Johnny shrugged. “Getting back to the story, Joe, there was a little sequel this afternoon to the sidewalk caper the other night.” His glance fixed itself on the red-faced man behind the desk. “The partner of the guy you talked to showed up at the apartment of Sally Fontaine, the night telephone operator at the hotel. Somebody had sent him to scare her into tellin' me to lay off. I happened to be there, which was a big surprise to him. When I busted in on the conversation, he started to go for a gun and changed his mind. I missed him from across the room with a chair, and he took off.”
Lieutenant Dameron was sitting up straight in his chair. “I know that I predicted it, but you surely are getting a lot of attention from these people. They seem to have you taped pretty damn well, which of course brings us back to Frederick.” His fingers drummed impatiently on the desk top. “I still can't-” He shook his head.
“If it isn't classified, Joe, what'd you find out about the one Dutch got with the cleaver?”
Jimmy Rogers spoke up after glancing at the lieutenant. “A hired gun from the west coast. Frenchie Dumas.”
“Usin' his own name, too; they're not bashful. Any tie-in?”
“Not on the surface.”
Lieutenant Dameron cleared his throat heavily. “This Frederick character. Where'd he work last before this job, Jimmy?”
The sandyhaired man blew out his breath sharply. “'Frisco.” The silence lengthened, and he rose briskly. “I'll get the wheels turning on that picture of Frederick.”
“It'll put him in or out,” the lieutenant agreed. “I'd like to know.” He looked over at Johnny as the door closed behind Rogers. “Maybe you've got something. Maybe.”
Johnny looked down at his hands. “I want you to do me a favor, Joe. Charge it off to that due-bill Jimmy mentioned.”
The gray eyes studied him. “I'm listening.”
“Stake out a man on that apartment, Joe. I can't be there all the time.”
It was the lieutenant's turn to look down at his hands. “I won't say you haven't got a point.” He frowned, picked up the bottle, and poured a half inch into his glass. “Write out the address for me before you leave. It's only the taxpayers' money.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
“That leaves me with the due-bill. I'll be presenting it. You going back to the hotel?”
“Yeah. How long'll it take Jimmy to get that picture?”
“Twenty-four hours, if he's lucky. Write your own ticket, if he's not.”
“Yeah.” Johnny stood up. “Throw the dice, the losers say. Come on over to our happy home when you run out of things to do, Joe.”
Outside it had started to rain; he turned up his collar and walked down the white stone steps. All the cabs that approached him were full; he shrugged and lengthened his stride as he set off for the hotel.
Chapter VII
The dim lights in the single open section of the long bar in the Villa Nueva struggled ineffectually with the pale rays of the late afternoon daylight slanting through the port hole window as Johnny entered. On the deserted looking bandstand the instruments lay sheathed in their canvas covers, and the persistently stale aroma of last night's cigarette smoke hung in the air. Johnny sat down on a middle stool and contemplated the bartender's back and the double reflection of artificial and natural light from the oddly shaped bottles on the back bar.
“I'll have the usual, Dave.”
Dave Warren looked up from his preoccupied glass-washing, a smile breaking out on his sallow face. “Johnny! Am I ever glad to see you.” He advanced purposefully to the center of the bar, drying his hands on his apron. “C'mon and take a little walk with me.”
“Walk? I came in to sit, boy. And drink.”
“C'mon and take a look at someone who had the same idea first.”
“I don't give a damn about any drunks you might have tucked away in a back booth, Dave.”
“You might give a damn about this one.”
“Shirley?”
“In the flesh. In the very, very sloppy flesh.”
Johnny silently slid off his stool and followed the white-shirted Dave to the booth in the farthest corner of the empty club. The tiny booth light shone faintly on the dark girl who was sprawled over the booth table with her head down on her arms. She was dressed in a rainbow hued harlequin shirt and gold toreador pants, both of which trimly enhanced the superlative figure. She had scuffed, dirty sneakers on her feet and filigreed bronzed hoops in her ears, and the nearer hand on the table top was so tightly clenched the knuckles glistened.
Johnny turned to Dave. “She get loaded here?”
“Some,” the bartender admitted. His voice rose plaintively. “What the hell could I do? She had a skillful when she got here, but I didn't wise up in time. Then when I tried to shut her off, she got nasty. Threatened to yell the walls down. Started in to do it a couple of times, too, when I was a little slow refilling her glass. Can you get her out of here, Johnny? I hate to ask you, but if the boss should ever see her like this-”
Johnny stared down at the girl in the booth. “I'll get her out of here.”
“Geez, would you?” Relief beamed in Dave's round face, followed by doubt. “She won't go easy, though. She's been like this for a week. Not drunk… that's something new. Nasty. Starting to take it out on the customers, too. The old man said something to her about it the other night, and damn if she didn't take out after him, too. It don't make for longevity on the payroll, Johnny.”
Johnny nodded in agreement. “Get a cab around to the back door, Dave.”
“She says she won't go till she's damn good and ready,” Dave warned him anxiously. “She's meaner than a snake right now.”
“You get the cab,” Johnny told him. “She'll go.”
He reached down and tapped a rainbow hued shoulder and the shoulder twitched rebelliously. “Lea' me alone, Dave.” Johnny tapped the shoulder again, and the dark head came up from the forearms with what would have been a snap if her reflexes had been better, and Johnny noticed that the cameo-like quality of the usually flawless pale features under the jet black hair was marred by a puffiness around the eyes.
She had difficulty in focusing on him, and when she did the beautiful mouth twisted. “Th' boy scou',” she said thickly. “Ged the hell oudda here.”
“On your feet, Shirl. I'm takin' you home.”
The red-lipped mouth did a reverse twist. “You're not taking me anywhere, you… you buff'lo. You get away from me.” The voice rose harshly. “Or I'll scream… like THIS-!” Beside Johnny, Dave winced visibly as she filled her lungs; almost casually Johnny took the nape of her neck between a thumb and forefinger, and the dark girl fell over sideways in the booth.
“Jesus!” Dave said in an awed tone, roundeyed. “What the hell was that?”
“Nerve-end pressure,” Johnny said impatiently. “Will you for God's sake get that cab around here?”
“Yeah. Sure. Right away.” Dave bustled off to the front, turning once to look back curiously. Johnny sat down across from Shirley's limp figure, lit a cigarette, and waited. After a moment he reached across the table and took hold of a wrist; he pushed the long sleeve of the harlequin shirt well up above the dark girl's elbow, and carefully inspected the smooth flesh of the inner arm as far as he could see. Disappointed, he released the wrist and took up the other one, pushed back the sleeve, inspected the arm, and thoughtfully released it. The wrist watch caught his eye; he removed it, turned it over and held it up to the light while he impassively read the inscription, and restored it to the wrist.
The door behind him opened, and over his shoulder he could see Dave's white shirt and the cabbie's cap. He stubbed out his cigarette, rose, lifted the girl from the booth and carried her to the door.
“I explained to him,” Dave was saying unnecessarily as Johnny stepped down with his burden and maneuvered into the back seat of the cab.