“First time,” I said. “Got a date with a young lady, kind of. A Sophia Sierra.”
“Sophia? Man, you got taste. I’ll say that for you right off the bat. Sophia Sierra. Man, that’s a chick what’s got everything, and got it all in the right places.” He jerked his head toward the roped-off area. “She’s sitting there with some broken-down joe. He ain’t nothing, Mac. My money’s on you.”
“Thanks,” I said and started for the chairs and tables.
“Hey,” the bartender called.
I went back to the bar. If his call was a raucous hint for a tip, he was entitled to it. I reached for my wallet, but he stopped me. “Nah,” he said, “it ain’t that. It’s only you ain’t allowed in there without no tickets.” Now he jerked his head toward a booth that was fitted out like a box-office for a movie house. “Over there,” he said. “They’re a buck for ten tickets, each ticket a dance, but a dance is prackly thirty seconds. Got a tip for you, Mac, seeing as you’re new here. Got two tips. Get a whole load of tickets if you want to make a hit with any of them gals, especially Sophia, she’s class.”
At the booth, I got twenty dollars worth of tickets. I carried them like a torch as I maneuvered through the dimness amongst the chairs and tables of the roped-off area, seeking my Sophia.
Off in a corner, she was seated at a table vis-a-vis to a grizzled little man whose wizened face surrounded a pair of glittering eyes that could have hypnotized a snake. I hated to break up the party, but after all, I had a date. “Sorry,” I said. “Just flew in from Las Vegas to see my girl. It’s kind of a one night stand, just tonight. Got to be back on the job tomorrow. Got to make a living, you know. Hate to cut in like this. But we’re engaged, you know. Flew in all the way from Vegas for a lousy one night stand. Tough when you’ve got to make a living. Tough when you’ve got a girl in New York. I hope you understand, Mr. ... Mr. ...”
“Feninton,” he piped. “Hiram Feninton.”
“Oh, I told you he’d come,” Sophia said. “I told you I was hoping he’d make it, Mr. Feninton.”
“Yes, yes, you did,” Mr. Feninton said. He stood up, a small bow-legged frightened-looking little man with beady eyes. “You’re a lucky young man, young man,” he said, “lucky young man. I envy you, truly envy you. Youth, youth,” he said with sudden laconic logic. “Go fight youth.” His hand fumbled in his pocket, brought out a sheaf of bills, and he peered intently as he selected one and handed it to me. “Here,” he said. “Take it. Let Feninton play Cupid to young love tonight.” Then his other hand reached into another pocket and he slipped me a pint bottle that had the feel of a whiskey bottle. “On me, on me,” he said. “Let this evening be on me.” He bowed toward her, the glittering eyes consuming her. “We’ll make it another evening, Miss Sierra, another evening. I’m looking forward, if I may, to another evening.”
“Of course, Mr. Feninton,” she said.
He bowed to me. And then his bow-legs carried him away into the dimness, and he was gone.
I sat down, still holding the money and still holding the bottle. Almost at once my knees met hers beneath the table, and almost at once one of mine was taken by two of hers, like a caress, and held warmly.
“I’m a little bit drunkie,” she said, the pressure of her knees tightening a mite. “Just a little bit drunkie. Got a little bit drunkie, kind of waiting for you, hoping you’d show up.”
“I thought the hard stuff wasn’t allowed here,” I said.
“It’s not. Here in town, dance halls don’t have a license for liquor. But you can kind of bring it in, and they provide you with set-ups, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “And Mr. Feninton brought it in?”
“He sent out for it.” She took two clean glasses from a tray and put one in front of me and one in front of her. “What’s left in the bottle?” she said.
There wasn’t much. I emptied it, half in her glass, half in mine. It was Scotch, of an expensive brand.
Her hand went to the seltzer bottle and she held it poised over my glass. “How much do you like?” she said.
“Up to half,” I said.
“Me too,” she said and squirted seltzer into my glass and into hers.
We drank Mr. Feninton’s whiskey.
“I’m drunkie,” she said, setting down her glass, “but don’t worry, I get over it easy.”
“I’m not worried,” I said.
“I go for you,” she said. “I’m crazy and I know it, but I go for you.”
“I’m crazy too,” I said. “I go for you.” I brought up the bill the man had given me. “Have a donation,” I said, “from Mr. Feninton. For young love out of Las Vegas.”
It was a hundred dollar bill. She took it and put it into her purse. “This is a crumb joint,” she said. “Once in a while you get them like Feninton, but you don’t get them often.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I said.
“Where else can a girl earn maybe three hundred dollars a week? Like to dance?”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s dance.”
She stood up. She wore a red silk dress, no stockings, and red silk spike-heeled shoes. She wore absolutely nothing else.
“Let’s dance,” she said.
I handed up the string of tickets.
“Forget that,” she said, and she flung the tickets to the table. “Let’s do it like Mr. Feninton said. Let’s make this evening on him.”
That gave me my little moment of triumph. I stood up, thinking of Gordon Phelps. This was the girl who, according to him, had a steel-trap mind cast in the mold of a cash register. Maybe. Maybe, according to him. But maybe not according to me. Maybe Peter Chambers, for some cockeyed reason of his own, had gone overboard for Sophia Sierra. Bing. Like that. Out of left field. Why not?
I stood up and took her arm and led her to the blue-streaked dimness of the dance-floor. We danced. She was warm and soft and clinging, and her body yielded to mine, and we ground together, lightly, in a primitive caressing embrace, swaying to the music. Prickles of sweat were hot on my spine. I did not gasp because I was ashamed to gasp. I held her and I attributed the dizziness to Feninton’s whiskey. And now her cheek was against mine again and her giggle was alive at my ear. “Perpendicular prostitution,” she said. “It’s part of the racket, taxi-dance racket.”
“Let’s sit,” I said.
“You angry with me?” she said. “Because of what I said?”
“I’m nuts about you,” I said.
“That’s the way I want it,” she said.
We danced for a few moments, most conservatively, and then we broke it up and went back to the table and sipped at Feninton’s highballs and I said, “I saw G. Phillips.”
“I figured,” she said.
“You know what he wants?”
“I imagine he wants to get out from under — on the Vivian Frayne thing.”
“Why should he want to get out from under?”
“The cops are looking for him. And it’s my hunch he killed her.”
“Why should he? Why should G. Phillips kill V. Frayne?”
“Because it’s my hunch she was sticking a finger in his ear. For a little blackmail.”
I leaned back and I looked at her. She was a smart girl. A very smart girl. Too smart, perhaps.
“That’s a cute bunch of hunch you’ve got,” I said. “Want to tell me about it?”
“G. Phillips,” she said, “is Gordon Phelps. Gordon Phelps is a millionaire. He’s got a wife who wouldn’t kind of like it if she knew all about him—”
“How do you know?”
“I get around, lover. Anyway, that sets the guy up like a pin in a bowling alley. Leave it to V. Frayne to roll the ball.”
“What about S. Sierra?”