Farr’s undershot jaw tightened. “No,” he said with grim satisfaction, “I don’t suppose it is.”
“You’re a timid soul, Farr,” Ned Beaumont repeated. “Be careful about taxis when you cross streets.” He bowed. “See you later.”
Outside, he grimaced angrily.
3
That night Ned Beaumont rang the door-bell of a dark three-story house in Smith Street. A short man who had a small head and thick shoulders opened the door half a foot, said, “All right,” and opened it the rest of the way.
Ned Beaumont, saying, “‘Lo,” entered, walked twenty feet down a dim hallway past two closed doors on the right, opened a door on the left, and went down a wooden flight of steps into a basement where there was a bar and where a radio was playing softly.
Beyond the bar was a frosted glass door marked Toilet. This door opened and a man came out, a swarthy man with something apish in the slope of his big shoulders, the length of his thick arms, the flatness of his face, and the curve of his bowed legs–Jeff Gardner.
He saw Ned Beaumont and his reddish small eyes glistened. “Well, blind Christ, if it ain’t Sock-me-again Beaumont!” he roared, showing his beautiful teeth in a huge grin.
Ned Beaumont said, “‘Lo, Jeff,” while everyone in the place looked at them.
Jeff swaggered over to Ned Beaumont, threw his left arm roughly around his shoulders, seized Ned Beaumont’s right hand with his right hand, and addressed the company jovially: “This is the swellest guy I ever skinned a knuckle on and I’ve skinned them on plenty.” He dragged Ned Beaumont to the bar. “We’re all going to have a little drink and then I’ll show you how it’s done. By Jesus, I will!” He leered into Ned Beaumont’s face. “What do you say to that, my lad?”
Ned Beaumont, looking stolidly at the ugly dark face so close to, though lower than, his, said: “Scotch.”
Jeff laughed delightedly and addressed the company again: “You see, he likes it. He’s a–” he hesitated, frowning, wet his lips “–a God-damned massacrist, that’s what he is.” He leered at Ned Beaumont. “You know what a massacrist is?”
“Yes.”
Jeff seemed disappointed. “Rye,” he told the bar-tender. When their drinks were set before them he released Ned Beaumont’s hand, though he kept his arm across his shoulders. They drank. Jeff set down his glass and put his hand on Ned Beaumont’s wrist. “I got just the place for me and you upstairs,” he said, “a room that’s too little for you to fall down in. I can bounce you around off the walls. That way we won’t be wasting a lot of time while you’re getting up off the floor.”
Ned Beaumont said: “I’ll buy a drink.”
“That ain’t a dumb idea,” Jeff agreed.
They drank again.
When Ned Beaumont had paid for the drinks Jeff turned him towards the stairs. “Excuse us, gents,” he said to the others at the bar, “but we got to go up and rehearse our act.” He patted Ned Beaumont’s shoulder. “Me and my sweetheart.”
They climbed two flights of steps and went into a small room in which a sofa, two tables, and half a dozen chairs were crowded. There were some empty glasses and plates holding the remains of sandwiches on one table.
Jeff peered near-sightedly around the room and demanded: “Now where in hell did she go?” He released Ned Beaumont’s wrist, took the arm from around his shoulders, and asked: “You don’t see no broad here, do you?”
“No.”
Jeff wagged his head up and down emphatically. “She’s gone,” he said. He took an uncertain step backwards and jabbed the bell-button beside the door with a dirty finger. Then, flourishing his hand, he made a grotesque bow and said: “Set down.”
Ned Beaumont sat down at the less disorderly of the two tables.
“Set in any God-damned chair you want to set in,” Jeff said with another large gesture. “If you don’t like that one, take another. I want you to consider yourself my guest and the hell with you if you don’t like it.”
“It’s a swell chair,” Ned Beaumont said.
“It’s a hell of a chair,” Jeff said. “There ain’t a chair in the dump that’s worth a damn. Look.” He picked op a chair and tore one of its front legs out. “You call that a swell chair? Listen, Beaumont, you don’t know a damned thing about chairs.” He put the chair down, tossed the leg on the sofa. “You can’t fool me. I know what you’re up to. You think I’m drunk, don’t you?”