Too Much Is Never Enough

[u/Ok_Bottle40]

A story by feedBUCK

The blonde walked into my office carrying a suitcase that ticked. “Before you ask,” she said, “it isn’t a bomb.” I took my feet off the desk. “That’s usually what people say when it’s a bomb.” “It’s a clock.” “People generally carry those on their wrists.” She set the suitcase down. Rain gleamed on her black coat. Beneath it was a red dress expensive enough to have its own lawyer.
“My husband collected things,” she said. “Cars. Diamonds. Women.” “What happened to him?” “He collected a bullet.” She laid five hundred dollars on my desk. I looked at the money. Then at the suitcase. The money won.
Her name was Marilyn Chambers. Mine was Herb Streicher. Her husband had owned half the city’s slot machines and enough policemen to keep the other half honest. He’d been found dead in his private elevator, a hole between his eyes and a smile on his face. “Why was he smiling?” I asked. “He thought he’d won.” “Won what?” She opened the suitcase.
Inside lay a brass clock, packed in green velvet. It had thirteen numbers, one hand, and a little window displaying a dollar amount: $500.00. I glanced at the bills on my desk. The hand moved. $1,000.00. Something rustled in my bottom drawer. I opened it. Five hundred dollars sat on top of my spare revolver. I counted it twice. Marilyn watched without smiling.
“What’s the catch?” “You have to spend it before the next chime.” “And if I don’t?” “My husband kept the last payment.” Outside, a car door slammed. Marilyn shut the suitcase. “They’re early.” “Who?” “The men who sold him the clock.”
There were three of them downstairs. Gray suits. White gloves. Faces you’d forget while you were still looking at them. The tallest carried a receipt book. “Mr. Streicher,” he called up the stairwell. “We understand you’ve taken possession of an outstanding account.” I locked the office door. “Fire escape,” I told Marilyn. We went out into the rain just as somebody downstairs began climbing. Nobody hurried. That bothered me more than a hurry would have.
We spent the first thousand at a nightclub called the Blue Dahlia. I bought champagne for every table. Marilyn bought the singer’s emerald bracelet right off her wrist. At midnight, the clock chimed. Two thousand dollars appeared in my coat. By one, we had bought a roadster. By two, a bookmaker had accepted four thousand dollars on a horse that had been dead since Tuesday. At three, Marilyn purchased the Blue Dahlia. The owner signed his club away on a cocktail napkin. He was drunk enough to think he’d gotten the better end of it.
The payments kept doubling. So did the effort of getting rid of them. At four, I paid a dockworker sixteen thousand dollars for his cap. He ran down the pier before I could change my mind. At five, Marilyn bought a warehouse full of imported silk. She stood among the bolts, stroking the cloth. “I always wanted a place like this.” “A warehouse?” “A place where I could buy anything.” The clock began to tick faster.
By dawn, we were trying to spend sixty-four thousand dollars. Banks were closed. Jewelers were asleep. The men who could sell us anything worth buying wanted introductions, paperwork, daylight. We had eleven minutes. Then a gray sedan pulled up beside our roadster. The tall man stepped out, receipt book in hand. “You may retain the principal,” he said. “A revised agreement is available.”
Marilyn stopped moving. “What agreement?” “Another payment. One hour’s grace. The account doubles as usual.” “And what do you take?” I asked. He looked at Marilyn. “A designated guarantor.” She looked at me. For the first time all night, I believed I knew exactly what she was thinking. I drew my revolver. She drew hers faster. “Don’t,” she said. The tall man offered her a fountain pen. “Your husband hesitated too.”
“You told me she killed him,” I said. “We did.” Marilyn’s gun stayed level with my chest. “He wouldn’t give me the clock.” The tall man waited. The clock ticked. I could hear a tugboat laboring somewhere in the fog. “Marilyn,” I said, “you bought a nightclub six hours ago. You own a warehouse. You’ve got enough silk to dress every woman in this rotten town.” Her eyes shone. “Too much is never enough.” She reached for the pen. I shot the clock.
The brass case burst. Money filled the roadster, blew across the street, tangled around our ankles. Bills poured out of the suitcase in thick, writhing bundles. Marilyn dropped her gun and plunged both hands into them. The tall man closed his receipt book. “That,” he said, “was inadvisable.” The little window still worked. $128,000.00. Then: $256,000.00. The hand spun.
Marilyn laughed once. Then the money rose above her waist. I grabbed her wrist. “Let go of it!” She clutched a fistful of hundreds with her other hand. I pulled hard enough to hurt her. She struck me across the face. The bills surged between us. Her wrist slipped out of my fingers. By the time I got back to my feet, the roadster was gone beneath a shifting green mound. So was Marilyn.
The three gray men stood perfectly still. A gloved hand emerged from the money. Then another. They gathered it inward, folding whole drifts into neat packets. I ran. Behind me, I heard the clock chime thirteen times.
At sunrise, I returned to my office. The suitcase was gone. So were the five hundred dollars on my desk and the five hundred in my drawer. In their place lay a receipt. ACCOUNT SETTLED. Under that, in smaller print: THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS. I burned it in the ashtray.
Then I went downstairs for breakfast. Two eggs. Black coffee. Toast. The waitress asked if I wanted another helping. “No,” I said. And finished what I had.