“Doesn't need much explanation,” the cabbie said sourly. He was an elderly man with a pinched face; he slid back under the wheel, obviously glad he didn't have to help.
“She lives at the Hotel Francis on 48th,” Dave volunteered. “Thanks a million, Johnny. I couldn't have handled it.”
Johnny nodded; as the cab pulled away across Broadway and Seventh Avenue he leaned forward. “Never mind that Hotel Francis, Mac. Go on over to the first block of East 65th.”
The cab slowed immediately; Johnny could see the driver watching him in the rear view mirror. “I'd have to hear her say that, mister. That's a good-looking girl. I know Dave, but I don't know you. I'm not getting mixed up in any white slave-”
“Will you shut it off?” Johnny demanded wearily. “Take me there; you can come back with the cops later.”
“Well-” Despite the reluctance in the cabbie's tone the cab turned right on Eighth and sped north; Johnny fumbled Shirley's purse out of her bag and looked for her keys. He was going through the contents for the second time when he realized that she had the apartment key clipped on with the Hotel Francis key. He slipped the keys in his shirt pocket, and returned the purse to the bag, and as if it were a signal Shirley stirred on the seat beside him and lifted her head. She looked around dazedly.
“Wha' happened?”
“You passed out,” Johnny told her.
“Oh.” She closed her eyes again, and the cabbie spoke quickly.
“Where you want to go, lady?”
The eyes opened, but they didn't see him. “Home,” Shirley said promptly. “Feel awful.” The eyes closed positively.
“Well, look, lady-” The cab slowed again as the driver turned to look at the again comatose Shirley. He bristled as he felt Johnny's eyes on him. “Look, Jack… you don't like the way I'm doing this maybe you'd like to walk the rest of the way? I-”
Johnny's voice cut across his like a razor. “I've had a hard day, Mac. You expect to enjoy your meal tonight, you get over to East 65th, and fast.”
The cabbie muttered under his breath, but the cab accelerated. They rode in silence until they entered the block, and Johnny leaned over and shook Shirley awake. “Can you walk?”
“Certain'y I c'n walk,” she said indignantly, but made no effort to prove it as Johnny paid the disapproving driver. When he had helped her onto the sidewalk, however, she didn't do badly with the assistance of his hand beneath her elbow, and in the elevator the bored operator took no more than one look at them. They emerged in good order on the third floor, and Shirley's key in Johnny's hand admitted them. He snapped on the lights in the tiny hallway; he had been there before, but he looked again with fresh interest.
To the left of the hallway was a sunken living room with pastel love seats and kidney shaped glass tables. The heavy drapes were dove gray, and the carpeting and the ceiling a rich moss green. The massive fireplace extended up the wall where it formed itself into an oversized chimney festooned with hanging copper skillets and mugs. A mahogany baby grand crowded the nearer corner, and a strangely anachronistic grandfather clock stood sentinel at the far end of the room. On the upper level to the right a room that would have been a dining room if it had had a table was dominated by filled bookshelves around the walls and spindle-legged, sharply-angled ultra-modern chairs.
Shirley descended the two steps to the living room level with no more than a moderate stagger and made a beeline for the tiny portable bar. “Feel awful,” she announced as she opened the cabinet. Johnny believed her; from his position a little above her he could see plainly the white face and the dark circles under the eyes. He opened his mouth to protest at the size of the drink she poured for herself and closed it again. A little more, or a little less… what difference? The tall girl threw back her head and drained the glass in three long swallows, and Johnny stirred himself. When that jolt hit her, he was going to need a place to put the body.
He knew that the bedroom was off the living room, but it took him a moment to find it. Some facet of Willie's outlook on life had made him insist that the bedroom be camouflaged; the door was a heavy-hinged affair set flush with the wall and covered with the same somber hunting scene wallpaper, so carefully blended that despite his prior knowledge Johnny was surprised when under his probing a section of the wall slid silently back, revealing the extremely feminine bedroom within.
He turned to Shirley; she was half on and half off a love seat, and she was fast losing the battle to retain her precarious balance. He caught her in mid-air as the whites of her eyes rolled up, and he carried her into the bedroom, transferred her dead weight to one arm and with the other stripped the satin coverlet from the huge bed. Despite her height and very respectable dimensions she looked lost when he placed her in its center.
He pulled out the pillows above her head to prop her in with so that she couldn't roll out, straightened, and looked down at her thoughtfully. After a moment he bent forward, delicately lifted an eyelid, and studied the eye carefully. He straightened again, and rubbed his chin; he sat down on the bed finally and purposefully repeated his barroom examination of the girl's arms, this time pushing the brightly colored sleeves up to her armpits. He shook his head, baffled, considered a moment, then stood up abruptly and in the manner of a man husking an ear of corn ripped and tore her out of the gold toreador pants in great, tearing handfuls.
And saw what he was searching for….
On the milky inner thigh and extending up into the lace on the pale blue fragile looking panties a cluster of tiny red dots broke the ivory surface; Johnny stared down at the unsymmetric pattern with a little shrinking feeling as the girl murmured something unintelligible and half-turned into the pillow bank. And anger and disgust boiled over, and he exploded a hard palm upon the pale blue fragility. A tiny bubble of sound floated up from the bed, and then silence.
Johnny strode out of the bedroom, and re-set the door flush with the wall. He turned out the lights, closed the apartment door behind him, and listened for the click of the lock. He avoided the elevator and headed for the stairs. On the three flights to the street his mind was a jumble, but two things pushed into the forefront… Willie Martin, and a white thigh with needle punctures. He set out for the hotel at a fast walk; he needed to think, and he thought better on his feet.
Johnny waited in the twelfth floor corridor until he heard Richie's shrill whistle as the boy stepped off the automatically piloted kitchen service elevator, and heard the whistle break off abruptly as Richie turned the corner and sighted him. “Hey! You were serious the other afternoon-”
Johnny lifted a corner of the napkin covering the tray Richie was carrying and studied the uninspired effort of an overworked kitchen crew. “I can see they miss Dutch already.” He lifted the tray and balanced it aloft easily. “I'll leave your tip with Hans, Rich.”
The boy snorted. “She hasn't sprung for a nickel yet. She tips you, I'll begin to believe a few of these stories I hear about you.”
“Stories?”
“Bedtime stories.” Richie smiled, opened his mouth to continue, and checked himself at some indefinable thing in Johnny's look. “Forget it,” he said abruptly. “I got a big mouth.” He drifted off down the corridor, turning once to look back, and Johnny smiled and walked the few steps to 1224.
He started to tap gently, and changed his mind; Richie would not tap gently. He hit the door four sharp raps with the ring on his right hand, and it opened a crack immediately. At sight of the tray it opened wider, and then as the occupant noticed his bulk it started to close again. The woman did her second double take when she verified the uniform, and he pushed past her indecision and strode briskly to the card table already set up in the room's center.
He deposited the tray on the far side of the table, and with easy familiarity he unrolled the silver from its napkin container and made the place setting. He filled a glass with icewater and placed a spare napkin under the sweating pitcher. He transferred the aluminum covered dishes from the tray, lifted the lids for a last minute check, tucked the unloaded tray under his arm, and with an indeterminate slight bow in the woman's direction drew back her chair for her to seat herself. He looked directly at her for the first time since he had entered the room, and she returned his look with grave interest.