“Damn lazy slob,” he muttered, thinking of his landlady. She wouldn’t replace a burned-out bulb for him; but let him get half-a-month behind in his rent and watch the explosion. Nolan felt a sudden hot anger, and he kicked the front of an over-stuffed chair viciously. “Lazy slob,” he said again, and went into the bathroom for a tumbler and poured himself a drink from the bottle on the dresser.
He took the liquor down in one swallow and remembered that he had kicked Dave Fiest’s body just as he had kicked the over-stuffed chair. But why? He removed his hat and coat slowly and ran a hand through his strong curly hair. He had nothing against Dave.
“Take it easy,” he said to himself in a gentle voice, and stood breathing slowly and evenly. That damned temper always got him into trouble. Something took hold of him when he got mad, and he couldn’t help lashing out at anything in his way.
He sat on the edge of his bed, reflecting that there was nothing to be mad about now. He took the roll of money from his pocket and got up and locked the door. Then he returned to the bed and began to count the money. He hadn’t any exact idea of how much there would be, but he knew that Dave Fiest, like all bookies, carried his assets in a liquid form and close at hand.
The money was in two sheaves, and in the first there was sixty-three hundred dollars. Nolan grinned. This was better than he’d hoped for. He had figured Dave for about three or four thousand. The second roll of money was held flat by a silver clip made in the shape of a horseshoe. Nolan removed it and straightened out the bills; and then his heart began to pump a little harder. They were grand notes. He went through them, with fingers that were suddenly stiff and clumsy. Twenty-five. Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Nolan stood up and walked around in an aimless circle, holding the money limply in his hands. Something was wrong as hell. That twenty-five thousand didn’t belong to Dave Fiest. It must be pay-off money, the pay-off on a big bet. He remembered then what Dave Fiest had said: that he was on his way to see Mike Espizito, and that Mike didn’t like to be kept waiting by people who owed him money. Mike Espizito.
“Judas Priest,” Nolan said, and sat down on the edge of the bed. This was a fine goddamn note. Espizito was probably sitting out in South Philly right now, waiting for his money, and getting more annoyed every minute. Nolan stood up and walked around aimlessly again, trying to decide what to do about the money and Espizito. Mike wouldn’t care that he’d killed Dave Fiest, of course. All he’d want was the twenty-five grand.
And then he felt a stirring of anger. This was the kind of break he always got. Just when things seemed to be going all right, a monkey wrench came flying into the works from somewhere. “To hell with the wop,” he said aloud, and shoved the money down into his pocket. “It’s mine now. Let him go find some more.”
He glanced at his watch, went to the mirror above the dresser and inspected his face. He ran a hand over his jaw and decided he couldn’t get by with a dusting of powder.
Half an hour later, shaved and wearing a clean shirt, he went downstairs to his car. The rain had stopped and the night was slightly cooler, he noticed, as he drove back to the center of the city. He parked near Broad and Market and walked to the Simba, a fashionable nightclub with an elegantly dressed doorman and a green-and-white canopy that extended from the club’s double glass doors to the street.
Inside, Nolan gave his hat to a pretty girl wearing a white blouse and a blue velvet skirt, and turned into a small oval barroom that was adjacent to the dance floor and main dining room.
The bartender, a sleek young man in an immaculate white jacket, said, “Good evening, Mr. Nolan.”
Nolan nodded, sat down on an upholstered stool, unwrapped a cigar and put it in his mouth. The bartender held a light for him, and then moved an ash tray a quarter of an inch closer for his convenience.
“What will you have this evening, sir?”
Nolan wondered why bartenders began acting like nances when they got jobs in an expensive joint.
“Whisky,” he said, and was going to ask for a beer chaser, but remembered that Linda was always amused by that combination. “With water,” he said, and put two dollar bills from his wallet on the bar.
His drink was served and the change returned suggestively on a silver tray. Nolan stared resentfully at the half-dollar and quarter. Where he was raised a bartender would be quite likely to slug you with a bungstarter for leaving a tip. They weren’t shoe-shine boys, or porters; they were solid merchants. But not in these joints.
“Keep it,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.” The bartender slid the coins dextrously from the tray into his palm. “Miss Wade should be on soon now.”
“Yeah,” Nolan said. He glanced through the archway of the bar into the main dining room and saw several magistrates, a couple of judges, a District Attorney, some bookies and promoters, and quite a few people who were just people. It made him feel good to be a part of this rich, important world. He belonged to it, and he had the money to stay in it.
The band played a fanfare and the chubby smiling M.C. trotted out and, after a few fairy jokes which were his specialty, introduced Linda.
Linda Wade was a slim graceful girl, with dark brown hair which she wore in a shining page boy, and candid gray eyes. There was a quality of good-humored friendliness in her face and her smile; and she sang her songs in a clear sweet voice. She didn’t seem to take herself or her songs very seriously, and that was the simple secret of her appeal. Actually she worked very hard for her seemingly casual effects.
Nolan watched her and forgot about everything else. Sometimes, when he sat like this at the softly-lighted bar, it seemed as if she were singing to him alone. And moments like that made him feel as if he had the world right in the palm of his hand.
This was almost the best part of their relationship. Nolan could make her mean anything or everything to him while he sat alone in the dark with a drink and listened to her songs.
Now his thoughts ran back, comfortably and idly, to the time when they had first met. Four months ago, almost to the day. He had been transferred downtown from Germantown just a short while before that, and had been in a foul, confused mood. He hadn’t liked Germantown, either, of course, but for different reasons. Germantown had been a pasture, a monotonous dead-end. But Center City had baffled and frustrated him. Everybody had money, but there wasn’t a chance for him to get at it. Some cops, just a few to be sure, were in on the take from the night-club owners, racket men and gamblers. But not Nolan. He had lived on the fringes of a set that enjoyed easy money, easy living and easy women. Nolan had seen all that, but none of it ever came his way. He had gone along as usual on forty-eight dollars a week; and, as usual, the smart people had written him off as another dumb cop.
And then, one night, a loss had been reported at the Simba, and Odell had told him to check it.
That was the night he met Linda.
She had been standing in her dressing room with Jim Evans, the club manager, when Nolan arrived. Someone had stolen a few pieces of jewelry from her dressing table, it seemed. They weren’t of any value, she had said somewhat apologetically to Nolan, but one of the pieces, a brooch, had been given to her by her father.
“Sure, I understand,” Nolan said.
Jim Evans had patted his shoulder and smiled at Linda. “Barny will take good care of you, baby. I’m going out front now. Barny, stop at the bar and have a drink with me on the way out. Okay?”
Sure.
“Fine.” Jim Evans had smiled again at both of them and hurried out.
“Please sit down,” Linda had said.