“He’s bitched-off about the Bannion business,” Stone said. “You’d better let me do the talking tonight.”
“I can do my own talking,” Larry said. “What’d he want me to do? Knock him off with a fly swatter?”
“Damned if I know,” Stone said. “The thing is, you didn’t do the job, with or without a fly swatter. Let’s wait until we talk to him.” He put the cigar back in his mouth, frowning. Stone wasn’t used to reflection; he preferred action. But he knew there was something wrong, something queer in the city. There was a feeling, a groundswell, and he didn’t like it, didn’t understand it, and it made him mad. Things were out of line; a cop or two, a few magistrates, even some of the big boys at the Hall. Stone thought it was time to slap down, and hard; but Lagana said no, and he meant it. Maybe the boss knew what he was doing, and maybe he was just getting old.
Larry parked on Walnut Street before Stone’s tall, gray apartment building. He left the keys in the ignition and told the doorman to park the car. Stone walked into the quiet, carpeted lobby, moving characteristically, fast, staring straight ahead, his head and shoulders inclined forward as if he were advancing to meet an enemy. He had the top two apartments in the building, the seven-room penthouse for business and entertaining, the space below for living quarters. The management was pleased with the arrangement; Stone’s parties in the penthouse were insulated from the rest of the building. He was a valuable tenant; the management realized that when they got their tax bills from the city.
Stone and Larry took the elevator to the penthouse. Alex, Stone’s cook-valet, a middle aged man with a nervous smile, let them in and took their coats and hats.
“I’m having a poker game tonight,” Stone told him, smoothing down his thinning hair. “We got plenty to drink?”
“Yes, there’s plenty.”
“Well, see that there’s French Cognac. Judge McGraw is coming and he won’t drink nothing else. You got money?”
Alex said no, smiling nervously.
Stone swore and gave him a bill. “You’d think I was feeding an army the way I pour dough into this joint,” he said to Larry. He strolled into the big living room, annoyed with himself, and pointlessly angry at everything else. He wore a tan gabardine suit, with a white shirt and a red tie. The clothes were expensive, but their effect was ruined by his pot belly, and hulky, rounded shoulders. He looked hot, rumpled and irritable. “Well, let’s have a drink,” he said. He glanced at his watch, and his eyes, imbedded in pouches of flesh, glinted with annoyance. “Mike’s late. We break our tails getting here, so he’s late.”
“What’ll it be?” Larry said.
“Scotch and plain water. Make it a double. I guess I need a lift.” Stone walked to the French windows that opened on a terrace and stared down at the curving, shining river, and at the lines of traffic on Chestnut and Walnut streets. This was his city, he thought moodily. He could close his fist and make it squirm. What the hell was wrong? It must be this lousy cigar, he thought, turning away from the window. The room was large, warm, softly lighted. It was expensively furnished, with the best rugs, chairs, sofas, and tables on the market; but there wasn’t a personal touch in it. Stone liked it that way. His idea of class was a suite in a good hotel. The decorator had wanted to put in monk’s cloth drapes, low, round coffee tables, modem furniture, and even wall murals. One of the murals was to have been a city skyline with a top-hatted chorus line kicking their legs in front of it. Stone rubbed his balding head and looked around the room. Once a guy got money everybody tried to take him for a chump, he thought.
Larry brought him the drink. Stone took a long, appreciative swallow. That was more like it. He needed to relax, have some fun. To hell with worrying. What was there to worry about, anyway?
“That you, Max?” a high voice called from the other end of the apartment.
“Yeah, Larry’s with me,” he said.
A girl came in from the dining room, smiled at Larry, and kissed Max on the cheek. He put an arm around her waist. “What’ve you been doing all day?” he said.
“I shopped a little. Bought some shoes.”
Stone put a hand to his forehead in mock alarm. “A little shopping! I know what that means, Debby.”
“What a man,” Debby said. She grinned at Larry, who shook his head sympathetically. “How about a drink?” she said, patting Stone’s cheek. “Can you afford that?”
“Sure. Fix her a drink, Larry.”
Debby was a strikingly attractive blonde of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with a healthy, blooming complexion, the softly rounded forehead of a baby, and serene blue eyes. She owned and took excellent care of a tall, spectacular body; her waistline was almost tiny enough for Stone to encircle with his big hands, and her legs were those of a dancer, long, slim, beautifully muscled.
Stone sipped his drink and watched her with a small, unguarded smile. Something about her got to him, made him feel oddly unsure of himself and shaky. She was wearing a gold lame hostess gown that matched her hair perfectly, and high-heeled golden sandals on her feet.
“Thanks, pal,” she said, smiling, and taking the drink from Larry. Debby’s disposition was one of her major charms. She was always in good spirits, happy and pleased with life, and, as she put it, without the time to be tired or moody. Debby was no fool; she had worked for ten years before meeting Stone, as a maid, a waitress, a bar hostess, a dancer and model. Those jobs were tough and demanding. You got up early, earned your money, and it wasn’t much, and went to bed dead-tired. It was a never-won battle against room rents, runs in stockings, making old clothes last and scrimping for a good hat twice a year. It was being nice to guys, but not too nice, and still getting in trouble in spite of your promises to yourself, and then having the bastards run out on you. Stack that up against living with Stone, and it was small wonder that she was happy. She had him right where she wanted him too. He thought he was a big man when he was with her, and that was a feeling he couldn’t buy anywhere else for all his money. Stone was an old man who still had to think he was about nineteen in bed. He didn’t understand himself or know what he needed, and she wouldn’t tell him; but the knowledge put her in the saddle.
The buzzer sounded and Stone went to the door. Lagana came in, neatly dressed as always, and behind him his shadow, the big man called Gordon. Lagana unbuttoned his black, Chesterfield coat and rubbed his hands together briskly. He glanced around, smiling at Debby and Larry. “Well, how’s everyone tonight?” he said. “Rather cold, isn’t it?” He wore a banker’s gray suit, and a conservative tie. His shoes were polished but not to a high gloss and the handkerchief in his breast pocket had been folded in a square so that no points showed, except for his eyes, he might have been taken for a prosperous druggist. Gordon drifted over to the fireplace and stood there, nodding to Larry. He was a big, awkward man who gave the impression he could move fast, if it became necessary.
“I’m sorry to be late,” Lagana said. He smiled, his teeth white under the narrow black mustache. “My daughter was going out formal, if you can believe it, and she wanted me to wait and put the final okay on her dress. I told her it didn’t matter what I thought — just impress that young football player who’s paying for the corsage and dance bid.” He smiled at Debby. “Was that good advice, would you say?”
“Sometimes the old man means more than these football players,” Debby said. She knew Lagana was a sucker for his kids. “They come and go but the old man is there for keeps.”
Lagana smiled, looking pleased.
Stone finished his drink and gave Larry the glass. “Fix me another, will you?” he said. Lagana’s talk about his family made him irritable for some reason. The boss sounded like a damn queer, he thought. “Take off your coat,” he said to him. “How about a drink?”