She too was holding a gun.
Naturally, he was not as smart as he was cooked up to be. If I were on a rash errand, her coming to frisk me would have been a godsend. I could have clipped her gun, used her as a shield, and taken my chances. But I was not being rash this trip. I stood meek as a frightened patient behind a fluoroscope. She touched me.
“No gun,” she said.
His smile contracted to pursed lips.
“Sorry, fella,” he said.
“I come as a friend,” I said. I wanted to hammer that through.
His gun was no longer pointed at me. It rested, within the grip of his hand, in his lap. He looked like a mischievous boy caught holding the matches with which he was going to set fire to the kitchen.
“Give my friend a drink, Betty,” he said. “He drinks Scotch, the best in the house.”
“You’re in good shape,” I said.
“The best,” he said. “Sit down, friend. Make yourself to home.”
I sat down on one end of a divan. The red-head had disappeared into another room, but she came back quickly, without the gun, but with a tray on which was a bottle of Scotch, an open bottle of soda, a pitcher of water, and glasses.
“If you want ice...?” she began.
“Oh, no, thank you. This is fine.”
She sat the tray down near me, and she sat herself down on the other end of the divan.
“How do you like my Betty?” Kiddy said.
“A beautiful lady,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said and she smiled with strong white teeth. She had a wide high-boned face and enormous blue eyes.
“She’s the greatest,” Kiddy said. “Big as she is, she’s—” He stopped speaking suddenly and frowned. “What brings you, Petie? In the middle of the night?” And now his smile was a frightened smile. “And how the hell did you know to get here?” His eyes darted to Betty’s and back to mine.
I poured a lot of Scotch and gulped it raw. I needed it.
“I found you,” I said, “because you’re in trouble. When you’re in trouble, that’s when a friend is supposed to find you.”
“He is a friend,” he said to Betty, nodding seriously.
I looked about the room. It was plainly furnished. The floor was bare.
“Not quite like the Montrose,” I said, “eh, Mr. Masters?”
His gun popped up, levelling on me.
“Please don’t point that thing at me, Kiddy,” I said. “I’m on your side. I’m with you.”
“What the hell goes?”
“Did you kill him?”
“Me? You out of your brains? Me?” Then his eyes narrowed craftily. “Kill who?” he said.
“Mousie Lawrence had most of his face shot away. Both your holsters were there in the bedroom. Yet you’ve got a piece right here in your hand. That what you shot him with, Kiddy?”
“Not me. You’re out of your brains. Why should I cool Mousie? Mousie’s my partner.”
“Was,” I corrected.
“Mousie was my partner.”
“Then what about the gun you’re holding?”
“I kept two pieces here. The one the lady’s got, and this one. Kept them here. Kept a load of junk here too. Kiddy’s no dope, man.”
“Kiddy, you in shape?” I said.
“The best,” he said.
“Did you blast Mousie? Because if you did, I’m the boy to cover you up, and you know it. Did you, Kiddy boy?”
“No! No, no, no!”
Kiddy Malone did not kill Mousie Lawrence. I had my story. Now it was all up to him.
“Okay,” I said. “I know the deal. And I can pull you through. If you work with me.”
The gun lowered into his lap. His hands were clenched over it. “You know nothing, pal,” he said. “You don’t know no deal. You’re just a talker. You’re trying to make a buck, that’s what you’re doing. Trying to talk your way into a buck.”
“I don’t want to earn any bucks, Kiddy.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I want to pull you out of a deal, Kiddy. You’re a dead man, Kiddy. You know that. Down deep, you know that. We’re old friends, Kiddy. You’re just sitting here waiting to get killed, maybe trying to shoot your way through, but getting killed in the end anyway.”
He stared at me for a long time. Then, without any change in expression, he began to cry. The tears came out of the inner corners of his eyes and ran down his nose. He made no effort to wipe them. He sniffed, once.
“Okay, Betty,” he said. “Get out of here.”
She stood up and smiled at me.
“I hope you’re really a friend,” she said. “He’s a good guy.”
“Yes,” I said, “he’s a good guy.”
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll go to sleep now.”
“Yeah, go to sleep, baby,” Kiddy said. “The stuff you got in you, you’ll sleep real good, real good. Good night, baby.”
She went away, and I watched her going away, and I enjoyed watching her go away. She closed the door of the other room behind her.
“Give,” Kiddy said. “Let’s hear.”
“We start at the start,” I said, then I threw in a threat. “What I know — the cops know. I may fling a guess here and there — but the cops, they’ve got it all nice and clean.”
“Talk, baby. Kiddy’s listening.”
I drew a deep breath. “You and Mousie,” I said, “came into town to set up the Nirvana. Sweet deal too. Package stuff, passed through some of the smart chicks, at a hundred bucks a throw.”
His eyes widened, but he nodded. He was mystified but he was approving of me.
“Steve Pedi was in on the pitch...” I threw it and let it lie. He smiled, nodding.
I had it all. It was complete.
“Steve Pedi,” I said, “was in on the pitch, although he would deny it if it ever shaped up trouble. He just didn’t know a thing that was happening to his girls, if it shaped up trouble. Like that, the most that could happen to him would be a revocation of his dance hall license. But it didn’t figure to shape up trouble. That was his end — the local end. With a little political pressure, a little gelt passed in the right places — this thing could run and run. You guys were here to set it up, to get it running, and it was just beginning to go — when a crazy dame butts her nose in. Vivian Frayne. Somehow, she got wind of what was cooking — maybe one of the chicks there let it bleed a little — and this Frayne is nuts in the mother-hen department. She gets to Steve and threatens to blow the whistle unless the operation is cut off quick.”
“Crazy dame, huh? Boy, how some dames is crazy.”
“Stevie-boy fast-talks her, but she’s a dead pigeon from the moment she opened up. Here’s a crazy dame that’s do-gooding on an operation that can gross millions of bucks. All right. So Stevie calls you guys in. You’ve got to pop her, and pop her quick. No sense calling in anybody else, because anybody else only widens out a murder clique. Keep it close, figures Stevie-boy, because Stevie-boy is a pretty smart fella. So you guys are going to pop her, and pop her quick, although you’re kind of out of practice, you’re big shots now. How’m I doing?”
“Keep punching, pal.” In his own way, Kiddy was being proud of me.
“He rigged it,” I said, “to make it look like a mugging killing, but it got scrambled and he was boiling. He had to move very fast after that, because if she began to think about it, she might get the angle, and then it would be the whistle. So he made the move himself. Now I’ll be telling you things you don’t know.”