Dames Don't Care

by Peter Cheyney

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Henrietta looked at Lemmy Caution with starry eyes. 'There's breakfast on the way,' she said, 'come on in.' 'Listen lady,' replied Lemmy. 'Maybe you ain't heard about me. I think I oughta warn you, I am not the sorta guy you ask around for breakfast, especially if you're good at makin' waffles.' Henrietta leaned against the doorpost. 'I was going to give you fried chicken,' she said, 'but I've decided against it - I've got a better idea.' 'Such as?' 'Such as waffles,' she said.

Release date: September 6, 2012

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 195

Sample

IS it hot!

I ain’t never been in Hell, but I’m tellin’ you that I reckon it ain’t any hotter than this Californian desert in July.

I am drivin’ along past Indio an’ I reckon that soon I am going’ to see the Palm Springs lights. An’ I am goin’ some—the speedometer says eighty. If it
wasn’t so hot it would be a swell night; but there ain’t any air, an’ there was a baby sand storm this afternoon that caught me asleep an’ I gotta lump of the Mojave desert
or whatever they call it stuck right at the back of my throat.

Say, did you ever hear of Cactus Lizzie? Well, there is a song about this dame an’ I am singing it. Not that I gotta voice, because I ain’t, but I am one of them guys who always
feels that if Ma Caution hadda fixed it so’s I was born with some honest-to-goodness vocal chords an’ a face that wasn’t like the Santa Domingo coast line, I reckon all the
lovelies woulda queued up to hear Lemmy tear off a couple of swing numbers that woulda made croonin’ history.

Revertin’ to this Cactus Lizzie. I oughta tell you that this dame was in a song; an’ for some reason that I don’t know this song is sorta buzzin’ in my head,
keepin’ time with the hum of the car. I got this jingle off some cowboy on Sonora two years ago, the time I brought in Yelltz for murder an’ kidnappin’. All this cowboy had was a
guitar, smokers’ throat an’ a hey-hey Mexican jane who took a run-out powder on him. He usta keep singin’ it all the time until the noise of somebody readin’ your death
warrant woulda sounded like a comedy number—it woulda been such a relief. Well . . . here we go. . .

Livin’ on the desert . . . swing Cowboy,

Ridin’ on the desert . . . Love is sad an’ strange. . .

Hit up that banjo . . . sing Cowboy,

Your girl’s got the jitters an’ the cattle’s got the mange.

Cactus Lizzie . . . grieve Cowboy,

I loved her plenty an’ she give me the air,

That Cactus Lizzie—she got me dizzy,

Oh hear me grievin’—’cause the dames don’t care.

This is the jingle I am singin’, an’ it’s one of them rhythms that sorta keep with you—you know, one of them things. . . .

I am on the straight run now an’ I can see down the road the Palm Springs lights. They tell me that this Palm Springs is one swell desert town. You can get anythin’ there—a
diamond necklace from a ritzy jeweller’s shop, perfume at fifty dollars a bottle, an’ a smack in the puss with a whisky bottle at some of the road houses they got out on the desert
highways—the sorta places where you can save time by losin’ your reputation an’ your suspenders at the same time.

I am just runnin’ into the town now, an’ I’m good an’ tired. I was tellin’ you about Cactus Lizzie, wasn’t I? Well, I reckon that there’s a lotta dames
playin’ around like Cactus Lizzie. They’re afraid of spiders but they’d just as soon stick a stiletto into their boy friend as call for a chocolate sundae. Janes are like that,
but maybe you’ve had your own troubles.

Me, I like women. There’s something fascinatin’ about ’em. They got rhythm. They got technique—and how!

I am nearly through Palm Springs now. A bit further ahead on the right I can see a light an’ a neon sign. The sign says ‘Hot Dogs,’ an’ I reckon that this is the place I
am lookin’ for. I slow down. When I get outa the car I feel as stiff as a corpse, an’ why not? I have been drivin’ ten hours.

I ease over to this joint an’ look through the window. It is one of them fancy eats houses. Everything is just sweet an’ clean an’ there are a pair of janes servin’
behind the counter. They are swell babies. One of ’em is a redhead with eyes that indicate trouble for somebody, some time, an’ the other has gotta figure that makes me wish I was on
vacation. There are one or two little tables stuck around all about the place an’ there ain’t anybody there except the girls an’ a guy sittin’ at a table eatin’
frankfurters an’ tryin’ to look wicked at the blonde with the figure.

I look at my watch. It is half-after midnight; then I give the brim of my fedora a snappy tweak an’ I go in.

“H’yah, Gorgeous,” I say to the redhead. “Meetin’ up with you calls for a Hamburger an’ a cup of coffee with a lotta cream, because my mother says I need
buildin’ up.”

She grins at the other dame.

“Say, Alice,” she cracks. “Here’s Clark Gable.”

She gets busy at the coffee urn.

“Not for me,” says the blonde. “For me he’s Spencer Tracy. He’s got that certain something they talk about, ain’t he? Where’s he been all our
lives?”

“No fightin’ now,” I tell ’em. “If either of you honeys wasn’t here I could go for the other in a big way, but you’re a sweet pair an’ you sorta
cancel each other out—an’ don’t forget the mustard an’ no onion.”

“Seein’ somebody?” says redhead.

“Not a hope,” I say. “I just never eat onion. It’s dangerous. You never know what’s goin’ to happen. I once knew a guy who ate Hamburgers with onion
an’ one hour afterwards some jane he was tryin’ to make called up the War Department for a gas mask.”

She pushes over the eats.

“You’re new around here, ain’t you?” she says.

She looks sorta friendly.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I come from Magdalena, Mexico. I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine, a guy named Sagers—Jeremy Sagers. Some guy in Arispe has left him some
dough an’ I thought he’d like to know about it. Ever seen him?”

“Ain’t that a scream,” says redhead. “I reckon we know this Sagers. I see him talkin’ to Hot-Dog Annie, an’ I reckon the old girl pushed him into one of
them dumps she gets around to—one of them select desert road houses around here.”

“You got them, too?” I crack. “Say, this town is the berries.”

“You betcha,” she says. “We got everything around here. Now we got you, we’re all set for a big ride!”

“Nuts to you, sweetheart,” I crack, “Say, who is this Hot-Dog Annie?”

“She’s an old peach,” says blondie. “She starts drinkin’ double Martinis about six an’ by midnight she’s good an’ high. Then she comes in here
an’ takes in a cargo of hot-dogs. She says it sorta absorbs the poison an’ stops her from seein’ handsome cowboys where there ain’t any. That’s how she got the
monniker.” She pipes down. “Hold everything, here she is,” she mutters.

I screw around.

Some dame has just blown in an’ is certainly an eyeful. She is wearin’ a sorta jumper an’ a pair of blue hikin’ shorts. She has gotta pair of sand shoes on, an’ a
jag that woulda lasted any ordinary guy for about three years. But in some funny way she has got class . . . if you know what I mean.

She goes over to a table an’ flops down. Behind the counter the girls are busy. They have gotta plate of hot-dogs an’ a large cup of coffee all ready, an’ I pick it up
an’ take it over an’ put it on the table in front of this dame.

She takes a look at me.

“An’ who might you be?” she says.

“Me . . . I’m a guy who believes in fairies,” I say. “Listen, lady,” I go on before she can pull anythin’. “Maybe you can help me. The girls here
tell me that you gotta job for some guy I’m lookin’ for—a guy called Jeremy Sagers. I got some good news for this guy—some palooka’s left him some dough.”

She goes into a huddle with a hot-dog.

“I got him hired at the Miranda House Hotel,” she says, “but he was so lousy they gave him the air. Then he fixed himself up. He’s workin’ at a dump way out on
the desert—The Hacienda Altmira—an’ as far as I’m concerned he can have it.”

She starts cryin’. This dame is plumb full of stagger-juice.

“Take it easy,” I say, “an’ tell me where this Altmira is.”

She comes back to earth.

“Go through the town an’ keep goin’, cowboy,” she says, “an’ when you’re out the other side turn right at the gas station an’ take the desert
road. Keep goin’ some more an’ when you’ve done about thirty miles an’ there ain’t much more road, you’ll see it away on the right. Only if I was you I’d
leave your bank-roll behind. They’re funny guys out there.”

I say Thanks a lot; I pay Redhead an’ I scram.

I drive fast an’ plenty. Bit by bit I get out into the desert. I pass plenty places, road houses, an’ hang-outs an’ a dude ranch or two. Pretty soon they start stringin’
out, an’ a bit after that there ain’t nothing, nothin’ but foothills an’ joshua trees, cactus an’ highway. The speedometer says I have done twenty, an’ so I
start singin’ Cactus Lizzie again, because I have found that whenever I sing this song I seemta go faster.

I am wonderin’. I am wonderin’ just how this guy Sagers has been gettin’ along an’ if he has found life interestin’ around here. I get to thinkin’ about him.
He is a young sorta guy. . . .

Then I see the dump. The road has sorta tailed off an’ is good an’ bumpy. It curves around to the right an’ inside the curve, stuck right in the middle of a swell spot of
desolation, is this Hacienda Altmira. It is the usual sorta adobe building, with a plaster veranda all the way round, an’ a laid out front with some ornamental cactus stuck around.
There is a bunch of neon lights over the front, an’ as I get near I can hear hot music. Some guys are playin’ guitars an’ playin’ ’em good.

I find a place for the car an’ leave it. When I say I find a place for it I mean I leave it on one side of this dump in the shadow of a mud wall just so’s I can put my hand on it
quick if I wanta get outa this place in a hurry. There have been times before when I have wanted to vacate some spot very quickly an’ I have always found it is not good to have your car stuck
right in the front of the place where some guy can stick a knife in the tyres.

I go in the front door. The place is built Mexican fashion, an’ there is a sorta passage with a curtain at the end. The guitar playin’ is comin’ from the other side of the
curtain. I string along the passage an’ pull the curtain an’ lamp in.

I am surprised. The place is sweller than I thought. It is a big adobe walled room with a wooden floor. Dead opposite me is a bar and by the side of the bar is a flight of stone steps
leadin’ up the wall, turning left to some room half-way up an’ then turning right an’ leadin’ on to a wooden balcony that goes all around the room, except on the side to my
left which has got big wire windows from floor to ceilin’. There are tables set all around the place and there are a bunch of people stickin’ around.

In the middle of the tables there is a floor that has been planed down an’ polished, an’ dancin’ on this floor, doin’ a heavy tango with a dame that is old enough to be
his mother, is what looks to me like the desert’s swellest gigolo.

He is tall an’ slim an’ supple an’ he is wearin’ a pair of Mexican breeches, a silk shirt, an’ a silly smile, an’ he is pushin’ this dame around as if
he would rather have been flirtin’ with a rattlesnake. The band, four guys in chaps on a little platform on the left of the bar, is hittin’ up some swell Spanish stuff, an’ there
are four or five other guys stickin’ around the bar. Most of these guys is wearin’ cowboy chaps, or breeches, an’ I reckon that maybe they come from some of the dude ranches that
I passed on my way.

From above my head, in some room leadin’ off the balcony I reckon, I can hear a lotta laughin’ an’ conversation. At a table away on the left near the windows three guys who
look like Mexicans are havin’ a few words over some tequila. On the right, there is a party of pretty high guys in tuxedos with some women wearin’ some swell jewellery, an’
as I have not seen any cars around this place I reckon that there must be a garage on the other side of the house where I couldn’t see it.

When I go in the guys at the bar take a look at me, an’ then go back to their wisecrackin’ with the fly-lookin’ jane who is workin’ the bar.

I pick myself a table on the edge of the dance floor, an’ I sit down. After a bit some guy, who looks like he would die any minute, he is so thin, comes over and says what do I want. I
give him an order for some ham an’ eggs an’ a lotta whisky an’ he goes off. I then amuse myself watchin’ the guy on the dance floor doin’ his stuff.

He goes on pushin’ this dame around an’ by the way the guys who are playin’ the guitars are lookin’ I can see that there is a big laugh somewhere. Maybe they think that
the big boy is playin’ her for a sucker, and I gotta admit that he is certainly goin’ on like a hired dance partner. When they come around opposite me he turns her around so that he is
lookin’ at me an’ he gives me a sorta apologetic grin an’ a double wink.

After a bit the boys stop playin’ an’ the couple go off to a table where I can see there is a bottle of champagne, and then after a minute some guy in a swell cut tuxedo an’ a
silk shirt comes outa the room halfway up the stairs. He sees me an’ sorta smiles an’ runs down the stairs an’ comes across to me.

“Good-night to you, señor,” he says. “I am mos’ pleased to welcome you to Altmira. I ’ope you get everything you want.”

I grin.

“Me too,” I tell him.

Then I shut up.

“You are in thees neighbourhood a long time?” he asks me. “I deed not theenk I ’ave seen you before. You see, señor, you are ver’ lucky to find us open at
these time—eet is nearly three o’clock—but to-night we ’ave a little party ’ere as you see. I ’ope we shall see you some more.”

The waiter guy comes back with the whisky. I pour myself a stiff shot an’ pass the bottle to this guy.

“Have a drink,” I tell him, “an’ who might you be?”

He smiles an’ waves his hand that he don’t want a drink.

“I am Periera,” he says. “I manage thees place. Eet is a ver’ good place, when you get to know eet.”

“Swell,” I tell him. “I’m sticking around the neighbourhood for a bit,” I go on, “so you’ll see some more of me.”

He grins an’ he goes off.

After a bit the waiter comes in with my ham an’ eggs an’ I start eatin’. After a bit the guitar guys start playin’ again, an’ sure as a gun the gigolo guy gets up
an’ starts cavortin’ around with the dame. This old lady is so keen on doin’ a hot rumba that it looks as if she is goin’ to bust outa her gown at any minute.

As they come swayin’ around my way, I swallow some whisky quick an’ make out that I am a little bit high. When they get opposite me I look up at the guy an’ I grin. He grins
back.

“H’yah, sissy?” I say, good an’ loud.

You coulda heard a pin drop. The party on the right stop drinkin’ an’ the guys at the bar spin around. The big boy stops dancin’ an’ takes the dame back to the table
an’ then he walks sorta casually over to me.

“An’ what did you say?” he asks me.

“I asked you how you was, sissy,” I tell him.

This guy is quick. He takes one step forward, an’ as I am about to get up he kicks my feet sideways an’ busts me in the nose at the same time. I go down with a wallop, but I am
pretty quick an’ I shoot after him an’ mix it. I put up a quick uppercut, which he sidesteps an’ when I try a straight one he blocks it. I get hold of his shirt an’ yank
over to me an’ he trips me, Japanese scissor fashion, an’ we go down again. The band has stopped playin’ an’ as I flop I can see Periera comin’ across.

As I go to get up sissy smacks me down again, an’ when I do get on my feet I am lookin’ not quite so hot.

I stand there swayin’ a bit as if I was high, an’ I let out a hiccup so’s they’ll be certain.

Periera stands smilin’ at me.

“Señor,” he says. “I am sorry that you should make some troubles with people in my service. Pleese don’t do eet some more. Eef you are hurt I am
sorry.”

He starts brushin’ off my coat where it is dusty.

The sissy has gone off back to his table to the dame. I look across at him.

“Pleese not to start sometheen else, Señor,” says Periera. “We do not like some troubles here.”

I flop down in my chair.

“I reckon you’re right at that,” I tell him. “I reckon I had too much before I come here an’ anyhow he was right to smack me in the puss. It looks like he
ain’t as big a sissy as he looks,” I go on.

He smiles.

“Listen, Periera,” I say. “You go across to that guy an’ tell him I’m durn sorry, an’ that I’d like him to come an’ have a drink with me
so’s there ain’t any feelin’s over this. I’m goin’ over there for some air.”

I get up an’ I stagger across the room to the side where the windows are, an’ I pick a table in the corner. Periera goes across to the sissy an’ speaks to this guy, an’
after a bit he gets up, says something to the fat dame an’ comes over. As he stands facin’ me he hands me the double wink again.

“Listen, pal,” I say, nice an’ loud, “I reckon that was a not very hot thing to say to you. I reckon that if you are a sissy then I’m in Iceland. Sit down
an’ have a drink on it.”

We shake hands an’ he sticks something in my hand. I yell for the waiter guy an’ get the whisky an’ glasses brought over. Nobody much is payin’ any attention to me now,
the fun bein’ over, an’ after I have poured the drinks I light a cigarette an’ start waggin’ my head an’ smilin’ like I was makin’ a lot of light talk.

Under the table I look at what he put in my hand. It is his Federal badge. I slip it back to him.

“O.K., Sagers,” I tell him smilin’ nice an’ polite, with a swell hiccup, for the benefit of all concerned. “What do you know?”

He gives himself a cigarette an’ under cover of lightin’ this he starts talkin’ quick, smilin’ an’ gesticulatin’ like we was havin’ some airy
conversation.

“Plenty,” he says, “but nothing that seems to look like anything. I come out to Palm Springs an’ started to muscle around for a job. Told ’em I’d been
tryin’ for extra work at the coast studios. I contact some old lady who gets me a job at the Miranda, but pretty soon I see this is the job I want, so I get myself fired. The only way I can
get in here is by doin’ this pansy dancin’ partner act.

“This place is the berries. They got everything. They’ll take you for a toothpick. There’s some play goes on upstairs that would make the Federal reserve Bank look like a five
an’ ten, an’ the roulette wheel’s so crooked that one night when some guy won something the croupier went into a decline. The guy over in the corner with fancy moustache is
runnin’ nose candy. This is the feller who beat the New York Narcotic Squad to it three years back—what he don’t know about sellin’ drugs could be typed on the back of a
stamp. The guys who come here ain’t so hot, neither. Some of ’em are the usual Palm Springs daddies lookin’ for somethin’ swell with curves an’ some of ’em look
like they could do with ten to fifty years. The women are a mixed bunch. Some of ’em work here an’ some I don’t know. There’s all sorts of janes bust around here.”

He pushes the bottle over.

“What’s your front?” he asks.

“I’m fakin’ to come from Magdalena, Mexico,” I tell him. “I’m supposed to be bringin’ you some news that a guy’s left you some money an’
that I’ve got a roll on account for you. That gets you outa here. Then I’m aimin’ to stick around for a week or so before goin’ back—that is unless something breaks.
Now . . . where’s the dame?”

“She’s around,” he says. “She gets me guessin’ an’ she’ll get you guessin’. Caution. If she owns this place then I’m a greaser. The
manager guy Periera treats her like she was nothin’. She does a hostess act around here an’ looks like she could bite a snake’s head off. She’s permanently burned up.
She’s got class an’ she dresses like a million dollars. The real boss is Periera.”

“Does she live here?” I as. . .