There was sudden roar from a black, curtained roadster on the other side of the street; the sudden ragged roar of four or five shots close together, a white pulsing finger of flame in the dusk, and Coleman sank to his knees. He swayed backwards once, fell forward onto his face hard; his gray hat rolled slowly across the sidewalk. The roadster was moving, had disappeared before Coleman was entirely still. It became very quiet in the street.
Mazie Decker curved her orange mouth to its best “Customer” smile. She took the little green ticket that the dark-haired boy held out to her and tore off one corner and dropped the rest into the slot. He took her tightly in his arms and as the violins melted to sound and the lights dimmed they swung out across the crowded floor.
Her head was tilted back, her bright mouth near the blue smoothness of his jaw.
She whispered: “Gee—I didn’t think you was coming.”
He twisted his head down a little, smiled at her.
She spoke again without looking at him: “I waited till one o’clock for you last night.” She hesitated a moment then went on rapidly: “Gee—I act like I’d known you for years, an’ it’s only two days. What a sap I turned out to be!” She giggled mirthlessly.
He didn’t answer.
The music swelled to brassy crescendo, stopped. They stood with a hundred other couples and applauded mechanically.
She said: “Gee—I love a waltz! Don’t you?”
He nodded briefly and as the orchestra bellowed to a moaning foxtrot he took her again in his arms and they circled towards the far end of the floor.
“Let’s get out of here, kid.” He smiled a thin line against the whiteness of his skin, his large eyes half closed.
She said: “All right—only let’s try to get out without the manager seeing me. I’m supposed to work till eleven.”
They parted at one of the little turnstiles; he got his hat and coat from the check-room, went downstairs and got his car from a parking station across the street.
When she came down he had double-parked near the entrance. He honked his horn and held the door open for her as she trotted breathlessly out and climbed in beside him. Her eyes were very bright and she laughed a little hysterically.
“The manager saw me,” she said. “But I said I was sick—an’ it worked.” She snuggled up close to him as he swung the car into Sixth Street. “Gee—what a swell car!”
He grunted affirmatively and they went out Sixth a block or so in silence.
As they turned north on Figueroa she said: “What’ve you got the side curtains on for? It’s such a beautiful night.”
He offered her a cigarette and lighted one for himself and leaned back comfortably in the seat.
He said: “I think it’s going to rain.”
It was very dark at the side of the road. A great pepper tree screened the roadster from whatever light there was in the sky.
Mazie Decker spoke softly: “Angelo. Angelo—that’s a beautiful name. It sounds like angel.”
The dark youth’s face was hard in the narrow glow of the dashlight. He had taken off his hat and his shiny black hair looked like a metal skullcap. He stroked the heel of his hand back over one ear, over the oily blackness, and then he took his hand down and wriggled it under his coat. His other arm was around the girl.
He took his hand out of the darkness of his coat and there was brief flash of bright metal; the girl said: “My God!” slowly and put her hands up to her breast….
He leaned in front of her and pressed the door open and as her body sank into itself he pushed her gently and her body slanted, toppled through the door, fell softly on the leaves beside the road. Her sharp breath and a far quavering “Ah!” were blotted out as he pressed the starter and the motor roared; he swung the door closed and put on his hat carefully, shifted gears and let the clutch in slowly.
As he came out of the darkness of the dirt road on to the highway he thrust one hand through a slit in the side-curtain, took it in and leaned forward over the wheel.
It was raining, a little.
R.F. Winfield stretched one long leg out and planted his foot on a nearby leather chair. The blonde woman got up and walked unsteadily to the phonograph. This latter looked like a grandfather clock, had cost well into four figures, would probably have collapsed at the appellation “phonograph”—but it was.
The blonde woman snapped the little tin brake; she lifted the record, stared empty-eyed at the other side.
She said: “’s Minnie th’ Moocher. Wanna hear it?”
Mr. Winfield said: “Uh-huh.” He tilted an ice and amber filled glass to his mouth, drained it. He stood up and gathered his very blue dressing-gown about his lean shanks. He lifted his head and walked through a short corridor to the bathroom, opened the door, entered.
Water splashed noisily in the big blue porcelain tub. He braced himself with one hand on the shower-tap, turned off the water, slipped out of the dressing-gown and into the tub.
The blonde woman’s voice clanged like cold metal through the partially open door.
“Took ’er down to Chinatown; showed ’er how to kick the gong aroun’.”
Mr. Winfield reached up into the pocket of the dressing-gown, fished out a cigarette, matches. He lighted the cigarette, leaned back in the water, sighed. His face was a long tan oblong of contentment. He flexed his jaw, then mechanically put up one hand and removed an upper plate, put the little semi-circle of shining teeth on the basin beside the tub, ran his tongue over thick, sharply etched lips, sighed again. The warm water was soft, caressing; he was very comfortable.
He heard the buzzer and he heard the blonde woman stagger along the corridor past the bathroom to the outer door of the apartment. He listened but could hear no word of anything said there; only the sound of the door opening and closing, and silence broken faintly by the phonograph’s “Hi-de-ho-oh, Minnie.”
Then the bathroom door swung slowly open and a man stood outlined against the darkness of the corridor. He was bareheaded and the electric light was reflected in a thin line across his hair, shone dully on the moist pallor of his skin. He wore a tightly belted raincoat and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets.
Winfield sat up straight in the tub, spoke tentatively “Hello!” He said “hello” with an incredulous rising inflection, blinked incredulously upward. The cigarette dangled loosely from one corner of his mouth.
The man leaned against the frame of the door and took a short thick automatic out of his coat pocket and held it steadily, waist high.
Winfield put his hands on the sides of the tub and started to get up.
The automatic barked twice.
Winfield half stood, with one hand and one leg braced against the side of the tub for perhaps five seconds. His eyes were wide, blank. Then he sank down slowly, his head fell back against the smooth blue porcelain, slid slowly under the water. The cigarette still hung in the corner of his clenched mouth and as his head went under the water it hissed briefly, was gone.
The man in the doorway turned, disappeared.
The water reddened. Faintly, the phonograph lisped: “Hi-deho….”
Doolin grinned up at the waiter. “An’ see the eggs are four minutes, an’ don’t put any cream in my coffee.”
The waiter bobbed his head sullenly and disappeared through swinging doors.
Doolin unfolded his paper and turned to the comic page. He read it carefully, chuckling audibly, from top to bottom. Then he spread pages two and three across the counter and began at the top of page two. Halfway across he read the headline: Winfield, Motion Picture Executive, Slain by Sweetheart: Story continued from page one.