He was real embarrassed.
I let him turn around and have a good look at me and said, “You got yourself a big one this time, buddy.” Then I smashed him across the face with the rod and when he went down choking noisily, I whipped the gun across his skull until he stopped.
He was going to be a sick hood. Sicker when his boss found out.
The envelope held an even grand in fifties. It fitted my pocket nicely. There was nothing new about the rest of the contents. They were photos of me. Police photos. Something Golden or Holmes dug up, probably. I flushed them down the toilet, frisked Mario and lifted another $400 from his poke and added it to my pile.
It was turning out to be a good evening.
I grabbed a cab outside, went to 23rd St., walked crosstown two blocks and took another one back. The third one let me out on the corner of Carmen Smith’s block.
I told the officious little man at the desk I wished to see Miss Smith and that it was important enough that he should call and waken her. He didn’t believe me at first, then I smiled and he believed me.
Carmen answered the house phone, asked to speak to me and when I said hello, told me to come right up. The little man was still nervous so I put her on and let her tell him it was okay. He clacked his teeth and escorted me to the elevator and showed me which button to push. I said thanks and pushed it.
She was waiting in the tiny foyer that separated her apartment from the elevator. She said, “Well, hello! And if you don’t mind the obvious, what brings you here?”
I grinned at her. “I need a place to sleep.”
“Oh,” she said, and opened the door wide. “Come on in.”
She had on a tailored, double-breasted housecoat that fitted without a fold or a crease and when she walked, the static of her body against the cloth made it cling so that you knew she slept cool and naked and inviting.
Like beautiful girls should be, she was unruffled from sleep, still bearing the flush of lipstick. She walked ahead of me into the living room and she was tall even without shoes. When she turned on the light on the end table, there was a momentary silhouette that made me stop and look around quickly, merely sensing the expensive appointments of the place rather than appreciating them.
Carmen looked at me quizzically a moment. Then she knew. She smiled gently and waved me to a chair. She brought a drink without a word, handed it to me and sat down.
Then, very deliberately, she grinned and crossed her legs.
I could have smacked her in the mouth.
She said, “Okay, hood, what do you want from me?” Then her grin turned into a small laugh that made the mood easier.
“Kid, you can get in real trouble doing that.”
“You mean the leg action.”
“Don’t get smart.”
She made a kiss with her mouth and blew it across the room. “Now really, why did you come up?”
“I’m in a bind.”
The smile softened, then worked into a frown. “Police?”
“A little worse, sugar. The sign’s on me.”
She didn’t need any explanation. She took a few seconds letting it sink in and there was something tight about the way she held herself. “Bad?”
“Real bad. They called out the troops.”
Her eyes crinkled thoughtfully. She got up, took my glass and refilled it. When she handed it to me, she said, “Will it help to tell me?”
“No, but I will.” And I told her.
She sat wordlessly a moment; then: “What can I do, Ryan?”
“Pack me in for the night, kitten, I don’t like to be shot when I’m sleeping, and all my usual pads are off limits now.”
“That’s all?” She stood up and studied me with the edge of her forefinger between her teeth.
I stood up too and took her hand away. “No, there’s more, but I wouldn’t inflict it on you, sugar.”
She was there in my arms without seeming to move. Suddenly she was just there, pressing tightly against me and she was warm and woman and I could feel the life inside her. Her finger touched my mouth, then her own. “Why, Ryan?”
Softly, I said, “For a hood I got certain sensitivities.”
She reached up and kissed me lightly. She smiled, did it again and took my arm under hers. She showed me the guest room and opened the door.
Once more she came back into my arms. “I have certain sensitivities too. I wish you would inflict them on me.”
“Later.”
Her mouth was warm and very wet. “All right, later.” Lightly, she touched my lips with her tongue, deliberately tantalizing.
Her grin got impish and she did something with her hands. Then she shrugged and handed me the housecoat, stepped back and smiled again. She walked away from me into the light, turned into her room and was gone.
When I began to breathe again, I tossed the housecoat on a chair, took a real cold shower and went to bed. Before I could sleep my mind dwelt on the litheness of her, the swaying stride, the lush, yet muscular curves that seemed to melt into each other and dance in the subdued, shadowy tones of dark and light. Brunette, I thought, a luscious, chestnut-hued brunette.
The radio alarm beside the bed went off softly. Awakening, I knew where I was at once, knowing, too, that I had never set the alarm. But the door was partly open and the housecoat gone, so I knew who had. The note on the clock was brief. It said, Call me, hood. And the P.S. was just as brief. She had written, You look pretty. There were no covers on the bed and now we were even for the housecoat.
Coffee was ready in the electric perc and there were some Danish in a basket. While I grabbed a bite, I called the Naples Cafe, got a number for me to call Art and dialed it.
In the background there were morning noises of people eating, and strange, loud languages. There was juke music and somebody yelling and Art was drunk. He was all-night drunk, but purpose-drunk and there’s a difference. He felt his way through his words, mouthing each one. “Ryan... I got what you wanted.”
“Good. Let’s have it.”
“You see the papers?”
“Not yet.”
“Those punks... you hit... your place?”
“Yeah?”
“Cullen and... and Stanovich. From Elizabeth, Jersey, y’know? Muscle boys... docks. This here... Lardbucket Pearson... him... I mean, he and Turner Scado car piled into... big ditch outside Hoboken. They got killed. Looks like your boys... muff it, they get it.”
The picture was clear enough. It even made the deal bigger than ever. When somebody can afford to knock off help who flubbed, it was big time, real big-time.
I said, “What’s their connections, Art?”
He fumbled against the phone for a second. “Topside Big. It reaches, Ryan. Goes far... to... to Europe.”
“What names, kid?”
I could hear ice clink in a glass, then he paused to swallow. He finally said, “Those Jersey Joes... Mafia musclemen. Used to be part of... Lucky’s crew. You know what that means?”
“It’s making sense. What else?”
He laughed sourly. “I’m gonna... beat you... on this one, Irish. I have a friend in Rome. Good friend. In their organization over there. For... American cash... he’s tipping me to your mysterious buddy.”
“What buddy?”
“Lodo,” he chuckled. “Lodo... pretty big stuff. Lodo’s... code name for Mafia’s East coast enforcer. Big killer. Little while I’ll know who.”
I said, “Okay. Go home and stay there. You hear?”
“I’ll go slow.” He paused a moment, coughed and said, “You’re lucky, Irish.”
“How?”
“You’re going to get to die real... soon.”
I hopped a cab to 34th St., picked up an envelope at General Delivery in the Post Office and opened it on the street.