Delaney said: “So I come to L.A. and rent an apartment in a dump on DeLongpre. I get a 4 x 5 Graflex and some film packs. For lighting, I get a couple of floods and a baby spot. I get a lot of ideas and I think I’m in business. But I need a model.”
“You slay me,” spaniel eyes licked his lips and swallowed. When his adams apple stopped bouncing, he added, “I’m screaming with sorrow for you.”
“There’s a model in one of the pictures the guy showed me I could really go for,” Delaney lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Beautiful. I mean she’s really thrown together. Guy said her name’s Doris, or Iris, or something like that. You know her?”
“You kiddin—?” spaniel eyes sneered, but he avoided meeting Delaney’s gaze.
Delaney moved his hands from the bill and let them rest palms up on the counter. He said:
“Guy tells me there’s a book under the counter with pictures of girls in it. Lots of girls. Names, addresses, phone numbers, everything. How about it?”
“This guy seems to know a hell of a lot,” spaniel eyes complained, white, spatulate fingers very still on the edge of the counter. “He have a name?”
Delaney slowly shook his head and looked away. When he looked back, the ten spot was gone.
“Okay. You couldn’t know all that ’thout talkin’ with somebody who did,” spaniel eyes came up from under the counter with a book in his hands. “So I’ll take a chance on you. But of all the screwy approaches — that beats anything I ever heard.”
Delaney grinned.
The book was a black, three ring binder, and the fillers were cheap, lined paper. On each page was pasted a 5 x 7 glossy print of a nude girl. A different girl on every page, and lots of pages. Each girl had struck a pose calculated to show to best advantage her most outstanding attractions. All of the “studies” were full figure: some girls faced the camera directly, others didn’t, but none of them were suffering from an excess of modesty.
Under each picture were neatly typed the girl’s statistics. Under each description were her name, address and phone number... Selma... Ruth... Gladys... Cynthia...
And Delaney leafed the pages slowly, pausing to comment on one girl, then another.
Dorothea... Frances... Mildred... Mavis...
Delaney snapped his fingers in simulated excitement. “That’s the one. That’s the babe! Mavis. How do I go about lining her up?”
“You don’t. Not if it’s the chick I think it is.” Spaniel eyes turned the book around to see.
“Why not?” Delaney groaned.
“She’s moved. Week or so ago, she up and disappears. I get calls for her, and I’m tryin to contact her. See? I go way out to Sawtelle where her address is,” white, spatulate fingers tapping the page, sliding caressingly over the picture of Mavis, “but she’s gone.”
Delaney began to curse under his breath.
“Wait—! I’m tryin to tell you,” spaniel eyes complained, eager to please, having committed himself. “Yesterday I get a call from her. From Mavis. She’s in Long Beach, and she’s on her way back here. But she’s gotta find a place to live. An address. And a phone. She tells me she’s coming in as soon as she gets located. And she wants a job right away. Needs the dough.
“So you’re it, mister. Come back tomorrow or the next day. I’ll fix you up.”
“Swell,” Delaney grinned. “Like the guy said — there’s a smart cookie on the counter. Thanks.”
Delaney saw Elsie off on the plane to Tucson then ate an early dinner at the Buggywhip on his way back from the airport. He caught a news flash on his car radio describing the fight in the gas station in Sawtelle. He learned one man was dead and the other was in a hospital where his condition was listed as critical. Police reported they were seeking the intended victim of the assault whose identity was unknown. After listening to a purported description of himself, Delaney concluded the police were not about to hang a tag on him. Apparently nobody had noted the license number of his car which was described merely as a late model sedan.
The figure of a can-can dancer, outlined in red neon tubing, identified the building on the outskirts of Gardena, a suburb of Los Angeles. The parking lot was nearly full, but Delaney found a vacant slot facing the street. He checked his gun, then entered the club.
A bar with a low back bar extended across the front of the building. A wide passageway at one end led to a crescent shaped area beyond. The area was jambed with tables, with a crowd of people packed in knee to knee, elbow to elbow. In the center of the crescent was a dance floor stage raised to table top level.
At one end of the stage was a four piece combo beating out a rhythm number. In the center of the stage was a tall, red headed stripper with an over-ripe figure. She was nearing the end of her routine — down to a G-string and a few spangles glittering on a mesh bra. But the crowd was in a frenzy, and the red head was in no hurry to leave the stage.
Delaney elbowed his way to the bar and ordered bourbon over ice. While sipping his bourbon, he scanned the crowd around him. The two he was seeking were at the end of the bar watching the stripper. When she finally finished her number, they turned back to their drinks.
Delaney watched the dark, beady eyes in the thin, wizened features move along the row of faces. They slid past him, then jerked back — wide with recognition. He saw the thin, pipestem elbow nudge Kostka, and the look of surprise cross Kostka’s face. Then Kostka grinned.
Delaney leaned back. Off the far end of the room, he saw a hallway with marked doors on each side. The first door on the left was the one he wanted. He pushed through the door and noted with satisfaction he was alone in the room. A moment later Kostka and Ziggy entered.
“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight, pal,” Kostka grinned, standing just inside the door. He was facing Delaney who stood with his back to the opposite wall.
“I suppose not,” Delaney’s answering grin was tight lipped. “But I’m blowing the whistle on you. I’m going to show you how a real tough job is done.”
“Don’t be that way, pal. We got nuttin’ personal against you.” Kostka’s grin was bland. He casually moved from the door to Delaney’s right.
Ziggy started to edge away from the door to Delaney’s left. When he spoke, his voice was wooden and flat: “you know how’t is. We got a call, we do a job.”
“Yeah, that’s right. We’re glad to see you’re okay, pal,” Kostka moved again.
“Sure, I know,” Delaney moved closer to Ziggy. He was watching both men, but of the two, he knew Ziggy was the most dangerous. “Only you never should have roughed up that girl in my office.”
“Aw — don’t be that way, pal,” Kostka protested again. “We didn’t hurt the broad.”
Ziggy tried to edge past Delaney, but Delaney moved closer and Ziggy stopped. His thin, wizened features became set and his dark, beady eyes began to blaze with venom.
“What’s the matter, buster, you getting nervous? You got to go?” Delaney sneered.
Ziggy swore obscenely and one claw-like hand started under his coat. But he was too slow.
Delaney whipped out his .45 and slugged Ziggy, then turned.
Kostka lunged forward in a crouch, his head hunkered down between his shoulders, his massive arms swung out in front of him. He stopped abruptly when he saw the .45 in Delaney’s hand.
“Whatcha gonna do?” Kostka straightened slightly and tried a grin on for size. “Don’t be a sucker. You’d never get away with it. Lotsa guys outside — they’d tear you apart.”
“Why don’t you call them?” Delaney asked thinly. Then his face became white with rage, his lips skinned back from his teeth and he moved closer. “Come on, you gutless slob. Why don’t you yell?”