The long, sinuous, black pavement of Sunset Boulevard shone empty under early-morning street lights. The Club Bolero was on the “Strip,” that small segment of county territory that lay between restless Hollywood and sedate Beverly Hills. The lights of the Troc glowed softly down the block and the Wilshire district lay spread out below and beyond like a huge field of paralyzed fireflies.
O’Hara went down the block to the corner, his feet slapping the pavement in the emptiness. When he got to the corner, Eddie wasn’t around and O’Hara swore. He scratched an ear and went back toward the Bolero. There were two cabs parked in the graveled lot next to the club.
O’Hara said to one of the drivers, “You see a blond fella come out the back door a few minutes back?”
“Was he kinda drunk?” said the driver.
“Yeah.”
“I mean very drunk.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said O’Hara. “Very kinda drunk. Which way’d he go?”
“I didn’t see him,” the driver said.
“For the love of—”
“I was asleep. The other hacker seen him,” the driver said. “Supposin’ you ask him.”
The driver of the other cab leaned out from under his wheel. He said, “The blond kid come out through the lot, mister, and he met two guys in front of the club and they all went back through the lot. And, hey, mister, your collar’s loose.”
“Nuts,” said O’Hara irritably and headed for the rear of the club.
“Nuts or not,” the driver said, “it is loose, mister.”
O’Hara went around the corner of the club, sidestepped a couple of huge garbage cans and stopped when a small man in a black hat popped in front of him. The small man’s hand pressed something gently against O’Hara’s stomach.
He looked up at O’Hara and pressed the gun harder. He said, “And what were your plans for the evening, pal?”
O’Hara’s eyes went over the small man’s shoulder and saw Eddie lying on his face on the concrete that surfaced the service yard of the club. Eddie wasn’t dead because he was managing to moan, although not very loudly. There was a second man, standing above him, with a blackjack dangling by its thong from his hand.
O’Hara said, “If you’ve slammed that kid too hard—”
His right hand came up between him and the small man and batted the gun away from his belly. His left hand crossed very fast to the small man’s face and the small man banged into one of the garbage cans and went over along with it with a lot of clatter.
O’Hara’s lunge carried him at the man standing over Eddie and the man backed away in a spasm of indecision whether to cut at O’Hara with the blackjack or try with the gun he was hauling from a shoulder holster. O’Hara cocked his right and somebody grabbed him by one of the loose ends of his collar, jerked hard.
The collar tore loose but the jerk pulled O’Hara off balance, made him miss his swing at the man with the blackjack. By then the man had his gun out and he covered O’Hara with it.
O’Hara, turning his head, saw the black-haired man standing outside the back door, holding the collar. The redheaded girl was helping the small man out of the mess that had spilled from the garbage can.
The black-haired man said, “Sorry, friend, but I seem to have torn your color off.”
“Thanks,” O’Hara said. “I was getting tired of having people tell me it was loose. Now suppose you call your muggs off, Philippi, and let me get the kid into a cab and take him to be patched up.” “You seem to know who I am,” said Philippi, smiling.
“Why not?” said O’Hara.
“Hmm,” Philippi said, “I’d like to talk to you.” He walked a half-dozen steps away from the others and seemed to be expecting O’Hara to follow him. The small man was cursing violently while he climbed out of the garbage and the man with the blackjack watched O’Hara with flat, hostile eyes. The redheaded girl moved along with Philippi and Philippi said, “Seena, you go back and brush the broccoli off Sam.”
He said to O’Hara, “What else do you know about me besides the name?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m curious, friend.”
O’Hara shrugged. “I know you left New York in 1937 A.D. — After Dewey — and that you’ve been fiddling around in Florida and that you got out to the Coast several weeks ago.”
“What are you — a dick?”
“A newspaper reporter.”
Philippi didn’t seem to like that. His eyes got narrow and pointed and the smile went away from his face. He said, “I suppose you’re going to plaster me all over your sheet.”
“What makes you think,” O’Hara said, “that you’re news?”
“I’ve been in the papers.”
O’Hara chuckled. “This is a town where you have to earn your way into the news columns — you get lots of competition from movie queens and the Chamber of Commerce. Now how about calling this off and letting me get the kid to a doctor?”
Philippi’s dark eyes swiveled sulkily toward the prostrate figure of Eddie, who was squirming a little now. He said, “The guy’s a fresh punk and I don’t like fresh punks on the make for my girl friends. Or taking socks at me. I ought to have the boys mess you both up.”
“Be big,” O’Hara said. “He’s fresh but it’s all in fun. He’s Eddie Mullen, a tackle or something from Brand University, and he’s just having himself a time on his vacation.”
Philippi said, “I thought he looked sort of familiar. I saw Brand play Columbia last fall and I probably saw him play. Well, cart him away but keep him out of my hair after this.”
O’Hara said, “I wish someone would do as much for me.”
He walked over to Eddie Mullen, who was swaying around on his knees. The redhead gave O’Hara the eye covertly but O’Hara didn’t let her have a tumble. He pulled Eddie to his feet.
The small man who was a mess from the garbage said violently, “Listen, Vic, le’me have these two muggs for a couple minutes.”
“Skip it, Sam,” said Philippi.
“But look at me, Vic, all over mayonnaise!”
O’Hara chuckled, said, “Cheer up. Sam. I’ll send you a head of lettuce to sit on.”
Sam shook with rage, cursed viciously. He said, “If it wasn’t for Vic, I’d level on you punks. And if I catch you around again by Gaw, I will fix you up. Beat it!”
O’Hara loaded Eddie into one of the cabs, said, “The Belmont Turkish Baths, skipper.”
The cab got under way and Eddie swayed around on the seat, mumbling and groaning with his eyes closed. The cab rounded a corner fast and threw Eddie against the side. He bounced back and gurgled, “Who you pushing, you slug?” and aimed a roundhouse punch at O’Hara.
O’Hara caught the punch in his palm, said tolerantly, “Hey, hey, Eddie, you’re running the wrong way with the ball.”
Across a table at the Little Bit O’Denmark the next evening, O’Hara said, “Can you handle this blond ape for a while, Tony?”
Tony Ames let her hazel eyes rest on Eddie Mullen for a moment, smiled at him. She was small, trim in a brown tailored suit and a new hat that rode pertly on the waves of her brown hair.
She said, “I’ll try anything once.”
Eddie Mullen reached over and patted her hand with a paw the size of a Virginia ham. He looked fresh, clean and happy except for a shaved spot and a strip of tape above his left car. He laughed and said, “Ken, I would jump through hoops for this little citizeness here.”
“O.K.,” said O’Hara, getting up. “I’ll be back. Tony, this ape has had one drink so far today. He can have one more — and that’s all. I’ve spent most of the night and day boiling him out and sleeping him up and I don’t want my work ruined.” To Eddie he said, “And don’t forget, laddie, this girl is my girl.”
“Poor girl,” said Eddie. “I’ll see what I can do about it. Don’t hurry back, Ken.”