THE SIMPLE ART OF MURDER by Raymond Chandler Copyright ...

The Negro cook's fat white back was to him. At the far end of the low counter a white girl in a cheap brown felt hat and a shabby polo
coat with a high turned-up collar was sipping coffee, her cheek propped in her left hand. There was nobody else in the car.
Pete Anglich put his suitcase down and sat on a stool near the door, saying: "Hi, Mopsy!"
The fat cook turned a shiny black face over his white shoulder. The face split in a grin. A thick bluish tongue came out and wiggled
between the cook's thick lips.
"How's a boy? W'at you eat?"
"Scramble two light, coffee, toast, no spuds."
"Dat ain't no food for a he-guy," Mopsy complained.
"I been drunk," Pete Anglich said.
The girl at the end of the counter looked at him sharply, looked at the cheap alarm clock on the shelf, at the watch on her gloved
wrist. She drooped, stared into her coffee cup again.
The fat cook broke eggs into a pan, added milk, stirred them around. "You want a shot, boy?"
Pete Anglich shook his head.
"I'm driving the wagon, Mopsy."
The cook grinned. He reached a brown bottle from under the counter, and poured a big drink into a water glass, set the glass down
beside Pete Anglich.
Pete Anglich reached suddenly for the glass, jerked it to his lips, drank the liquor down.
"Guess I'll drive the wagon some other time." He put the glass down empty.
The girl stood up, came along the stools, put a dime on the counter. The fat cook punched his cash register, put down a nickel
change. Pete Anglich stared casually at the girl. A shabby, innocent-eyed girl, brown hair curling on her neck, eyebrows plucked clean as
a bone and startled arches painted above the place where they had been.
"Not lost, are you, lady?" he asked in his softly husky voice.
The girl had fumbled her bag open to put the nickel away. She started violently, stepped back and dropped the bag. It spilled its
contents on the floor. She stared down at it, wideeyed.
Pete Anglich went down on one knee and pushed things into the bag. A cheap nickel compact, cigarettes, a purple matchfolder
lettered in gold: The Juggernaut Club. Two colored handkerchiefs, a crumpled dollar bill and some silver and pennies.
He stood up with the closed bag in his hand, held it out to the girl.
"Sorry," he said softly. "I guess I startled you."
Her breath made a rushing sound. She caught the bag out of his hand, ran out of the car, and was gone.
The fat cook looked after her. 'That doll don't belong in Tough Town," he said slowly.
He dished up the eggs and toast, poured coffee in a thick cup, put them down in front of Pete Anglich.
Pete Anglich touched the food, said absently: "Alone, and matches from the Juggernaut. Trimmer Waltz's spot. You know what
happens to girls like that when he gets hold of them."
The cook licked his lips, reached under the counter for the whiskey bottle. He poured himself a drink, added about the same
amount of water to the bottle, put it back under the counter.
"I ain't never been a tough guy, and don' want to start," he said slowly. "But I'se all tired of white boys like dat guy. Some day he
gonna get cut."
Pete Angliich kicked his suitcase.
"Yeah. Keep the keister for me, Mopsy."
He went out.
Two or three cars flicked by in the crisp fall night, but the sidewalks were dark and empty. A colored night watchman moved slowly
along the street, trying the doors of a small row of dingy stores. There were frame houses across the street, and a couple of them were
noisy.
Pete Anglich went on past the intersection. Three blocks from the lunch wagon he saw the girl again.
She was pressed against a wall, motionless. A little beyond her, dim yellow light came from the stairway of a walk-up apartment
house. Beyond that a small parking lot with billboards across most of its front. Faint light from somewhere touched her hat, her shabby
polo coat with the turned-up collar, one side of her face. He knew it was the same girl.
He stepped into a doorway, watched her. Light flashed on her upraised arm, on something bright, a wrist watch. Somewhere not far
off a clock struck eight, low, pealing notes.
Lights stabbed into the street from the corner behind. A big car swung slowly into view and as it swung its headlights dimmed. It
crept along the block, a dark shininess of glass and polished paint.
Pete Anglich grinned sharply in his doorway. A custom-built Duesenberg, six blocks from Central Avenue! He stiffened at the sharp
sound of running steps, clicking high heels.
The girl was running toward him along the sidewalk. The car was not near enough for its dimmed lights to pick her up. Pete Anglich
stepped out of the doorway, grabbed her arm, dragged her back into the doorway. A gun snaked from under his coat.
The girl panted at his side.
The Duesenberg passed the doorway slowly. No shots came from it. The uniformed driver didn't slow down.
"I can't do it. I'm scared," the girl gasped in Pete Anglich's ear. Then she broke away from him and ran farther along the sidewalk,
away from the car.
Pete Anglich looked after the Duesenberg. It was opposite the row of billboards that screened the parking lot. It was barely crawling
now. Something sailed from its left front window, fell with a dry slap on the sidewalk. The car picked up speed soundlessly, purred off
into the darkness. A block away its head lights flashed up full again.
Nothing moved. The thing that had been thrown out of the car lay on the inner edge of the sidewalk, almost under one of the
billboards.
Then the girl was coming back again, a step at a time, haltingly. Pete Anglich watched her come, without moving. When she was
level with him he said softly: "What's the racket? Could a fellow help?"
She spun around with a choked sound, as though she had forgotten all about him. Her head moved in the darkness at his side.
There was a swift shine as her eyes moved. There was a pale flicker across her chin. Her voice was low, hurried, scared.
"You're the man from the lunch wagon. I saw you."
"Open up. What is it--a pay-off?"
Her head moved again in the darkness at his side, up and down.
"What's in the package?" Pete Anglich growled. "Money?"
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