“They were here this morning.” Displeasure wrinkled Hans's brow. “They don't know any more than I do.”
“They got a way of worrying things till they come up with an answer. Freddie say anything? He going to give you a shot at the job?”
“I am to talk to him this afternoon. I certainly hope-”
“Possession is nine points of the law,” Johnny reminded him. “You're on the ground, and you're producin'. That's the main thing.”
Hans shrugged, not too cheerfully, and walked away to supervise a boy cleaning the interior of a small refrigerator. Johnny attacked his eggs. One thing about a kitchen run by Dutch and Hans, he mused: the sauces and the relishes might have a little less tang or brio than in a French kitchen, but damn if you couldn't literally eat off the floor. Cleanliness came even before godliness with these people.
He ate steadily, only an occasional twinge in his jaw reminding him of the skirmish of two evenings ago. He lingered over his coffee, then looked up and around for Hans as the memory of Sally's telephone call came to him. “Hans!”
“Yes?”
“Who's rushin' the trays upstairs these days?”
“Richie Gordon.”
“He around?”
“In the boiler room, probably. He always is.”
Johnny finished his coffee, stacked his dishes and carried them over to the rack. He re-crossed the long room to the rear, opened the massive fire door and descended the spiral metal staircase to the storeroom below. He threaded his way through the narrow passageway created by the high piled cases of canned goods on either side and approached a huge door heavily padded with asbestos. The door opened outward as Johnny reached for it, and he peered through the gloom dispelled scarcely at all by the widespaced naked light bulbs. “Eddie? Richie in there?”
White teeth shone in the dark face, but the rich voice was disconsolate. “He shuah is, Mist' Johnny. Him an' all the money.”
The heavy door creaked shut behind Johnny as he stepped inside and joined the tightknit kneeling semicircle. A slim, uniformed youngster with the face of a choir boy was speaking earnestly to the medium-sized green dice he held in his hand. “-one's for the coach and carriage, children … hit it quick for papa, and we're over the hill and far away. Little big ol' natural comin' up… I can feel it… I can feel it jus' as plain-”
“That's what she said,” a basso profundo growled from his audience. “Throw the damn dice, Richie.”
The boy's arm swung forward, and the dice clanked off the furnace front, spun dizzily, and stopped, and the boy leaped into the air, straight as an arrow. “Eleven! Nice little dice-”
Heavy breathing and disgusted mutters drifted upward; green money fluttered downward, and Fred, the day bartender, straightened stiffly and backed out of the circle, shaking his head ruefully as he caught Johnny's eye. “Ain't that kid somethin'?”
“You boys are missing a bet, Fred. The kid's lucky. You ought to make up a pot and take him around to a real game. He ties a few passes together there, you guys'll have had a good season, and God knows seems like every time I walk in here he's either puttin' on a hand or just finished one.
“Maybe you're right, at that. He's sure enough got us all working for him here. You'd think this game was a benefit. We'll play hell gettin' our money back from him, the way he's goin'.”
The boy rubbed the dice briskly on his sleeve, speaking to them as equals. “-whisper to me one time, now, and we burn down the grandstand… comin' up, comin' out, comin' out, comin' up… one time now… hah!”
He rolled a nine, and made it right back; threw a four, and rolled interminably before taking down the money with two deuces; rolled a seven; rolled an eleven, and sevened out looking for an eight. The circle around him was decimated; silent figures on their knees glumly watched the boy stuff loose bills in his pockets, and the dice lay idle on the floor. The spirit, as well as the money, was gone from the game.
Johnny caught the boy's eye. “Got a minute, Richie?”
“Sure thing, John.”
Johnny led him into a corner, and looked down into the precociously wise hazel eyes in the young face. “1224, Rich.”
The boy made a wry face. “Not a dime.” *
“Not for three a day?”
“Notfornothin'.”
“She sick?”
“Naah.”
“What's she look like?”
Richie's arm made a sweeping gesture. “Like a million more middle-aged dames. Kinda gray, kinda mousey-”
“I might make that run for you tonight, kid. Or tomorrow.”
The hazel eyes examined Johnny thoughtfully. “Now that'd be a brand change, for sure.”
“Let it be my problem, huh? If you think I'm around, give me a buzz upstairs.”
Richie shrugged. “Be my guest. I still think-”
“Your career's not in thinkin', kid.”
Richie smiled, bent swiftly, and picked up the dice. “Little head-to-head, John?”
“Not with you, Rich. I believe you.”
On the way back upstairs he remembered that he had told Sally he would come up by the apartment. His pace quickened a little; it seemed like a better idea now than when he had first thought of it. He whistled tunelessly as he ran up the metal stairway.
Chapter VI
Johnny lay on his back in tee shirt and shorts in the wide bed in the pocket-sized apartment, and through the big double door watched Sally's slipclad figure at the ironing board in the kitchenette. He tried to drain the last of a can of beer without lifting his head from the pillow, and half sat up abruptly as a thin trickle ran down his chin onto his chest.
“Slob!” Sally jeered. “Hey! Don't you dare use that pillow case for a bar rag! Here!”
He caught the freshly ironed handkerchief she threw him, and mopped himself off. He stretched out again, bare feet digging luxuriously into the sheet. “Thanks, ma. I'll get around to puttin' you on the payroll next week. Any more beer in the box?”
“Did you leave any? I'll look soon's I finish this blouse.”
Idly his glance followed the slender figure manipulating the iron, the thin white shoulders dipping and swaying as she moved the lace-edged blouse around the board. “By God, you're a slat, kid. I'll bet seven to ten I can spit right through you.”
“I'll take that bet,” she said placidly, and then backed away from her ironing as Johnny sat up suddenly. “Johnny! No! Don't you dare, Johnny Killain!”
“Whattya mean, 'Don't you dare!'“ he queried as he came off the bed in a smooth flowing rush and charged the doorway. “Didn't you take the bet?”
“No!” Sally cried, and fled the kitchenette with Johnny a noiseless barefooted stride behind. Blindly she circled a chair in the living room, panting with helpless laughter, only to be engulfed as he put one foot in the center cushion and bounded clear over the back to scoop her up in his arms and bear her in triumph back to the bed. She squealed as he held her head high over the bed and dropped her, and the squeal changed to a squeak as the big arms caught her on the first bounce and squeezed her.
“How anything … as big as you can… move so fast?” she murmured breathlessly as he dropped down beside her.
“Developed it runnin' from women.”
She hooted and drove a sharp-knuckled little fist just below his rib cage, and he leaned up over her and pinioned both thrashing small hands in one of his. He ran his free hand lightly over the ever so slightly rounded stomach, and a long shiver ran through the slim body. He looked down at her quizzically. “Where's all the fight gone now, ma?”
“Stop it!” she protested, but it was a weak protest; her color had flared high. He slid her closer to him, then rolled over on his back, threw an arm under his head and stared up at the ceiling.
“You know this Myrna on the board days, ma?” he broke the cosy silence after a moment.
“Yes?”
He turned his head on the pillow to see her face. “I mean… Do you know her? Know her at all?”