I laughed. “Sure, I’m kidding. I never saw Regan, but I saw his photo. You haven’t got the men for the work. And while we’re on that subject don’t send me any more gun punks with orders. I might get hysterical and blow one down.”
He looked through his glass at the fire, set it down on the end of the desk and wiped his lips with a sheer lawn handkerchief.
“You talk a good game,” he said. “But I dare say you can break a hundred and ten. You’re not really interested in Regan, are you?”
“No, not professionally. I haven’t been asked to be. But I know somebody who would like to know where he is.”
“She doesn’t give a damn,” he said.
“I mean her father.”
He wiped his lips again and looked at the handkerchief almost as if he expected to find blood on it. He drew his thick gray eyebrows close together and fingered the side of his weatherbeaten nose.
“Geiger was trying to blackmail the General,” I said. “The General wouldn’t say so, but I figure he was at least half scared Regan might be behind it.”
Eddie Mars laughed. “Uh-uh. Geiger worked that one on everybody. It was strictly his own idea. He’d get notes from people that looked legal—were legal, I dare say, except that he wouldn’t have dared sue on them. He’d present the notes, with a nice flourish, leaving himself empty-handed. If he drew an ace, he had a prospect that scared and he went to work. If he didn’t draw an ace, he just dropped the whole thing.”
“Clever guy,” I said. “He dropped it all right. Dropped it and fell on it. How come you know all this?”
He shrugged impatiently. “I wish to Christ I didn’t know half the stuff that’s brought to me. Knowing other people’s business is the worst investment a man can make in my circle. Then if it was just Geiger you were after, you’re washed up on that angle.”
“Washed up and paid off.”
“I’m sorry about that. I wish old Sternwood would hire himself a soldier like you on a straight salary, to keep those girls of his home at least a few nights a week.”
“Why?”
His mouth looked sulky. “They’re plain trouble. Take the dark one. She’s a pain in the neck around here. If she loses, she plunges and I end up with a fistful of paper which nobody will discount at any price. She has no money of her own except an allowance and what’s in the old man’s will is a secret. If she wins, she takes my money home with her.”
“You get it back the next night,” I said.
“I get some of it back. But over a period of time I’m loser.”
He looked earnestly at me, as if that was important to me. I wondered why he thought it necessary to tell me at all. I yawned and finished my drink.
“I’m going out and look the joint over,” I said.
“Yes, do.” He pointed to a door near the vault door. “That leads to a door behind the tables.”
“I’d rather go in the way the suckers enter.”
“Okey. As you please. We’re friends, aren’t we, soldier?”
“Sure.” I stood up and we shook hands.
“Maybe I can do you a real favor some day,” he said. “You got it all from Gregory this time.”
“So you own a piece of him too.”
“Oh not that bad. We’re just friends.”
I stared at him for a moment, then went over to the door I had come in at. I looked back at him when I had it open.
“You don’t have anybody tailing me around in a gray Plymouth sedan, do you?”
His eyes widened sharply. He looked jarred. “Hell, no. Why should I?”
“I couldn’t imagine,” I said, and went on out. I thought his surprise looked genuine enough to be believed. I thought he even looked a little worried. I couldn’t think of any reason for that.
22
It was about ten-thirty when the little yellow-sashed Mexican orchestra got tired of playing a low-voiced, prettied-up rhumba that nobody was dancing to. The gourd player rubbed his finger tips together as if they were sore and got a cigarette into his mouth almost with the same movement. The other four, with a timed simultaneous stoop, reached under their chairs for glasses from which they sipped, smacking their lips and flashing their eyes. Tequila, their manner said. It was probably mineral water. The pretense was as wasted as the music. Nobody was looking at them.
The room had been a ballroom once and Eddie Mars had changed it only as much as his business compelled him. No chromium glitter, no indirect lighting from behind angular cornices, no fused glass pictures, or chairs in violent leather and polished metal tubing, none of the pseudomodernistic circus of the typical Hollywood night trap. The light was from heavy crystal chandeliers and the rose-damask panels of the wall were still the same rose damask, a little faded by time and darkened by dust, that had been matched long ago against the parquetry floor, of which only a small glass-smooth space in front of the little Mexican orchestra showed bare. The rest was covered by a heavy old-rose carpeting that must have cost plenty. The parquetry was made of a dozen kinds of hardwood, from Burma teak through half a dozen shades of oak and ruddy wood that looked like mahogany, and fading out to the hard pale wild lilac of the California hills, all laid in elaborate patterns, with the accuracy of a transit.
It was still a beautiful room and now there was roulette in it instead of measured, old-fashioned dancing. There were three tables close to the far wall. A low bronze railing joined them and made a fence around the croupiers. All three tables were working, but the crowd was at the middle one. I could see Vivian Regan’s black head close to it, from across the room where I was leaning against the bar and turning a small glass of bacardi around on the mahogany.
The bartender leaned beside me watching the cluster of well-dressed people at the middle table. “She’s pickin’ ‘em tonight, right on the nose,” he said. “That tall blackheaded frail.”
“Who is she?”
“I wouldn’t know her name. She comes here a lot though.”
“The hell you wouldn’t know her name.”
“I just work here, mister,” he said without any animosity. “She’s all alone too. The guy was with her passed out. They took him out to his car.”
“I’ll take her home,” I said.
“The hell you will. Well, I wish you luck anyways. Should I gentle up that bacardi or do you like it the way it is?”
“I like it the way it is as well as I like it at all,” I said.
“Me, I’d just as leave drink croup medicine,” he said.
The crowd parted and two men in evening clothes pushed their way out and I saw the back of her neck and her bare shoulders in the opening. She wore a lowcut dress of dull green velvet. It looked too dressy for the occasion. The crowd closed and hid all but her black head. The two men came across the room and leaned against the bar and asked for Scotch and soda. One of them was flushed and excited. He was mopping his face with a black-bordered handkerchief. The double satin stripes down the side of his trousers were wide enough for tire tracks.
“Boy, I never saw such a run,” he said in a jittery voice. “Eight wins and two stand-offs in a row on that red. That’s roulette, boy, that’s roulette.”
“It gives me the itch,” the other one said. “She’s betting a grand at a crack. She can’t lose.” They put their beaks in their drinks, gurgled swiftly and went back.
“So wise the little men are,” the barkeep drawled. “A grand a crack, huh. I saw an old horseface in Havana once—”
The noise swelled over at the middle table and a chiseled foreign voice rose above it saying: “If you will just be patient a moment, madam. The table cannot cover your bet. Mr. Mars will be here in a moment.”
I left my bacardi and padded across the carpet. The little orchestra started to play a tango, rather loud. No one was dancing or intending to dance. I moved through a scattering of people in dinner clothes and full evening dress and sports clothes and business suits to the end table at the left. It had gone dead. Two croupiers stood behind it with their heads together and their eyes sideways. One moved a rake back and forth aimlessly over the empty layout. They were both staring at Vivian Regan.
Her long lashes twitched and her face looked unnaturally white. She was at the middle table, exactly opposite the wheel. There was a disordered pile of money and chips in front of her. It looked like a lot of money. She spoke to the croupier with a cool, insolent, ill-tempered drawl.
“What kind of a cheap outfit is this, I’d like to know. Get busy and spin that wheel, highpockets. I want one more play and I’m playing table stakes. You take it away fast enough I’ve noticed, but when it comes to dishing it out you start to whine.”
The croupier smiled a cold polite smile that had looked at thousands of boors and millions of fools. His tall dark disinterested manner was flawless. He said gravely: “The table cannot cover your bet, madam. You have over sixteen thousand dollars there.”
“It’s your money,” the girl jeered. “Don’t you want it back?”
A man beside her tried to tell her something. She turned swiftly and spat something at him and he faded back into the crowd red-faced. A door opened in the paneling at the far end of the enclosed place made by the bronze railing. Eddie Mars came through the door with a set indifferent smile on his face, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner jacket, both thumbnails glistening outside. He seemed to like that pose. He strolled behind the croupiers and stopped at the corner of the middle table. He spoke with lazy calm, less politely than the croupier.
“Something the matter, Mrs. Regan?”