Pete Anglich moved his gun so that the light flickered on the barrel. He came up to Waltz, pushed the gun against his stomach.
“Rufe’s dead,” he said softly. “Very convenient. Where’s the girl?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Don’t be a bunny. I’m wise. You tried to pick some jack off John Vidaury. I stepped in front of Token. I want to know the rest of it.”
Waltz stood very still with the gun pressing his stomach. His fingers twisted in the gloves.
“Okay,” he said dully. “How much to button your lip—and keep it buttoned?”
“Couple of centuries. Rufe lifted my poke.”
“What does it buy me?” Waltz asked slowly.
“Not a damn thing. I want the girl, too.”
Waltz said very gently: “Five C’s. But not the girl. Five C’s is heavy dough for a Central Avenue punk. Be smart and take it, and forget the rest.”
The gun went away from his stomach, Pete Anglich circled him deftly, patted pockets, took the Savage, made a gesture with his left hand, holding it.
“Sold,” he said grudgingly. “What’s a girl between pals? Feed it to me.”
“Have to go up to the office,” Waltz said.
Pete Anglich laughed shortly. “Better play ball, Trimmer. Lead on.”
They went back along the upstairs hall. The dance band beyond the distant curtains was wailing a Duke Ellington lament, a forlom monotone of stifled brasses, bitter violins, softly clicking gourds. Waltz opened his office door, snapped the light on, went across to his desk and sat down. He tilted his hat back, smiled, opened a drawer with a key.
Pete Anglich watched him, reached back to turn the key in the door, went along the wall to the closet and looked into it, went behind Waltz to the curtains that masked the windows. He still had his gun out.
He came back to the end of the desk. Waltz was pushing a loose sheaf of bills away from him.
Pete Anglich ignored the money, leaned down over the end of the desk.
“Keep that and give me the girl, Trimmer.”
Waltz shook his head, kept on smiling.
“The Vidaury squeeze was a grand, Trimmer—or started with a grand. Noon Street is almost in your alley. Do you have to scare women into doing your dirty work? I think you wanted something on the girl, so you could make her say uncle.”
Waltz narrowed his eyes a little, pointed to the sheaf of bills.
Pete Anglich said slowly: “A shabby, lonesome, scared kid. Probably lives in a cheap furnished room. No friends, or she wouldn’t be working in your joint. Nobody would wonder about her, except me. You wouldn’t have put her in a house, would you, Trimmer?”
“Take your money and beat it,” Waltz said thinly. “You know what happens to rats in this district.”
“Sure, they run night clubs,” Pete Anglich said gently.
He put his gun down, started to reach for the money. His fist doubled, swept upward casually. His elbow went up with the punch, the fist turned, landed almost delicately on the angle of Waltz’s jaw.
Waltz became a loose bag of clothes. His mouth fell open. His hat fell off the back of his head. Pete Anglich stared at him, grumbled: “Lot of good that does me.”
The room was very still. The dance band sounded faintly, like a turned-down radio. Pete Anglich moved behind Waltz and reached down under his coat into his breast pocket. He took a wallet out, shook out money, a driver’s license, a police pistol permit, several insurance cards.
He put the stuff back, stared morosely at the desk, rubbed a thumbnail on his jaw. There was a shiny buff memo pad in front of him. Impressions of writing showed on the top blank sheet. He held it sideways against the light, then picked up a pencil and began to make light loose strokes across the paper. Writing came out dimly. When the sheet was shaded all over Pete Anglich read: 4623 Noon Street. Ask for Reno.
He tore the sheet off, folded it into a pocket, picked his gun up and crossed to the door. He reversed the key, locked the room from the outside, went back to the stairs and down them to the alley.
The body of the Negro lay as it had fallen, between the small sedan and the dark wall. The alley was empty. Pete Anglich stooped, searched the dead man’s pockets, came up with a roll of money. He counted the money in the dim light of a match, separated eighty-seven dollars from what there was, and started to put the few remaining bills back. A piece of torn paper fluttered to the pavement. One side only was torn, jaggedly.
Pete Anglich crouched beside the car, struck another match, looked at a half-sheet from a buff memo pad on which was written, beginning with the tear: —t. Ask for Reno.
He clicked his teeth and let the match fall. “Better,” he said softly.
He got into the car, started it and drove out of the alley.
SEVEN
The number was on a front-door transom, faintly lit from behind, the only light the house showed. It was a big frame house, in the block above where the stakeout had been. The windows in front were closely curtained. Noise came from behind them, voices and laughter, the high-pitched whine of a colored girl’s singing. Cars were parked along the curb, on both sides of the street.
A tall thin Negro in dark clothes and gold noseglasses opened the door. There was another door behind him, shut. He stood in a dark box between the two doors.
Pete Anglich said: “Reno?”
The tall Negro nodded, said nothing.
“I’ve come for the girl Rufe left, the white girl.”
The tall Negro stood a moment quite motionless, looking over Pete Anglich’s head. When he spoke, his voice was a lazy rustle of sound that seemed to come from somewhere else.
“Come in and shut the do’.”
Pete Anglich stepped into the house, shut the outer door behind him. The tall Negro opened the inner door. It was thick, heavy. When he opened it sound and light jumped at them. A purplish light. He went through the inner door, into a hallway.
The purplish light came through a broad arch from a long living room. It had heavy velour drapes, davenports and deep chairs, a glass bar in the corner, and a white-coated Negro behind the bar. Four couples lounged about the room drinking; slim, slick-haired Negro sheiks and girls with bare arms, sheer silk legs, plucked eyebrows. The soft, purplish light made the scene unreal.
Reno stared vaguely past Pete Anglich’s shoulder, dropped his heavy-lidded eyes, said wearily: “You says which?”
The Negroes beyond the arch were quiet, staring. The barman stooped and put his hands down under the bar.
Pete Anglich put his hand into his pocket slowly, brought out a crumpled piece of paper.
“This any help?”
Reno took the paper, studied it. He reached languidly into his vest and brought out another piece of the same color. He fitted the pieces together. His head went back and he looked at the ceiling.
“Who send you?”
“Trimmer.”
“I don’ like it,” the tall Negro said. “He done write my name. I don’ like that. That ain’t sma’t. Apa’t from that I guess I check you.”
He turned and started up a long, straight flight of stairs. Pete Anglich followed him. One of the Negro youths in the living room snickered loudly.
Reno stopped suddenly, turned and went back down the steps, through the arch. He went up to the snickerer.
“This is business,” he said exhaustedly. “Ain’t no white folks comin’ heah. Git me?”
The boy who had laughed said, “Okey, Reno,” and lifted a tall, misted glass.
Reno came up the stairs again, talking to himself. Along the upper hall were many closed doors. There was faint pink light from flame-colored wall lamps. At the end Reno took a key out and unlocked the door.
He stood aside. “Git her out,” he said tersely. “I don’ handle no white cargo heah.”
Pete Anglich stepped past him into a bedroom. An orange floor lamp glowed in the far corner near a flounced, gaudy bed. The windows were shut, the air heavy, sickish.
Token Ware lay on her side on the bed, with her face to the wall, sobbing quietly.
Pete Anglich stepped to the side of the bed, touched her. She whirled, cringed. Her head jerked around at him, her eyes dilated, her mouth half open as if to yell.
“Hello, there,” he said quietly, very gently. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
The girl stared back at him. Slowly all the fear went out of her face.
EIGHT
The News photographer held the flashbulb holder high up in his left hand, leaned down over his camera.
“Now, the smile, Mr. Vidaury,” he said. “The sad one— that one that makes ‘em pant.”
Vidaury turned in the chair and set his profile. He smiled at the girl in the red hat, then turned his face to the camera with the smile still on.
The bulb flared and the shutter clicked.
“Not bad, Mr. Vidaury. I’ve seen you do better.”
“I’ve been under a great strain,” Vidaury said gently.
“I’ll say. Acid in the face is no fun,” the photographer said.
The girl in the red hat tittered, then coughed, behind a gauntleted glove with red stitching on the back.
The photographer packed his stuff together. He was an oldish man in shiny blue serge, with sad eyes. He shook his gray head and straightened his hat.
“No, acid in the puss is no fun,” he said. “Well, I hope our boys can see you in the morning, Mr. Vidaury.”
“Delighted,” Vidaury said wearily. “Just tell them to ring me from the lobby before they come up. And have a drink on your way out.”
“I’m crazy,” the photographer said. “I don’t drink.”
He hoisted his camera bag over his shoulder and trudged down the room. A small Jap in a white coat appeared from nowhere and let him out, then went away.
“Acid in the puss,” the girl in the red hat said. “Ha, ha, ha! That’s positively excruciating, if a nice girl may say so. Can I have a drink?”
“Nobody’s stopping you,” Vidaury growled.
“Nobody ever did, sweets.”
She walked sinuously over to a table with a square Chinese tray on it. She mixed a stiff one. Vidaury said half absently: “That should be all till morning. The Bulletin, the PressTribune, the three wire services, the News. Not bad.”
“I’d call it a perfect score,” the girl in the red hat said.
Vidaury scowled at her. “But nobody caught,” he said softly, “except an innocent passer-by. You wouldn’t know anything about this squeeze, would you, Irma?”
Her smile was lazy, but cold. “Me take you for a measly grand? Be your forty years plus, Johnny. I’m a home-run hitter, always.”
Vidaury stood up and crossed the room to a carved wood cabinet, unlocked a small drawer and took a large ball of crystal out of it. He went back to his chair, sat down, and leaned forward, holding the ball in his palms and staring into it, almost vacantly.
The girl in the red hat watched him over the rim of her glass. Her eyes widened, got a little glassy.
“Hell! He’s gone psychic on the folks,” she breathed. She put her glass down with a sharp slap on the tray, drifted over to his side and leaned down. Her voice was cooing, edged. “Ever hear of senile decay, Johnny? It happens to exceptionally wicked men in their forties. They get ga-ga over flowers and toys, cut out paper dolls and play with glass balls … Can it, for God’s sake, Johnny! You’re not a punk yet.”
Vidaury stared fixedly into the crystal ball. He breathed slowly, deeply.
The girl in the red hat leaned still closer to him. “Let’s go riding, Johnny,” she cooed. “I like the night air. It makes me remember my tonsils.”
“I don’t want to go riding,” Vidaury said vaguely. “I—I feel something. Something imminent.”
The girl bent suddenly and knocked the ball out of his hands. It thudded heavily on the floor, rolled: sluggishly in the deep nap of the rug.
Vidaury shot to his feet, his face convulsed.