“He didn’t act like he was going to kill himself,” Terrell said.
“Maybe he got drinking and thinking.”
“Maybe,” Terrell said. He smiled faintly at Karsh, but his eyes were bitter. “I fumbled this one, I guess. A little smarter work and he might be alive right now.”
“You couldn’t help that.”
“Thanks.”
Outside the party was blasting away merrily. The music was loud and one of the blondes was dancing. in a slow, mesmerized fashion with the little man named Diddy. A waiter was collecting cigarette-littered dinner plates, and Mayers was pouring brandy into balloon-shaped snifters. The second blonde stood swaying in front of the record player, staring in frozen astonishment at a full glass of whiskey which someone had placed on the slowly spinning turntable. Terrell glanced back from the front door and saw Karsh walking slowly and wearily in to join the party.
8
The next morning at nine-thirty Terrell walked into the crowded lobby of the Clayton Hotel, which was an informal gathering place for Ike Cellars and his top assistants. Cellars had no office, kept no fixed schedule; he came into the city each day from his home in the suburbs, and spent a few hours at the Clayton chatting with friends and receiving reports on gambling action in all sections of the city. He was also available to supplicants who passed the careful surveillance of his bodyguards. But he wouldn’t commit himself to appointments; he didn’t like to deal with anything so speculative as the future. People who needed to see him just hung around hoping that he might have a moment to spare. That was all they could do. Conferences with Cellars were never leisurely or redundant; he usually leafed through a paper or stared absently at the crowds around him, while the questions were put, the favors begged, the situation explained — then he said yes or no, and turned away. And it was understood there was no appeal from his verdict.
Cellars ran most of his business from the Clayton without reference to books or figures. But he knew to a penny the balances his auditors would bring to him at the end of each week.
Terrell didn’t see him in the lobby, but he noticed a number of his men standing around, portly, substantial types for the most part, studying racing forms, or chatting with one another in an atmosphere of money, cigar smoke and very special and formidable kind of privilege. Terrell went into the barber shop and settled himself in Nick Baron’s chair. Nick was a voluble and intelligent little man, and one of Terrell’s best sources. He worked literally under the nose of Ike Cellars’ men, but he had long ears and an unswerving loyalty to Sam Terrell. Every tip he heard went straight to Terrell’s desk, installments against a debt he could never adequately repay. For Terrell had helped to save Nick’s daughter when the child was dying of a rare blood disease; through his column he had alerted blood-donor services throughout the country, and enough of the girl’s blood type was found to keep her alive for months. And during that time the disease responded to a new combination of antibiotics, and the girl’s life was saved. Nick Baron was emotional and garrulous; but when he had said, “I’ll never forget this,” he had been speaking the truth with simplicity and precision.
“How’s it going, Mr. Terrell?” he said, putting a towel around his neck with an elegant little flourish. “You look like you could use a facial, a little tone-up, eh?”
“No, I’m just a bit hung. How about using that vibrator on my throbbing skull. That helps sometimes.”
“Stop treating your stomach like a concrete mixer. That helps, too.”
“Wire your scoop to the American Medical Bulletin,” Terrell said. “But first iron out some of my bumps.” Terrell had seen two of Cellars’ men in the shop but he knew the sound of the vibrator would cover his conversation with Nick.
“Sure, sure,” Nick said, coming around to his side. His face was thoughtful; he understood what Terrell wanted. They had used this arrangement in the past. “So what’s new?” he said, slipping the band of the electric vibrator onto the back of his hand.
“Nothing much,” Terrell said. “How’s Angela?”
“Fine, just fine. She’s making another novena for you. I told her you’re a shoo-in, but that don’t stop her.” He switched on the vibrator and began massaging Terrell’s forehead with his fingertips.
“I’m going to describe a man to you,” Terrell said. “Tell me if he’s been around.”
“Sure, sure,” Nick said, raising his voice slightly. “I bet him to win. Courage, that’s what I got. Brains? Money? No, but lots of courage.”
“He’s big, black-haired, with a scarred forehead. Tough-looking, a gorilla. Have you seen him, Nick?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
Terrell saw the perspiration on Nick’s upper lip and he realized that the little barber was frightened. “That’s okay, forget I asked.”
“No — he was in here two days ago with Ike. That’s all. I know. Want me to ask around?”
“Absolutely not. Forget it.”
“Whatever you say.”
Terrell glanced at his watch. “That’s enough. I’ve got to be going.”
He paid Nick, tipped him a quarter and slipped into his topcoat. His heart was beating faster, and he could feel the excitement running through him; he had the story now. Proving it was another matter, but he had the blunt, ugly outline: Ike Cellars had hired a hoodlum to kill Eden Myles and thus frame Caldwell. That wasn’t a hunch, or a clever inference, that was the truth. But what was truth? Something twelve men could agree on. Could he make a case against Cellars that a jury would believe?
Terrell was turning toward the street entrance, when a man’s voice said, “Sam boy, just a second.”
He looked around and saw that one of Cellars’ men, Big Manny Knowles, was smiling at him from the doorway that led to the lobby. Big Manny was a sheepish giant, with small, near-sighted eyes, and an expression that usually registered something just short of bewilderment. He strolled toward Terrell, rocking from side to side like a buoy in a gale, and dropped a hand gently on his arm. “Ike wants to see you, Sam,” he said. “Let’s don’t keep him waiting. You know how busy he is.”
“I worry about it a lot,” Terrell said. “For about six seconds on the first of each month I worry about Ike. Sometimes I have to rush it a little, but it’s the feeling that counts.”
Big Manny glanced uneasily toward the lobby. “Get it out, Sam,” he said. “You know he don’t like being kidded around with.”
“Take your hand off my arm, for Christ’s sake,” Terrell said. “You think I’m one of your numbers writers?”
“There’s no point yapping at me,” Big Manny said. “I’m just doing what I’m told.”
“All right, let’s enter the presence. Do we go in backwards or on our hands and knees?”
“I wish you’d cut it out,” Big Manny said. “You know how he feels about smart talk. Why not be polite? It don’t cost a damn thing.”
“Just a little self-respect,” Terrell said.
“Why be so serious about everything? Everybody respects you, Sam.”
“Let’s go,” Terrell said.
Cellars was standing at the cigar stand, leafing through a magazine, a healthy-looking man with dark brown skin and hair as lustrous and beautiful as old silver. He wore a light gray flannel suit, a luxurious, well-cut garment, and a camel’s hair coat with slash pockets and hand-stitched lapels. On either side of him were big, purposeful-looking men in dark clothes. They studied Terrell carefully, then let their eyes slide off his face to check the crowds hurrying past Cellars.
“Good to see you, boy,” Cellars said smiling, putting out a wide, soft hand. “You’re a scarce character.” The smile narrowed his black eyes to slits, but it didn’t affect the cold, heavy turn of his lips. “I been trying to catch up with you for a couple of days.”