He moved on into the bar, feeling a little limp. For three years he’d been steeling himself against her. Telling himself she was no good, reminding himself that she hadn’t been to see him once. She was Harry Heintz’ girl. But his heart still beat thick and fast, filling his chest, whenever he thought of her.
He told himself that he’d built her up in his mind, made her a dream-like image of perfection. People are like that. Anything they can’t reach out and touch always seems different. More enticing. But he was out now, a free man. He could see her as she really was, tickling a piano keyboard, singing her sultry little songs in a second-rate bar. One look, he told himself, and he’d never again doubt that he was cured...
Bob crowded his way up to the bar and ordered a whiskey and water. He had the drink halfway to his lips when a voice behind him said, “As I live and gasp for air! Are these old eyes deceiving me, or is it really Bobby Myrick?”
Bob looked in the back-bar mirror, and in the mirror his gaze met two pale gray eyes set in a fat, blubbery face under a bald brow. In the dim lighting the face was innocent, and Bob searched a moment for a name. Then it came to him. “Banklin.”
“Right, lad.” Banklin punched him on the shoulder with a fat pink hand as Bob set down his drink and turned. “Glad to see you, Bobby. I saw you when you walked in, but it took a moment for it to sink in that I was really looking at Bob Myrick.” Banklin’s hand was on his arm. “Come on over to my booth and have a drink.”
“I got a drink.”
Banklin chuckled. “Sure. Bring it on over to my booth. I’ll stand you another.”
He was through with people like Banklin, Bob thought. It had cost Pam a lot of suffering and him three years behind bars, to make him see a few things sensibly. He was cured.
But he’d never be in the Gilded Lily again. Banklin was waiting. There was no real sense in insulting Banklin. “Okay,” Bob said. “One drink.”
He followed Banklin’s waddling hulk over to a booth. The big fat man had aged. It was Banklin’s boast that he’d been the finest con man in the country in his day. He’d posed as everything from a Western cattle baron to a stock broker. But his day was past, judging from present appearances. His suit was worn, needed cleaning. The back of his shirt collar, visible to Bob over his coat, was soiled and limp. They all fall on hard times sooner or later, Bob thought grimly.
With a wheezing sigh, Banklin worked his way in the booth. Bob sat down.
“Well, Bobby, how goes it? Any plans for the future?”
“A few.”
Banklin toyed with an empty glass. Without moving his head up, he cut his gaze up to Bob’s face. His voice came, fat and soft, “Plans for Peewee Darran, Bob?”
Cold washed down Bob’s spine. His face felt stiff. Slowly he made himself relax. “I’d like to wring Darran’s scrawny neck,” he admitted, “but the answer is no. I got no plans for Darran.”
Banklin chuckled. “Sure, I know. A lot of them feel like that when they first get out of stir. They’re going to be lone wolfs, plenty tough, cutting nobody in on their plans.”
“I told you the answer is no.” Bob’s voice sounded harsh and loud in his ears. “Darran and I broke in the pawnshop that night. I wanted to — buy nice things for a dame. Darran squealed when we got caught. He drew a suspended sentence, while I went up. But I’m not dirtying my hands with Darran. He’ll get his one of these days without me.”
Banklin’s fat shoulders shook again in that knowing chuckle. “Anyway, you’d have to find him, Bobby.” He jerked his gaze up, as if trying to catch whatever might be in Bob’s eyes. “You wouldn’t have heard, but about three weeks ago an old playboy geezer named Thad Berrywinkle got killed. This Berrywinkle had dough. He liked to get around, to see every kind of joint. As near as the cops can figure, somebody got some plenty hot blackmail stuff on Berrywinkle — the old geezer was married. Berrywinkle wouldn’t pay. He was about to turn in the blackmailer, and the blackmailer killed him.”
Bob started to speak, but Banklin stopped him with a gesture of his hand. “That’s where Pee wee Darran comes in. Rumor has it that Peewee knows the identity of Berrywinkle’s murderer. Darran has dropped out of sight, and if you wanted to do anything about Peewee, Bob, you’d have to find him first. It wouldn’t be easy. Peewee is well holed up.” He drummed on the table. His voice lowered. “It might be that I could give you an address, Bobby...”
“I’m not interested.”
“Hell,” Banklin chuckled. “I know that.” Then he pulled an old envelope from his pocket, tore off a piece of it, fished for a pencil. He wrote an address, stuffed the paper in Bob’s breast pocket. “Think it over, Bobby. I’m just trying to do you a favor.”
Bob passed his hand through his hair. “Are you going to order that drink, Banklin?” He was trembling a little.
Bob sensed a movement at his elbow. He looked up. Banklin, in the act of rising, retained his half-risen position. Harry Heintz was standing beside the booth. “Hello, Bob. Come back to steal my girl?”
Heintz dropped a glance at Banklin. “Sit down. I’ll buy.” He caught a waiter’s eye, told him to set up three over here.
Then he turned back to Bob. Heintz looked the same as ever. The same pinched shoulders, blown up by the well-tailored blue suit. The same pinched face, with the eyes close together over the nose. Crinkly blond hair. The same always-present imitation gardenia in the left lapel. He said, “Be around long, Bob?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought.” He used to fawn over this punk, Bob remembered. He used to think Heintz was hot stuff because he owned the Gilded Lily and wore expensive cloths and a gardenia in his buttonhole. And Bob was just a cheap sap to him. Send the young punk out on a job, let him risk his neck. It must have afforded Heintz many a laugh. And her — Marcillene — had she laughed with him when the young punk had gone?
The drinks came. Heintz fingered his. He looked at Bob, his eyes hard. Banklin shifted uneasily.
“Just one thing, Bob,” Heintz said. “I want you to get this straight, if you’re thinking of staying around town long. Keep away from Marcillene. I didn’t like the play you made for her before you went up the river, not a damned bit, Bob. The more I thought of it, the less I liked it.”
As if the mention of Marcillene’s name had brought her back, a rippled arpeggio came from the piano. The sounds were caressing, soft, but they crashed in Bob’s cars. His throat went tight. He gripped the edge of the table.
Over the top of the booth he could see her, sitting at the piano. A golden flash of loveliness. A flowing body beneath a clinging gown, a soft face touched by soft light, a blonde vision of hair with a feathery sort of white flower in it. She was looking out at the faces turned toward her, smiling. White teeth, blood-red lips. Blood-red nails rippling over the piano keyboard. Marcillene...
“See what I mean, Bob?” Heintz’ sardonic voice reached out to him. “My girl, Bob. Everything understood?”
“An angel,” Banklin sighed. “A golden angel!”
Bob barely heard their words. He was limp inside. He felt sweat crawling down the back of his neck. He knew what had driven his steps here. It wasn’t the desire to have a last look so he could forget her forever.
He tossed off his drink.
The liquor burned going down, but not enough to suit him. Three years of hating her because he’d once worshipped her. Hating her because she was identified in his mind with Heintz, the Gilded Lily, and its kind. With Peewee and Banklin, who’d once been Peewee’s closet friend but who now was willing to sic a revenge-hungry ex-con on him. Bob had wanted to break from it all, but now he could only watch the dim blue lights of the place blur in his vision, until only her face was clear before him.