“Hell,” Jerry laughed wisely, “I’ve been handing him stuff for a year! You know, I think he’d really up the rate to find out what happened to Bannerman.”
Sheffold watched lights blossom along the street.
“We could split a ten spot, Pete.”
“It was Bannerman who gave you this job,” Sheffold said softly. “How much would you take to sell out a real friend?”
“I got four bucks for it once,” Jerry retorted. “But I was new on the Strip then. Today I know an angle when I see one.”
“That’s what an education will do for you.”
Sheffold went back into the club. There was no one around to witness his labored progress up the stairs to the second floor. Every evening he endured the same agony with grim acceptance, as of some empty, pagan ritual. It was not simply the endless struggle against flabbiness but a refusal to concede that even a mutilated spinal column could be a flaw in his vast strength. He was a giant; therefore invincible.
At the door to Julian’s private office he paused a moment to iron away the pain creases in his dark face. It was a secret he would not share even with Julian. And of all the fans of that fullback sensation of seven years ago, only Julian had remembered when a broken back had snatched Pete Sheffold from public attention. So that, with his education unfinished, pro-football a hollow dream, and his name-value lost in the glare of a new season’s crop of sensational backfielders, Sheffold had accepted the only job offered to him. He became a bouncer in Julian’s.
A half dozen ledgers were open on Julian Mena’s desk. He was a swarthy, brown-eyed man with hair that was thick and gray at the aides, thin and black on top. He wore horn-rimmed glasses in the privacy of his office, and occasionally confessed he had stomach ulcers. That alone was enough to kill all the humor in a man, but Sheffold had known him before he had ulcers. Nothing could be funny when there was always a dark tomorrow to be faced; and even a daily horoscope was of little comfort.
The green-shaded lamp poured a white glare down on the desk. Sheffold waited silently just outside the rim of light. Presently, without looking up, Julian said, “If you have something to say, Pete, come out with it.”
“A girl named Laurel Owens. She’s been trying to see you. She needs a job.”
“Lots of people need jobs,” Julian said impatiently. “Last month it was a hat-check girl. I can’t hire them all.”
Julian had hired someone that time because the regular check-room girl had quietly walked off during a busy night.
That had been three days after Bannerman was last seen. But Sheffold had already discounted any connection. Alyce Rowland had not been Bannerman’s type. She’d been a chemical blonde with too much figure and too little brains. And there was the other side of it: the check-room girl here earned more money over a long period than Julian did. Alyce had not been the type to throw that up for any man. And yet there had to be some answer...
Pete Sheffold said, “This girl is a singer.”
“Damn it all, Pete, I’ve got a singer!”
“You can listen to her,” Sheffold said. He gave the impression that he could stand there forever. “Will you talk to her tonight?”
“I pay you to be a bouncer, Pete,” Julian said icily, “not an employment agency. Let this girl get her own job.”
Sheffold’s voice was negligent. “She couldn’t get to see you. And Bannerman hasn’t been around since the first of the month.”
Julian sat utterly motionless but his eyes crept sideways. There was no life in his voice now. “All right, Pete. Tell her I’ll see her. But I can’t use two singers.” He pulled one of the ledgers toward himself and pretended to concentrate on it.
Sheffold asked softly, “How much did he get away with?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about now,” Julian snapped. “Bannerman is taking a rest, Pete. He’s — out of town. And these,” he gestured with sudden anger at the ledgers, “are for my income tax! Harley Bannerman is not an embezzler, Pete. Is there anything else bothering you?”
“Yes,” Sheffold said in a low voice. “Mind if I use your shower?”
“You use it every night. Now don’t get sore at me,” Julian said, almost pleading.
Sheffold walked to the door of the private bathroom and stood there while he took off his damp shirt. His back ached dismally. “This girl Laurel knows Bannerman’s not around. The hired help have been buzzing for a week. And now Lee Krell is sniffing at it. I’ve been on the Strip long enough to know one thing — when something smells as bad as this, somebody didn’t bury a body deep enough.”
Julian jerked around in his chair. “That’s a damn nice figure of speech!”
“I hope that’s all it is,” Sheffold told him soberly.
Chapter Two
Chloroform with Curve
Julian’s had come to life. It had warmth now and music, and the glittering people were there. Laughter, not yet silent nor bitter, sparkled like champagne. It wouldn’t turn to vinegar until the chilled dark hours before dawn. And for the people on the Street that was as far away as the future.
By the ten o’clock floorshow at least a dozen people had stopped Pete Sheffold to inquire about Harley Bannerman. A dozen women. Bannerman was that kind: the handsome, not quite young juvenile; the lady killer, a greater attraction for some than the liquor or the food or the floor show. Julian Mena was the harried businessman; Bannerman the charm boy.
A hand fell lightly on Sheffold’s arm. Another one, he thought, and knew instantly this was different.
Her name was Rhoda Richards and she was a beautiful woman in a city where beauty was the lowest rate of exchange. Hair that was deep red and full of mysterious highlights hung to her shoulders, scorning any style dictate. Her eyes, green and faintly slanted, held secret laughter and a promise so hidden it was impossible to know what that promise was. Her dress was the color of wet seaweed with a neckline that plunged. Her exquisite shoulders were bare. She could have been a great star. Instead she was married to a wealthy man who was never seen in night clubs...
“I’ll buy you a drink,” she said. “In the bar.”
Sheffold followed her to a quiet corner and motioned the bartender. In Julian’s the bartenders didn’t need to be told what a favorite customer drank. Pete Sheffold drank ginger ale in a shot-glass.
“Give me a cigarette,” Rhoda Richards ordered. She was being cool and unreachable and yet when she steadied the light Sheffold held for her, her hands, white and graceful as calla lilies, were feverish. But not all the tension was in her. Her nearness would affect men of greater reserve than Pete Sheffold. One didn’t have to like chloroform to be affected by it. “I don’t believe I know your name.”
“Pete Sheffold.” But a bouncer didn’t really rate a name.
“I want to cash a check.” She was used to lying and did it glibly, proficiently. “I’d rather not ask Julian. Please get Harley Bannerman for me.”
“Mr. Bannerman hasn’t been in yet tonight.” It was the stock answer; the one he’d given all evening. “I’m sure there’ll be no difficulty with one of your checks, Mrs. Richards.”
The drinks came. She ignored hers. Pete Sheffold relieved a dry throat with a sip of his ginger ale.
“I want to see Harley.” Her voice was brittle. “If he isn’t here, you know where to find him. Don’t keep me waiting!”
Sheffold said nothing. A remote apprehension was building up in his stomach. If Bannerman’s disappearance was connected with a woman, this should have been the one. She was the latest, so late that even Pete Sheffold hadn’t realized it until now. The repressed, frightened emotion gave her away.