Kells laughed.
The fat one grinned good-naturedly. “I sure slipped up the other night,” he said — “the gal cramped my style.” He glanced at Beery, looked back at Kells’ shoes, went on: “My name is Borg.”
Kells introduced Beery. Then the four of them went through the crowd to the dressing rooms.
There were a dozen or more men — mostly Negroes — in the corridor outside Gilroy’s room. Kells shouldered through, opened the door. The florid Jew was standing just inside, smiling happily. He poked a finger at Kells.
“I told you we would win — I told you,” he said. He turned, frowned at Beery and Borg — Faber had waited outside.
Kells said: “These gentlemen are friends of mine.”
They came in behind him.
Gilroy was lying on the rubbing table. His face was covered with little beads of sweat. He turned his head, said: “Hello, Mistah Kells.”
Kells went over to him. “How do you feel?”
“Ah’m all right. The Doc here says it’s jus’ a scratch” — he grinned with all his face — “jus’ a scratch.”
The doctor nodded to Kells.
Kells turned to Borg, said: “Get a cab and wait outside the little gate, down at the end...” He gestured with his hand.
“We got a car.” Borg started towards the door.
“That’s fine — we’ll be out in a few minutes.” Gilroy sat up slowly, picked up a towel and wiped his face. He said, “How about a showah, Doc?”
The doctor said it would be all right. He was putting on his coat.
Kells took a roll of bills out of his pocket, slipped one off and gave it to the doctor.
Beery was standing near the door. He jerked his head and Kells went over to him. Beery asked quietly: “Brand gave you a check?”
Kells nodded.
“The other guy paid off in cash?”
“Yes.”
“Gimme. You run a chance of getting into plenty of excitement tonight. I’m going home — I’d better take care of the bankroll.”
“I’ve got Fenner’s check too, and somewhere around ten grand soft.” Kells smiled, shook his head. “Every time I sock something in a bank, something happens so I can’t get to it. Something’s liable to happen to you...”
“Or you.”
“Uh-huh — so I’ll keep the geetus.” Kells went back and sat down on the table. Gilroy’s manager, the Jew, began a long and vivid account of why Gilroy was the “coming champion.”
“I tell you, Mister Kells — your name is Kells, ain’t it? — Lonny is better than Johnson in his flower — in his flower...”
Beery said: “I’ll call you in the morning.” He and the doctor went out together.
Gilroy came out of the shower, dressed. On the way to the car, Kells asked: “Do you know Sheedy?”
“Vince Sheedy? Shuah.” Gilroy stayed close to Kells, watched the people they passed, carefully. “His place is right aroun’ the corner from my hotel.”
“Let’s go there and celebrate. I want to meet him.”
Borg and Faber were sitting in a big closed car outside the little gate. Beery was in the tonneau.
Kells said: “I thought you were going home.”
“Oh, what the hell — I’d just as well come along and see the fireworks — if any.” Beery sighed.
Kells and Gilroy got in beside him. Kells leaned forward, spoke to Borg: “Gilroy, here, has had some scare letters. We’re going to take care of him for a few days.”
Borg said: “Sure.”
Gilroy told them how to get to Sheedy’s place. Kells watched through the rear window but couldn’t spot anyone following them. Traffic was heavy. They went down Sixteenth to Central Avenue, turned south.
The entrance to Sheedy’s Bronx Club was tricky. They left the car in a parking station, went down a narrow passageway between two buildings. Gilroy knocked at a door in the side of the passageway — it was opened and they went downstairs, through a large kitchen, into a short hallway.
Gilroy said: “There’s a front way in, but this is the best because we want a private room” — he looked at Kells for confirmation — “don’t we?”
Kells nodded.
Gilroy tried one of the doors in the hallway. It was locked. He tried another, opened it and switched on the light.
The room was small. There was a round table with a red-andwhite tablecloth in the middle of the room, and there were six or seven chairs and a couch. Gilroy pressed a button near the door.
Borg and Faber sat down and Kells stretched out on the couch. Beery studied the photographs — mostly clipped from “Art Models” magazines — on the walls.
A waiter came and Gilroy told him to get Sheedy. Sheedy turned out to be a very tall, very yellow skeleton. Dinner clothes hung from his high, pointed shoulders as though the least wind would whip them out like a flat black sail. He nodded to Beery. “I am very happy to meet you, Mister Kells,” he said. His accent was very precise. Kells guessed that if the name meant anything special to him he was a remarkable actor.
Gilroy asked: “Was you at the fight, Vince?”
“Yes... I lost.” Sheedy smiled easily.
Gilroy giggled. “Hot dawg! It serves you right — nex’ time you know bettah.”
Sheedy raised his brows, nodded sadly.
“Hash us up a load of champagne—” Gilroy made a large gesture. “An’ send some gals back to sing us a song.”
Sheedy said: “Right away, Lonny” — bowed himself out. He was back in about a minute, asked Kells to come into the hallway. “Some fellows just came in” — he inclined his head towards the front of the place — “asked if Lonny was here. I said no.”
“Who are they?”
“Man named Arnie Taylor — a Negro — and three white boys. I don’t know them.”
Kells said: “Who’s Taylor?”
Sheedy shook his head. “I don’t think he’s a particular friend of Lonny’s.”
“Where’s Rose?” Kells spoke very softly, quickly.
Sheedy looked surprised. Then he sniffled slowly. “I’m afraid you’ve got some wrong ideas,” he said.
Kells waited; Sheedy went on: “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Kells looked at him sleepily, silently.
Sheedy said: “He was here last night — I haven’t seen him since.”
“Thanks.” Kells turned to go back into the room.
Sheedy caught his shoulder. “Rose and I do a little business together,” he said — “that’s all.” He was smiling slightly, looking very straight at Kells.
Kells said: “Liquor business?”
Sheedy shook his head.
“White stuff?”
Sheedy didn’t say anything.
Kells looked at the door to the cabaret. He said: “Tell Taylor Lonny’s back here.”
Sheedy said: “I’m under one indictment here, Mister Kells. If there’s any trouble and it gets loud, I’ll lose my license.”
“It won’t get loud.”
The door to the cabaret opened and a very light-colored Negro with straight blue-black hair came into the hallway. There was a white man behind him, and the white man took a stubby revolver out of his coat pocket.
The Negro said: “Sorry, Vince.”
Sheedy put his hands up.
Kells clicked a button-switch on the wall with his elbow, but the lights in the hallway stayed on.
The white man stayed at the end of the hallway, about ten feet away from them. He was short, with a broad bland childlike face. He held the revolver close to his stomach, pointed indiscriminately at Kells and Sheedy.
Taylor came up to them, felt Kells for a gun.
Sheedy started to speak, and then the room door opened and Gilroy stood outlined against darkness.
He asked: “Wha’s the mattah with the lights?”