My drink came and I grabbed it and drank. The music stopped and stayed stopped. The couples divided and strolled back to their tables. Larry Mitchell still had hold of Betty. He was still grinning. Then he began to pull her close. He put his hand behind her head. She tried to shake him off. He pulled harder and pushed his flushed face down on hers. She struggled but he was too strong for her. He chewed her face some more. She kicked him. He jerked his head up, annoyed.
“Let go of me, you drunken slob,” she said breathlessly but very distinctly.
His face got a nasty look. He grabbed her arms hard enough to bruise her and slowly using his strength he pulled her tight against his body and held her there. People looked hard, but nobody moved.
“Whassa matta, baby, you no love poppa no more?” he inquired loudly and thickly.
I didn’t see what she did to him with her knee but I could guess and it hurt him. He pushed her away and his face went savage. Then he hauled off and slapped her across the mouth forehand and backhand. The red showed on her skin at once.
She stood quite still. Then in a voice the whole joint could hear she said clearly and slowly: “Next time you do that, Mr. Mitchell—be sure to wear a bullet-proof vest.”
She turned and walked away. He just stood there. His face had gone glistening white—whether from pain or rage I couldn’t tell. The headwaiter walked softly up to him and murmured something with an inquiring lift of the eyebrow.
Mitchell brought his eyes down and looked at the man. Then without a word he walked right through him and the headwaiter had to stagger out of his way. Mitchell followed Betty, and on the way he bumped a man in a chair and didn’t stop to apologize. Betty was sitting down now at a table against the glass wall right next to the big dark guy in the dinner jacket. He looked at her. He looked at Mitchell. He took his cigarette holder out of his mouth and looked at that. His face was quite expressionless.
Mitchell reached the table. “You hurt me, sweetness,” he said thickly but loudly. “I’m a bad man to hurt. Catch on? Very bad. Want to apologize?”
She stood up, jerked a wrap off the back of the chair and faced him.
“Shall I pay the check, Mr. Mitchell—or will you pay it with what you borrowed from me?”
His hand went back for another swing at her face. She didn’t move. The guy at the next table did. He came up on his feet in one smooth movement and grabbed Mitchell’s wrist.
“Take it easy, Larry. You’ve got a skinful.” His voice was cool, almost amused.
Mitchell jerked his wrist loose and spun around. “Stay out of this, Brandon.”
“Delighted, old man. I’m not in it. But you’d better not slug the lady again. They don’t often throw people out of here—but it could happen.”
Mitchell laughed angrily. “Why don’t you go spit in your hat, mister?”
The big man said softly, “Take it easy, Larry, I said. I won’t say it again.”
Mitchell glared at him. “Okay, see you later,” he said in a sulky voice, He started off and stopped. “Much later,” he added, half turning. Then he went out—unsteadily but quickly, looking at nothing.
Brandon just stood there. The girl just stood there. She looked uncertain about what to do next.
She looked at him. He looked at her. He smiled, just polite and easygoing, no come-on. She didn’t smile back.
“Anything I could do?” he asked. “Drop you anywhere?” Then he half turned his head. “Oh, Carl.”
The headwaiter came up to him quickly.
“No check,” Brandon said. “You know, in the circumstances—”
“Please,” the girl said sharply. “I don’t want other people paying my bills.”
He shook his head slowly. “Custom of the house,” he said.
“Nothing to do with me personally. But may I send you a drink?”
She looked at him some more. He had what it took all right.
“Send?” she asked.
He smiled politely. “Well, bring then—if you care to sit down.”
And this time he pulled out the chair at his own table. And she sat down. And at that moment, not a second before, the headwaiter signaled the orchestra and they began to play another number.
Mr. Clark Brandon seemed to be the sort of man who got what he wanted without raising his voice.
After a while my club sandwich came. It was nothing to brag about, but eatable. I ate it. I stuck around for half an hour. Brandon and the girl seemed to be doing all right. They were both quiet. After a while they danced. Then I left and sat in the car outside and smoked. She could have seen me although she didn’t show it. I knew Mitchell hadn’t. He had turned too quickly up the stairs, he had been too mad to see anything.
About ten-thirty, Brandon came out with her and they got into the Cadillac convertible with the top down. I followed it away without trying to hide because the way they went would be the way anybody would go back to the downtown part of Esmeralda. Where they went was to the Casa del Poniente, and Brandon drove down the ramp to the garage.
There was only one thing more to find out. I parked in the side lot and went through the lobby to the house phones.
“Miss Mayfield, please. Betty Mayfield.”
“One moment, please”—slight pause—”Oh yes, she just checked in. I’m ringing the room, sir.”
Another and much longer pause.
“I’m sorry, Miss Mayfield’s room does not answer.”
I thanked her and hung up. I beat it out of there fast in case she and Brandon should get off at the lobby.
I went back to my rented chariot, and poked my way along the canyon through the fog to the Rancho Descansado. The cottage where the office was seemed to be locked up and empty. A single hazy light outside showed the position of a night bell. I groped my way up to 12C, tucked the car in the car port, and yawned my way into my room. It was cold and damp and miserable. Someone had been in and taken the striped cover off the day bed and removed the matching pillowcases.
I undressed and put my curly head on the pillow and went to sleep.
9
A tapping sound awoke me. It was very light but it was also persistent. I had the feeling that it had been going on a long time and that it had very gradually penetrated my sleep. I rolled over and listened. Somebody tried the door and then the tapping started again. I glanced at my wristwatch. The faint phosphorescence showed it was past three o’clock. I got up on my feet and moved over to my suitcase and reached down into it for the gun. I went over to the door and opened it a crack.
A dark figure in slacks stood there. Some kind of windbreaker also. And a dark scarf knotted around the head. It was a woman.
“What do you want?”
“Let me in—quickly. Don’t put any light on.”
So it was Betty Mayfield. I pulled the door back and she slid in like a wisp of the fog. I shut the door. I reached for my bathrobe and pulled it on.
“Anybody else outside?” I asked. “There’s nobody next door.”
“No. I’m alone.” She leaned against the wall and breathed quickly. I fumbled my pen flash out of my coat and poked a small beam around and found the heater switch. I shone the little light on her face. She blinked away from it and raised a hand. I put the light down on the floor and trailed it over to the windows and shut them both and lowered and turned the blinds. Then I went back and switched on the lamp.
She let out a gasp, then said nothing. She was still leaning against the wall. She looked as if she needed a drink. I went out to the kitchenette and poured some whiskey into a glass and carried it to her. She waved it away, then changed her mind and grabbed the glass and emptied it.