James M. Cain launched his career with the publication of two back-to-back masterpieces: The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity. After his death, one lone, lost novel was found: The Cocktail Waitress. Hard Case Crime will release it on September 18th. Here is an excerpt.The Garden of Roses is on Upshur Street in Hyattsville, across from the County Building, which is on Highway No.1 at the south of town, “The Boulevard,” as it’s called. It’s one story, of brick painted white, and with its parking lot sprawls half a block. It’s in two wings, with a center section connecting: one wing the restaurant, the other the cocktail bar. The center section is half reception foyer, really a vestibule as you go in, with a hatcheck booth facing, a half-door in its middle. Sergeant Young handed me down and walked me to the front door while Private Church waited in the car.“This is very kind of you, helping me when you didn’t need to and had no reason—”“I didn’t need to, but I had reason.”I caught his eye running over my clothes once more, and I thought perhaps over what was beneath my clothes as well, and I stiffened slightly, which he must have seen because when he next spoke it was with a greater formality. “Mrs. Medford, I have an idea what you have been through. I saw the records from when you brought your son to the hospital to have his arm seen to. I can see the marks on you, and in your home. If you’ll forgive me saying so on the day you buried him, your husband was a brute, and you’re well rid of him—provided that it doesn’t cost you your child as well.”I nodded my thanks. We stood a moment longer, and it appeared to me that Sergeant Young would have wanted to say more, but not with his partner looking on. He returned my nod and walked back to his car.When he and Private Church had driven off I went inside to the foyer. No light was on and for a moment, after the sun, I couldn’t see. But then a girl, a waitress, popped out of the dining room, and said: “We’re closed till five o’clock—try the Abbey at College Park.”“I’m calling on Mrs. Rossi.”“What about?”“That I’ll tell her, if you don’t mind.”“I got to know what you want with her.”Now my temper, as perhaps you’ve guessed, is one of my life problems, and I stood there for a moment or two, trying to get myself under control, when suddenly a woman was there, middle-aged, no taller than I was, but big and thick and blocky. The girl said: “Mrs. Rossi, this girl wants to talk to you, but won’t say what about. I tried to get out of her what she wants of you but she won’t—”“Sue!”Mrs. Rossi’s voice was sharp and Sue cut off pretty quick. “...Sue, curiosity killed the cat, and what’s it to you what she wants of me?”Sue vanished, and Mrs. Rossi turned to me. “What do you want of me?” she asked.“Job,” I told her.“...What kind of job?”“Waiting on table.”She studied me, then said: “I need a girl, but I’m afraid you won’t do—I don’t take inexperienced help.”“...Well—since I’ve barely said three words, I don’t see how you know if I’m inexperienced or not.”“The three words you said, ‘Waiting on table,’ were enough. If you’d ever done this kind of work, you’d have said ‘on the floor.’ ...Are you experienced or not?”“No, I’m not, but—”“Then, I don’t take inexperienced help. Have you had lunch?”“...I wasn’t hungry for lunch.”“Breakfast?”“Mrs. Rossi, you make me want to cry—I’ll tell Sergeant Young, who suggested I come to you, that at least you have a heart.”“...You know Sergeant Young?”“I do. I think I can call him a friend.”“And he sent you to me?”“He said you might need someone.”“What made him think I could use you?”Well, what had made him think she could use me? I tried to think of something, and suddenly remembered. I told her: “He was struck by my sureness on names. He thought in this work it might help.”“What’s my name?”“Mrs. Rossi, Mrs. Bianca Rossi.”“What’s the girl’s name that was here?”“Sue.”She put a hand in the dining room, snapped her fingers, and when Sue reappeared asked me: “What’s your name?”I started to say, “Mrs. Medford,” but caught myself and said: “Joan. Joan Medford.”“Miss or Mrs.?”“I’m a widow, Mrs. Rossi. Mrs.”Then to Sue: “This is Joan, and she’s coming to work on the floor. Take her back, give her a locker, find a uniform for her—from the back-from-the-laundry pile, there on the pantry shelf.” And then to me: “When you’re dressed, come back to me here and I’ll tell you what you do next.”“Yes, Mrs. Rossi. And thanks.”“Something about you doesn’t quite match up.”“It will, give me time.” Continue Reading

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