
    “How much time have I got?”
    “I wouldn’t say you got too much time. I’ve been telling them you’re going to be reasonable.”
    “Every year, you know, they give me a surprise birthday party. You came to the last one.”
    “I’m not about to forget it.”
    “I’ll let you know then, George.”
    “I forgot when it is.”
    “The thirtieth. A Saturday.”
    “This is only the seventh. That’s a long time. I don’t know if—”
    I turned around from the window. I’d had enough of being pushed. “That’s the way it is, George. It isn’t going to be no different, no matter what you say.”
    “Don’t get sore, Alice.”
    “And you got yourself something to do the rest of the month. I’m paying the commission. They’re not. You go get me a better price, hear?”
    “But it’s—”
    “Maybe some other real-estate people can get me a better price, George.”
    I saw him get sore and cover it up quickly. He did a little wheedling. But he knew my mind was made up. And, damn him, he knew what the answer had to be when I’d tell him on the thirtieth. I was being pushed out. It’sa hell of a word they use—a marginal operation. It means you just get along. No money for fancy improvements and maintenance.
    When he left, I went down with him. Moonbeam was gone. She’d put the door on lock. I let George out. The night was soft and quiet. Traffic had thinned out on Broward. Just as George started out of the lot, there was a terrible squealing and yelping of tires and I braced myself for the sound of the crash. But nothing happened. In the Boulevard lights I saw the little white Triumph turn into the lot and park. So Rex Rigsby was back. He took a suitcase out and then started to put the top up on the little car. I strolled out.
    He turned and looked at me and said, his voice a little shaky, “Who was that damn fool, Alice?”
    “Deal Daily with Haley.”
    “I was turning in. He didn’t even look.”
    I saw no point in mentioning the fact that if George had killed him, it would have been an excuse for general rejoicing. “Rex, you took off without catching up on your rent like you promised. And you got a gas bill and a laundry bill and a repair bill.”
    “I was a little short.”
    “If that was true, I wouldn’t lean on you. But I know damn well you’re not short. You’re just close with money, Rex. You got it and I want it.”
    “Now, Alice—”
    “Don’t turn on the charm, boy. It won’t work. Don’t bother smiling. Just pay up.”
    “First thing in the morning.”
    “For all I know the
Angel
will be gone in the morning and I’ll sit here a couple weeks wondering if I could attach this little car. You come in the office right now, boy, and pay up.”
    “Can I finish putting the top up, please ma’am?”
    “You can do that, yes.”
    He came into the office. I turned the lights on and opened the file and got his bills out, added them up. He owed a hundred eighteen seventy. He looked them over real careful, and then the son of a gun took a bill clip out of the pocket of his linen shorts, thick with money folded once. He put down two fifties and a twenty withoutmaking it look any thinner. I marked the bills paid and gave him his change. He shoved it loose into his pocket, grinning at me. When he grins I find myself thinking how fine it would be to kick him square in the face. He wore a white shirt, unbuttoned, the tails knotted across his flat brown belly.