“Naw, hell, man. Make yourself at home.” He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back, those cloudy eyes watching me with interest. “That was supposed to have been you in the Amherst Hotel, wasn’t it?”
I pulled a chair out from the wall with my foot and slid into it. “That’s right.”
For the first time since I got there, Muddy Harris grinned.
“The boys in blue were pretty sore last night.”
“Really? Is this where I bust out crying?”
“Homer Carey had you pegged as familiar but didn’t hit the mug books fast enough to make you. You damn near blew it, though, sticking around that dump that long. Did you know the locals got a murder warrant out on you?”
“I read the papers this morning. All it said was an old lowlevel hotel employee got himself killed by person or persons unknown.”
Muddy grunted. “I guess they aren’t passing everything out to the press...or else maybe the newshounds are cooperating by keeping it quiet a little while longer.” An eyebrow raised above a smoky blue eye. “Your name still moves mountains, though. A lot of strange faces are popping up these days, and they’re all carrying badges.”
“Good for them.”
Muddy squinted at me. “You knock off the old Mexie, Morgan?”
“You know that’s not my style, buddy.”
“Didn’t think it was. If I did, we wouldn’t be here talking.”
“Even so, Mud, you’re taking a big chance right now.”
“Life is all chances, Morgan. If you don’t take a chance, you don’t win a prize. Like, I coulda had the cops waiting right here with me, and picked up that gravy they got ready for whoever turns you in. Trouble is, I don’t get to spend it, because some punk figures me for a squealer and picks me off, or some friend of yours decides to do an unasked-for favor and squeezes my neck for me.”
He shrugged rather grandly.
“This way it’s better,” he said. “Some way, shape, or form, I’ll come out of this thing with a little more bread than when I went in. Playing the angles, but not crossing anybody who’s my friend...or who’s too dangerous not to be my friend. Follow?”
“I’m in the business, too, remember?”
“Yeah, but how does it feel to be hunted?”
“Keeps me on my toes. My chances of survival go up, thanks to all this experience I’m getting.”
“That, Morgan, is one hell of an attitude, even for you. Like that cop...what’s his name? Oh yeah, Walter Crowley. Like Crowley said, whoever takes you down gets the brass ring.”
“Screw Walter Crowley.”
A faint grin cracked Muddy’s lips. “I think you already did—or screwed him over, anyway. He had you and now he doesn’t. That’s why he’s so damn mad. Taking it so damn personal.”
“Is it.”
“By the way, Morg—he’s got it figured out, you know.”
“What has he got figured out?”
“How you busted out of that net they had around you.”
“Oh?”
“They got a partial description of a guy wearing coveralls from Farango’s Car Wash, but nobody that size works there. The cop had a pretty good look at the girl, though. Especially at her titties. They’re shaking down the area looking for her.”
“They better be pretty good at breaking alibis, if they find her.”
Another shrug, not so grand. “Just thought I’d mention it. Now, my old compadre, what can I do for you?”
“You can run a check on the old man killed at that hotel. Somebody paid him off to plant that charge in the room.”
His smile was just another fold in the fleshy face. “That’s what I thought you’d ask for.”
“Can do?”
“Maybe. How much do you think he got for the gig?”
“Not big money. Well, maybe big for him.”
“Chump change to take out Morgan the Raider? How far fall the mighty.”
I waved that off. “My name wouldn’t have meant jack to him, so the price would’ve had to be high enough for him to take it on, but not enough to make him suspicious.”
“You mean not suspicious enough for a possible blackmail shot later on.”
“Right.” This time I shrugged. “I’d guess five hundred bottom, a grand tops. It would be cash, and small bills. Chances are the old man didn’t have a chance to spend it, and he sure wouldn’t carry it around on him. He was a loner, according to my inside source. So anybody making contact with the old boy might get noticed.”
Muddy squinted at me. “You got it pretty well figured out yourself.”
“All part of a pattern, Mud, my man. Human nature doesn’t vary that much.”
“Okay, I’ll look into it.” He leaned forward to light himself a new smoke. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. What do you know about the Consummata?”
Muddy’s eyes got less cloudy. “Not my scene, Morg.”
“What do you know, Muddy?”
He shook his head in a “no way” fashion. “That world’s dark and dank and dangerous, my friend. If she even exists at all. They say she’s done business in every major city here and overseas. That she can give you girls you can whip and screw and even kill if you want. Whatever your perverted pleasure, whatever your sicko taste might desire.”
I made an appreciative face. “Well, she accomplishes a hell of a lot, for somebody who maybe doesn’t exist. Is she in town?”
He got coy; it didn’t become him. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard.”
“But you’ll ask?”
“I’d rather not, Morgan.”
“But you will.” I tossed a couple of bills on the desktop. “That’s a retainer. Enough?”
His sigh was long-suffering. “I guess it’ll do for a start. I suppose I don’t contact you.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m in the book,” Muddy told me.
I was just going out when he said, “Morgan!”
I turned. “Yeah?”
“You already got enough problems, with Crowley and that federal bunch. This Consummata dame, that whole whipsand- chains crowd, and the freaks who dig that crazy pain scene? I’d advise against going anywhere near it or her.”
“You would, huh? Why?”
Muddy’s smile was a nasty thing lurking in the folds of flesh. “Oh, don’t know, Morg. Maybe ’cause you might get a spanking.”
CHAPTER SIX
At ten-forty, I tucked into a phone booth alongside a gas station and dialed the office number of the Mandor Club, but the line was busy.
I had a cup of coffee at the diner across the street, used their payphone for my second try—another busy signal. A slice of Key Lime pie later, I headed back across the street to the gas station booth, and this time I got Bunny.
Not wanting to chance a phone tap, I let her identify me by voice, then—before she could say anything but hello— said, “The truck with the shipment of cutlery you ordered just came in. I know it’s late, ma’am, but you said call when it arrived. You ready to take delivery?”
Her hesitation was just right—a businesswoman thinking, not a conspirator covering. “Yeah, Jonesy—you might as well bring the stuff on over. Wait, on second thought, send it over to my apartment at the Hillside. Have your guy give the package to the doorman. He’ll sign for it.”
“Sure thing, ma’am,” I said, and hung up.
In its day, the Hillside had been one of the better apartment buildings, one of those pink stucco art moderne jobs that looked so spiffy in the thirties, but now were faded, pockmarked and crumbly. A few face-lifts hadn’t helped much, and now the Hillside just stood there among others of its ilk like aging old broads gathered to talk about what used to be and what might have been.
From my spot in the shadows, I could cover both ends of the street, a boring wait because anybody who lived here was already in bed, and most of the cars cruising through were taxis going back to their stands. The .45 was in a shoulder rig now—not a great one, but passable, considering it had come from a pawn shop. Anyway, the rod felt nice and snug under my arm, and was far less conspicuous than just being shoved in my waistband.