The Grifters by Jim Thompson Page B

should go.
    But was it? He would need looking after for a while, wouldn't he? Lilly had hinted at something of the kind, suggesting that he stay in her apartment for a week or so. He'd been against it, of course, first because it was her suggestion, and secondly because it seemed pointless. With her away at the tracks so much, he'd still be on his own. But…
    Carol shivered against him delicately. He started to shove her away; and, unwillingly, his arms tightened around her.
    "I was just thinking," he said. "I'll still be a little rocky after I leave here. Maybe-"
    "Yes?" She raised her head, smiled down at him excitedly. "You would want me to tend you for a while, yes? That is it?"
    "You'd like that?"
    "Yes! Oh, my, yes!"
    "Well," he said, awkwardly. "We'll think about it. See what my mother has to say. I live in a hotel myself, so I'd have to stay at her place. And-"
    "And it will be all right!" Her eyes were dancing. "I know."
    "How do you mean?"
    "I mean, it is what your mother wants! I-we were not going to say anything about it yet. She was not sure how you would feel, and- and-"
    Her voice died away under his flat-eyed stare. Quick anxiety tugged at the tipped-up corners of her mouth.
    "Please. T-there is something wrong?"
    "Not a thing," he said. "No, sir, everything's just fine."

8
    The fourth race was over. The trackside crowds surged back through the areaway which passed beneath the grandstand, and led into the vaulted arena of bars, lunchrooms, and pari-mutuel windows. Some of them were hurrying, smiling broadly, or wearing smug, tight-lipped grins. They headed toward pay-off windows. Others, the majority, came more slowly, scanning their racing programs, tip sheets, and forms; their faces indifferent, desperate, angry, or sullen. These were the losers, and some of them went on through the exits to the parking lot, and some stopped at the bars, and most of them moved toward the bet windows.
    It was still early in the day. There were still a lot of full pockets. The crowd would not shake out much before the end of the sixth race.
    Lilly Dillon collected three bets at as many windows. Putting the money to one side in her purse-for it would have to be accounted for--she hurried toward the bet windows. Her betting money, the playback dough that came by wire each day, was already separated into sheafs of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She used the twenties as much as her limited time would allow, usually five and ten at a time. With the fifties she was more cautious; the hundreds were disposed of with downright stinginess.
    Possibly, rather probably, much of her caution was wasted. The treasury agents had no interest in the betting; they were normally on the lookout only for wins, the cashing in of fistfuls of fifty and hundreddollar tickets. And Lilly was not there to win, and seldom did. Her activities were largely precautionary, not usually concerned with favorites or semi-favorites. The odds on such horses pretty much took care of themselves. She dealt mainly in "likely" runners and long-shots, and they rarely wound up in the money. When they did, she collected on them only when it seemed absolutely safe. If it didn't, she simply let the winnings go, keeping the pari-mutuel tickets as a matter of record.
    To an extent, she was a free agent. She had certain general instructions, but within them she was allowed and expected to use her own judgment. That didn't make things any easier for her, of course. On the contrary. It was a hard job, and she was well paid for it. And there were ways of adding to that pay.
    Ways which Bobo Justus frowned upon, but which were very difficult to detect.
    She strolled off toward one of the bars, her eyes shrewdly watchful behind the dark sunglasses. Several times she stooped quickly and picked up a discarded ticket, adding them to the ones in her purse. Losing tickets were usually thrown away. As long as they weren't torn or suspiciously trampled, she could count them as money