“But you're offerin' me a position.”
“Why-yes.” Lowell brightened. “You're accepting?”
“It might help if I knew what it was.”
The mayor looked down at his half-consumed cigar and threw it backward into the fireplace. “You would-ah- assist me. In a number of ways. There are projects I've been unable to execute because of the lack of the right man.”
“Assistant to the Mayor,” Johnny said musingly.
Richard Lowell looked startled. “I'm afraid there would be no title,” he said hurriedly.
Johnny tired of the game. “So you're hirin' a bodyguard,” he said bluntly.
“Not at all, not at all!” Mayor Lowell said it vigorously. “I've no need of one.”
“Glad to hear it. Say, how do I get in touch with Micheline Thompson? I've called her apartment twice and nobody answers.”
The mayor appeared taken aback by the abrupt change in direction. “I'm sure I don't-you say no one answers? The funeral, possibly-” He jammed his hands in his pockets to get them out of sight. Left to themselves they dry-washed each other nervously. “You have business with Mrs. Thompson?”
“Just a social call. I knew her in France.”
“You did?” Richard Lowell smiled uncertainly, sobered, then smiled again with an effort. “I had no idea-”
“I'll catch her in the mornin'. She looked good when I talked to her an' Daddario in New York. A lot different than-”
“Please.” Richard Lowell held up a hand. His tongue circled dry lips. “You talked to Jim Daddario in New York? In Mrs. Thompson's presence?”
“Make it the other way around. I talked to her in his presence.”
“How-who made this arrangement?”
“She called me, reminded me of France, an' asked me to come down an' see her. I went. Just about that time somebody was gettin' to her husband up in my room.”
“I'm extremely glad to have this information, Killain. I consider it highly significant that Jim was right in the neighborhood when Thompson was killed.” His voice took on added timbre. “You've already gathered, I'm sure, that it was because Jim was unable to control Thompson that he forced his removal.”
“Sure.” Johnny got to his feet. “Time to hit the road. If you ever get the dimensions of this job shaped up, give me a ring. An' if you get the scent of my thousand bucks anywhere on the local breeze I'd likewise appreciate a call.”
“Certainly. Happy to help.” Richard Lowell looked as though he would have liked to prolong the conversation but had suddenly run out of material. “Ah-goodnight, Killain.”
“Goodnight. I'll find my way out.” Johnny walked through the library door and the cavernous front hall. He turned around on the walk outside to look back at the house bulking large in the night, the massive central structure festooned with added wings. A glimmer of light from the library was the only break in the total expanse of darkness. One man living all alone in a house like that, Johnny thought.
The visit had strengthened a feeling Johnny had had that afternoon. Compared to the incisive, fast-acting Toby Lowell, Johnny knew that Dick Lowell was a bumbling incompetent. Unless his indecisiveness was an act-and Johnny could see no reason for such being the case-the mayor despite his bluffly hearty appearance was not much more than a hollow shell. In the city of Jefferson the Lowell blood was badly in need of an infusion of red corpuscles.
The Lowell House was three blocks from the business district. Johnny walked back, conscious of a pleasant lassitude. He hadn't been in a bed in thirty-six hours but he didn't feel tired. His nerve-ends seemed touched with quicksilver. He definitely was not in the mood for sleep. Restlessness clawed at him internally. His hand in his pocket closed on the thick wad of Mickey Tallant's loan and seemed to give purpose to his stride. He crossed the street to a cab stand on a corner, put his head in the window of the first cab in line and spoke to the dozing driver. “Any action in town?”
The cabbie jerked awake and turned to look at him. He looked at length and whatever it was he saw in Johnny's face it appeared to satisfy him. “What's your game, chum?”
“Poker.”
“You like it strong?”
“So-so.”
“We could try Louie's,” the driver mused aloud. “Although I heard there was a good game at Rudy's earlier. That's closer.”
“I can get in without an okay?”
The cabbie shrugged. “That's up to Rudy. Tell him Chuckles brought you. Hop in.” Johnny got into the cab. They went a half-dozen blocks and pulled into the curb in front of a tavern with an illuminated beer ad in the window. The neon sign overhead was dark and Johnny realized it was after midnight. He handed the driver a bill. “Thanks, chum,” the driver said. “Play 'em up against your belly inside. It's a bruisin' game.”
Johnny pushed experimentally at the outside door which opened at his touch. Inside, a single subdued light behind the bar framed a bartender washing glasses. “Rudy,” Johnny said to his inquiring look.
The man nodded. His hands didn't move from towel or glasses, but a door opened in the rear of the room and a short, stocky man entered. He walked up to Johnny, dark, liquid eyes contrasting oddly with a dark, hard face. “I'd like to take a riffle,” Johnny told him. “Chuckles, the cab driver, brought me around.”
“That's a strike less on you,” Rudy said amiably. “I don't know you, do I?” He pursed his lips at Johnny's headshake. “You wearin' any iron?”
“Not an ounce.”
“You mind if I check?”
“Help yourself.”
Rudy's capable-looking hands went over Johnny in a light patting routine. “What's your game?” he asked as he stepped back.
“Poker,” Johnny said for the second time.
“Can you stand it?”
Johnny took out Mickey Tallant's roll and slapped it against his palm. “For a while, anyway.”
Rudy nodded. “Right this minute it's a full game but somebody'll get batted out an' make a seat for you. Come on in.” He led the way to the door through which he had entered and opened it with a key. Johnny eyed it passing through. It was a thin door. Rudy wasn't afraid of a police shoulder against it. His question about a possible gun indicated he was more concerned about a holdup man than he was about an undercover man fronting for a police raid.
The room inside surprised Johnny. It was much larger than he would have expected from the tavern out front. It was a complete gambling layout, wheels, dice tables, blackjack tables, even a chemin-de-fer birdcage. It was quiet in the room except at the dice table. Only one blackjack table was open and a single roulette wheel spun lazily for two bored-looking customers. “Everything but live clients,” Johnny commented.
“We do our real business on weekends,” Rudy said. He nodded toward a soft-hatted group of men around a green baize table under a brightly shining drop-light. “Leave your name with the dealer for the next seat an' take a walk around.”
“Sure. How about a drink?”
“Sorry. The bar closes at midnight.” Rudy walked away.
In its own way the prohibition probably made sense, Johnny reflected. The wide-open gambling within forty feet of the main street could be fixed locally. Liquor was state-administered and could not.
He walked to the card table. Between hands he caught the green-eyeshaded dealer's attention, circled the table swiftly with a finger, and then pointed at himself. The dealer nodded. Johnny stood and watched the game. There was no money on the table and he didn't know the value of the chips but the quiet intensity of the game suggested that they didn't represent nickels and dimes. The game was straight poker with no flourishes.
After a few moments he wandered over to the dice table and looked on. There was a younger, harder-looking crowd at the dice table. Noisier, too. Johnny pushed on to a blackjack table and exchanged a twenty dollar bill for dollar chips. He climbed up on a stool and won and lost with almost religious alternation until he looked around at a touch on his elbow. “Seat open,” Rudy said.