Mitch said that that also was different. No one was allowed to cool-out on Frank Downing. Winfield Lord's mother had had the choice of paying off, or keeping her son on the Lord ranch for the rest of his life.
"Downing, Frank Downing," Red mused. "Now, don't I know that name?"
"Of course, you do," Mitch told her. "He runs that store outside of Dallas. Kind of a Texas Monte Carlo except that Frank's place is probably bigger."
Turkelson coughed, running a finger between his tight wing collar and the folds of his neck. He said hopefully that perhaps the situation had changed with Winfield Lord, Jr. Maybe Mama Lord was loosening the strings of the bottomless Lord purse.
"I hardly think so," Mitch said. "News like that gets around."
"But you can't be sure!" Turkelson turned to Red. "It's worth a try, don't you think so, Red?"
"I think whatever Mitch thinks."
"Mitch is the boss, huh?" Turkelson twinkled.
"Of course he's the boss! What's so damned funny about that?"
Mitch kissed her, cuddled her protectively in his arms. "Red's my lamb," he smiled firmly. "Don't you tease my lamb, Turk."
"Certainly, she's a lamb. Haven't I always said so?" The manager gestured plaintively. "But, Mitch, I do wish you could see this Lord thing. After all, you're already here and he's going to be here. What can you lose but a little time?"
Mitch hesitated thoughtfully, examining the project in his mind; deciding that Turkelson was probably right. There was nothing to lose, and this was certainly no time to overlook a bet. But still… still, something seemed to hold him back. From some deep recess in his mind, a voice whispered darkly, pointing out that Lord was a bastard and that no good was to be had of him.
But-but maybe personal feelings were getting in the way of his reason. Lord had once tried to paw Red. He was too drunk to know what he was doing, of course-even to recognize who she was-but a thing like that…
Mitch sighed, pulled in two ways, almost irresistibly tugged by the need to be practical, yet still stubbornly resisting.
"Let me brood about it a little," he said, at last. "I'm kind of getting an idea for beating the bad-check angle, but I want to kick it around for a day or two. If it comes up yes, you're down for ten per cent."
"Oh, now," Turkelson protested feebly. "That's not necessary."
"Ten per cent-which you'll earn," Mitch said. "Meanwhile, we'll take that Zearsdale guest card. I can't get in the action, naturally, but at least I can show Red off."
Red kissed him, and stuck her tongue out at Turkelson. Chuckling, the manager stood up, promising to bring the guest card right away.
"You'd better not," Red declared. "You put that card in our room box!"
"But I'll be glad to-"
"Would you be glad to get killed?" Mitch demanded. "Red, you must tell this man about the birds and the bees."
Turkelson departed, chortling.
Mitch and Red returned to the bedroom.
They had a late and light lunch in mid-afternoon. Then, as Red summoned a beautician from the downstairs salon, Mitch went to see about renting a car. He had some trouble deciding between a sedan, a Lincoln Continental, and a black Jaguar convertible-coupй. Finally, feeling that the sedan might be a little showy, he settled on the Jag.
It was not a good choice. He was aware of that around eight o'clock that night, as he turned into the long curving driveway which led up to the club. Ahead of them, in a boxcar-length Rolls with both chauffeur and footman, rode an elderly man in full evening dress. He kept staring back through the rear window, then leaned forward to consult with the two livened servants, who also looked back briefly. Debouching finally at the entrance, the elderly one gave the Jaguar and its occupants the ultimate in quizzical stares, turning away with a look of such wry wonderment-an I'll-be-damned, what-have-we-here look?-that Mitch almost winced.
So the car was all wrong. It was wrong by the mere fact of Red and Mitch being in it. There was prompt proof of that, if any further proof were needed.
A cutdown jalopy came roaring up the drive, throwing gravel over the Jaguar as it skidded to a stop. A half-dozen teenage boys and girls swarmed out of it, dressed in odds and ends of clothing; ran shouting and laughing into the clubhouse. The doorman, dressed like a coachman even to his whip, looked after them fondly. Then, turning back to Mitch, he critically examined the guest card.
"You were meeting someone, sir?" He poked the card back at Mitch. "Perhaps I could notify them for you."
"We're not meeting anyone."
"I see. Hmm. The term guest is used rather literally here, sir. These cards are only honored, ordinarily, that is, at the request of a member."
"I've used a great many guest cards," Mitch said coldly, "and I've never heard of such a practice."
"Obviously. So under the circumstances…" He signaled with his whip, and a uniformed attendant came running to remove the Jag. "We'll have the car readily available for you, sir."
Mitch could feel Red's hand tremble on his arm. Taking her up the three long steps of the club building, he smiled down at her reassuringly. But he felt none of the calm which he was trying to convey. His principal emotion was one of fury; a raging anger with himself for bringing her here.
Turkelson should have known what he was sending them into. Turk probably had known, as much as one could know by hearsay. But he would justifiably expect Mitch to be at least as well-informed. Information was half of Mitch's job. In the Pavlovian maze of the heavy hustle, he must always spot the proper tunnel, correctly associate action and reaction, sound with deed, word with word. Oil was a three-letter word if you were content to get your kicks from birdwatching. But if you liked the big time, you had better spell it Zearsdale. Jake Zearsdale. The unquestioned head of the fabulous "Houston Hundred."
Zearsdale was the founder of the club. Its membership was limited allegedly to the families and connections of the Hundred. Presumably, one of them owned the hotel-apartment where Mitch and Red were staying-what more likely owner for such an establishment? So business being business, a few guest cards were made available. Which did not necessarily mean that they would be honored. That would be looked into after the guest arrived. Nor would anyone be a bit interested in whether he was affronted.
He was an outsider, wasn't he? He could neither hurt nor help the Clan. Well, then!
But that, that attitude, wasn't Texas, of course. It was only the wealthiest-people-in-the-world Texas. Mitch had always found Houston an exceptionally friendly city. He had simply been asking for it in coming to a place like this.
Immediately inside the doorway of the club building stood a squat, broad-shouldered man in a dark dinner jacket. He was frowning as he watched the door, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His sharp, cold eyes stopped them like a wall, and for a moment it seemed that he would not unclasp his hands from behind his back and take the card which Mitch extended.
At last he did so, however, and he returned it with a wisp of a smile upon his thick, broad mouth. The cold eyes warmed as he looked from Mitch to Red, and he spoke with a voice which was faintly musical.