The entrance to his apartment stairway was down what had been a service alley in the era when the owner had been able to afford servants. Now it was only a narrow concrete access-way with a garage door at the far end, tree-laden and dark.
There were two concrete risers to the doorway. Novak stepped up and felt in his pocket for the key.
At that moment arms circled him and tightened.
He jerked up his legs putting all his weight on the other’s arms. He heard a grunt. Then he stamped the man’s arches viciously and heard a breathy yelp. The pinioning arms burst apart and Novak lurched free. He was grabbing for his shoulder holster when another shape came at him from the side. The cosh smashed his right shoulder and the arm went numb. As he spun around, the first man tried to tackle him. Novak’s knee crunched into his attacker’s face. The body dropped aside, rolling, white hands clawing at a bubbling nose.
He had lost track of the other man. His left hand fumbled for the .38 but things were happening too fast. From behind him the cosh made a fast purring sound and the back of Novak’s head exploded. As he dropped forward he managed to spin sideways, protecting his face. He felt the impact distantly. His world filled with spinning lights. Something was thudding into his ribs with the relentless power of rubber mallets. A voice shrilled, “Jesus, Tags, Ben didn’t say kill him!”
Then darkness.
5
He floated in astral darkness, feeling the lifeless cold of outer space, hearing the brittle chiming of icy bells. He drifted back slowly; gray haze formed, whirled like windblown fog and threaded away. Pain blew its paralyzing breath through his mouth, giggled and chipped at his frozen brain.
Groaning he rolled over and opened his eyes.
The darkness stayed silent. He was alone.
His right arm felt like splintered ice. He sat up slowly, groped for his revolver, felt its bulk and tried to get up. The effort made him gnaw his lip; pointed shoes had kicked his ribs. The bruises were like ripe boils.
Using his left hand he levered himself off the pavement to his knees, then staggered upright. In the distance the honk of a lonely horn. No sound of running feet. The heavies were long gone.
Leaning against the doorway he studied the dial of his watch and tried to focus his mind. Unless he had walked more slowly than usual he had been unconscious nearly a quarter of an hour.
He could hardly lift his hand to fit the key into the lock.
Door open, he felt for the light switch and saw the staircase materialize before him like a slide thrown on a wall. His head throbbed like a deep Brazilian drum. Half pulling himself with his left arm, he made it to the top of the stairs, found the key to his apartment door and opened it.
He tottered into the room, pulling off his coat, loosening the leather shoulder strap and opening his collar. The revolver dropped to the sofa and he angled dizzily toward the bathroom.
No marks on his face. He leaned against the washbasin and unbuttoned his shirt with the fingers of his left hand, cursing their clumsiness.
Blue-black welts marred his chest. His back ached. The way his right shoulder looked he was lucky the cosh hadn’t snapped the collarbone. Turning, he ran hot water into the tub, stripped and swallowed two codeine tablets.
The bathwater was so hot he could barely stand it. Wincing, he entered it slowly and when it covered him entirely he closed his eyes and felt a wave of nausea surge over him. Shock and pain, old friends, both. His lips twisted and then the codeine began to take hold.
He opened his eyes and studied a bruise on his left thigh. The hoods had done their work well, but he had given one of them a bloody souvenir. Barada’s boys. Cheap alley muggers. One named Tags. Just a warning this time, no knife at the gullet, no throttle-cord tightening around the throat. He smiled grimly. Lucky I didn’t really get Barada mad at me.
His left hand massaged his right shoulder tenderly. The pain was bearable. He’d caught plenty of slashing hockey sticks on both arms, how many years ago was it? No trainer now to bake out the pain and strap his ribs. Maybe Doc Bikel would know a remedy. Possibly a dram of cherry-pepsin syrup from an unlabeled brown bottle. Not a natural substance, Doc. Smelled highly artificial. Don’t let the Nature brotherhood know, they might call it unethical.
In the living room the telephone rasped. Novak felt his scalp hairs rise. It buzzed again like a rattler under a forked stick. Barada probably. Yeah, Barada. Calling to hiss out another warning. Well, pal, I read you loud and clear. I get the message.
Shivering, he closed his eyes.
After a while the phone stopped ringing.
The back of his head was sticky with drying blood. He cleaned it off slowly and threw the streaked washcloth into the corner. Drying himself slowly, he felt giddiness return and steadied himself against the wall. Then he pulled on pajama bottoms and staggered off to bed.
The next time the phone rang the clock showed nearly one o’clock. He awoke stiffly, reached for the receiver, then drew back his hand. Barada again, or one of his boys. Why give them the satisfaction of jeering at him?
He rolled over and tried to forget the telephone but it shrilled insistently. Finally he grabbed it and snarled, “Novak here, what’ll it be?”
The voice that replied was reedy with terror. Paula Norton’s voice. “Pete—I...I called before. Something’s happened.”
“Well, Mrs. Barada, I’m scarcely answering the phone these days—the effort’s so painful.”
“Pain?...Pete, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing mortal. Your ex-husband sent around a couple of muscle boys to kick my teeth out. All they did was cave my ribs.”
Her throat made a sucking gasp.
Novak said, “Let’s not talk about my little problems; alongside yours they’re probably trivial.”
Her voice came back, pitched a little lower. “I have no right to ask you anything—I know that. But I’m in trouble. Bad trouble, Pete.”
He sat up slowly. Along his spine the skin was icy. “You wouldn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
“No.”
“And it can’t wait until morning? I could use a—”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. No, it can’t wait until morning. By then you’ll have to talk with me through bars.”
He wiped sweat from his upper lip. “Mix yourself a drink,” he said levelly. “Mix another for me. I’m on my way.”
The receiver clattered into place, the ceiling light flared on and Novak pried himself off the bed. Dressing took a long time; when he bent over to pull on his shoes the effort made his temples pound painfully.
Finally he was dressed. He strapped on the shoulder holster and walked down the stairway.
Opening the garage doors took more effort. Setting his teeth he told himself he should have downed another pain pill. Then he was backing the Pontiac out of the alley, driving down Seventeenth toward the Tilden.
He found a parking place two blocks away and went in by the service entrance. No one paid any attention to him as he slipped into the room service elevator and punched the up button.
Leaning in one corner he closed his eyes and sucked deep breaths to steady himself. The elevator hummed to a gentle stop at the fifth floor.
Novak stepped out. The doors closed behind him.
Before he turned into the corridor he listened for voices and footsteps but the floor was silent. Even so he moved quietly along the wall until he was at her door. Touching the buzzer lightly he opened the door with the master key and closed it behind him.
She was sitting in an upholstered chair, wearing black toreador pants and an indigo blouse with puffed sleeves. Her knees were drawn up and held by laced fingers. Her eyes had a vacant, brooding look. Below them her cheekbones were as white as ivory.