“Yeah, but there's gray, and dove-gray, and silver-gray, and pearl-gray, and dapple-gray. Put on the light.”
“No light,” she said again. “Your hands can be your eyes.”
Delicately he traced the line of satiny curves as he listened to the faint sibilance of her breathing. “Only one reason I'm lettin' you get away with it,” he told her. “I'm a believer in leavin' somethin' for the next time.” The big hands pulled her toward him. “Right now, excuse me while I play that record again.”
A half block from the hotel Johnny set himself instinctively as a black overcoat stepped from a doorway and tapped him on the arm. Johnny shook his head warningly at Detective James Rogers standing alongside him on the windy street. “You want to be a little careful how you do that, Jimmy. I'm half expectin' at least one guy to bounce out of a doorway at me.”
“Monk Carmody?” the slender man queried shrewdly, and took Johnny's arm without waiting for a reply. “Come on. The coffees are on me.”
The detective sat down heavily in the back booth of the all-night restaurant. He took off his hat, placed it in the booth beside him and rasped a palm over his chin, “You went over to Turner's?” Johnny asked him.
“I did.” Detective Rogers grimaced. “Mr. Turner has an inflated opinion of the water he draws in this town.”
“He could fool you, boy. A mug like me stands a better chance of twistin' his tail than someone standin' on a political ladder like you.”
“The police department is not political, Johnny.”
“You keep up that Jimmy-in-Wonderland gag an' you'll be tipped right outta your crib one of these days.”
“You'll pardon me if I disagree?” Detective Rogers looked at his watch. “Let's see if I made a mistake paying for your coffee. Do you know Rick Manfredi?”
“I know the name,” Johnny admitted cautiously.
“One of the sharper gamblers. It's around town that he went for a bundle on the kid to dump in the fourth. As you know, it went to the sixth, and Manfredi got burned. I'd like to know where he got his original steer. He's young, tough and smart. Kind of a lone wolf. Not too popular.” The hazel eyes across the booth studied Johnny. “I'd like to talk to him, and I can't find him.”
“You mean those four-bit stoolies you guys use can't turn him up for you? Now that's a shame.”
“I thought you'd think so.” The detective pointed with his coffee spoon. “I thought you might be able to reach him.”
“All right-suppose I get to talk to him. What's the pitch?”
“I knew you wouldn't forget I keep you in the very best coffee. You know where to find him?”
“I might just happen to have a string on him.”
“I wouldn't doubt it,” Detective Rogers said drily. “I wouldn't doubt it for a minute.” He leaned back in the booth, lines in his face and the hazel eyes bloodshot. “How do you fix a fight, Johnny? Seriously?”
“If you're an amateur, you get hold of the fighter an' try to talk him into doin' a little business. Or scare him. If you're a pro, the Jake Gidlows in the business'll save you the trouble, for a fee.”
“The lieutenant would say that it's a good line, but you can't prove it,” the detective observed. “Who'd need to be in on it? Rock bottom?”
“The fighter. The fighter's manager. The fighter's trainer, possibly. The other manager, probably. At least one heavy-money party. That's basic. You can go for yourself from there.”
The sandy-haired man nodded. “Of the line-up, on a double cross the heavy-money party stands to feel the biggest bruise.” He drained the last of his coffee. “Which brings us back to Manfredi.”
“It does, for a fact,” Johnny agreed.
“The fighter's dead. The manager's dead. The trainer, Terry Chavez, is another one I've been unable to find. Williams' manager, Carl Ecklund, is out of town, nobody seems to know where. A nice, cozy freeze-out.” Detective Rogers buttoned his coat. “I wouldn't want to delay you. Bon voyage.”
“Wait a minute. What's the pitch I feed Manfredi?”
“Why don't you tell him you're interested in a do-it-yourself kit on how to fix a fight? That ought to reach him.”
“About the same time he reaches me. Is this guy on the muscle?”
“I expect to receive a firsthand report from you on that point, among others.”
“Why the hell I ever listen to you-” Johnny followed the slender man from the restaurant. Detective Rogers turned east, toward Sixth Avenue; Johnny turned west down Forty-fifth and headed for Mickey Tallant's.
CHAPTER VI
Johnny leaned his elbow impatiently on Mickey Tallant's mahogany bar and pushed an empty glass around in the wet circles on the bar surface with a stiff forefinger. He caught the tavern owner's eye as the Irishman trotted heavily up and down the duckboards assuaging the before-closing thirst of his customers. “Thought you said he made it every night, Mick?”
“So he makes a liar outta me.” Mickey Tallant wiped off his streaming red face with the skirt of his apron. “I don't remember the last time he missed.”
Johnny shrugged, “Well, the hell with it. I've waited long enough.” He pushed away from the bar. “See you, Mick.” He was within half a dozen paces of the front door when it opened to admit Manuel Ybarra. “Hey, boy!” Johnny greeted him. “Been waitin' for you.”
A curious expression flitted over the dark features. “You took Consuelo home? She is all right?”
“Sure she's all right,” Johnny agreed, and mentally ground to a halt as he recalled the condition of the chain latch on the Ybarra apartment door. He thrust it aside. Let Consuelo do her own explaining; she was a big girl now. He looked at Manuel more closely. “You look a little shook, amigo.”
“Nothing too much,” the dark man replied with a shrug of the thick shoulders. “A friend of mine was-had an accident. I am jus' from the hospital.”
“Oh. Automobile?”
“No. You have been waiting long?”
“Not too long.” Johnny drew him aside from the traffic around the front door. “You're a friend of Rick Manfredi, Manuel. I'd like to talk to him.”
Manuel studied him soberly. “I do not know about this.”
Johnny grinned. “Another friend of Rick's said she thought I might like him.”
“Consuelo talks too much,” Consuelo's brother said wryly. He appeared to be considering. “I don't think so, my friend. Remember, I have seen you in the tavern that night. You are too much the disposition of the man who energetically climbs the mountain to take the punch at the echo. I want no trouble with Rick.”
“Where's the trouble?” Johnny argued. “I just want to talk to him. Why's he hidin' out?”
“He is not an easy man to put the thumb on. He has an all-night poker game which he moves to a different location each night.” Manuel pursed his lips; he looked at Johnny again, then up at the wall clock, obviously undecided. “If I brought you, he might not speak to you. Rick preaches the minding of the own business.”
“You get me two minutes with him,” Johnny said confidently. “He'll talk to me.”
“At least he can decide for himself,” Manuel acknowledged. “You are ready?”
“Right now.”
“We will need a cab.” The dark man rebuttoned his overcoat. “Tonight the game is downtown.” On the sidewalk he turned north, then east at the first intersection. “More cabs on Seventh,” he said to Johnny over his shoulder. “It's not-”
“Watch it!” Johnny interrupted sharply as two bulky figures stepped out into their path from a tailor shop doorway. The nearer figure shouldered roughly between Manuel and Johnny, herding Johnny to the building wall. “Sit still, pal,” he growled warningly. “It's this one we're gonna talk to.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, and half turned to watch. “Hurry it up, Cy.”
Beyond the overcoated shoulder Johnny could see the shine of brass knuckles as Cy, without speaking a word, swung heavily at Manuel. The blow landed high on his cheekbone, and the dark man staggered backward. When he regained his balance he stood motionless, his hands at his sides, and as Cy moved in on him again Johnny lowered his head and butted the man in front of him, hard, between abdomen and breastbone. The man's breath escaped in a whistling sigh, and he doubled over slowly, twisting into the wall. With his back to it he slithered in little spurts to the ground, his heels making scrabbling noises on the sidewalk. At the sound Cy turned sharply away from Manuel, his broad, pock-marked face alert. “Askin' for it, bud? Any old time.”