Sam went into the bedroom, while Johnny stepped out of the tub and began drying himself. Before he was finished, Sam came to the bathroom door.
“He went out, they said.”
“Try Susan’s room upstairs.”
Sam grimaced. “Me and Susie ain’t on such good terms.”
“How come?”
“Well, I went into the saloon downstairs to get a beer and there was Susie with this guy Armstrong. Armstrong insulted me and I kinda choked him a little. Susie didn’t seem to like it.”
“Armstrong and Susan Fair,” mused Johnny. “Armstrong had a crush on Marjorie.”
“Oh, they didn’t look like that,” Sam said. “They was just talking together, serious-like.”
Johnny began dressing himself. “Call her room.”
Sam did, but received no answer. “You’d think people would stay home.”
“Maybe they’re having dinner together?” suggested Sam. “I’m so hungry myself I could start eating the furniture. But there isn’t time to eat.”
The phone rang and Johnny went out and caught it up. “Yes?”
It was the hotel operator. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but they say at the Club Mague that Mr. Seebright isn’t mere. Shall I try again later?”
“No,” said Johnny. “Thanks.” He hung up. “I guess he’s on the way over. Well, we’ll run over, too, and maybe get time to grab some dinner.”
Sam headed into the bathroom to clean up.
It was nine o’clock when they got out of a taxi in front of the Club Mague, a dive in the basement of a dingy brown-stone building on Fifty-second Street. A liveried doorman gave them the once-over and opened the door reluctantly.
Inside a velvet rope was up, even though Johnny, looking into the restaurant, saw vacant tables. The head waiter shook his head condescendingly.
“All filled up.”
“Where?” asked Johnny. “You got room in there for Coxey’s army.”
“Reserved, all tables reserved.”
Johnny dug into his pocket, and bringing out his money, sorted out a five dollar bill. The head waiter looked at it and at Johnny’s unprepossessing face. “Sorry,” he persisted. Johnny swore under his breath and skinned out a ten-spot “Bet you this can find a table.”
The waiter palmed the tenner and took down the velvet rope. “Right this way, sir.” He led Johnny and Sam to a tiny table at the far, far end of the room where the lights were dim. He held out a chair for Johnny and said, solicitously, “An accident, sir?”
“Fight,” said Johnny.
“Ah, Madison Square Garden?”
“Alley. Just an alley fight...”
The head waiter smiled vacantly and signaled to a waiter. When the latter came up, Johnny brushed away the thirty-six sheet menu. “Two steaks,” he said, “and a ham sandwich apiece for an appetizer, while we’re waiting. And two double Scotches for me and one for my friend...”
“Make that two for me, too,” said Sam.
Chapter Eighteen
The waiter went off and Johnny, leaning back, searched the interior of the Club Mague for familiar faces. He saw two in a booth a short distance away. Doniger and Farnham, late of the late Mariota Record Company. A woman with a bosom sat beside Doniger.
“Holler when the meat comes, Sam,” he said, getting to his feet. He bore down on the trio in the booth.
“Hello, fellows,” he said as he came up.
Doniger looked up at him coldly. “Yes?”
“Too bad about the old Mariota outfit, isn’t it?” Johnny sympathized. “Although I don’t suppose it’ll mean so much to you two. With your backgrounds you shouldn’t have any trouble getting jobs.”
“How long is it since you’ve had a job?” Doniger asked pointedly.
Johnny chuckled. “Right there with the old one-two! Guess I asked for that one.” He seated himself in the booth beside Farnham and facing Doniger and the woman with the bosom. He smiled confidentially at Farnham. “H’arya, Eddie?” Then, without waiting for a response he looked across at Doniger again. “I’ve got a friend named Doug Esbenshade might be able to give you something, Donny...”
“You know Esbenshade?” Doniger exclaimed.
Johnny held up two fingers, pressed tightly together. “Like that, Doug and me. One of the richest men in Iowa, Doug is. But sharp, too. That’s why he foreclosed on Mariota.”
The woman beside Doniger nudged him sharply. Doniger started. “Oh, excuse me — Ruthie, this is Mr. Fletcher. Fletcher, my wife...”
“Mrs. Doniger! Well, I’m certainly glad to meet you.” To Doniger: “You sly dog, I didn’t know you were married. Why don’t you tell people?”
“He’s very much married,” Mrs. Doniger said sharply. “And there are two children at home, too. I don’t suppose he told about them either?”
“Now, now, Ruthie,” said Doniger, squirming.
“Two kids!” exclaimed Johnny. “Well...!” He leaned back and looked fatuously at Doniger. Then he said: “By the way, Vi phoned me today.”
“Vi?” asked Mrs. Doniger.
“Violet Rodgers, the switchboard operator at Mariota. A stunner...!”
Doniger was as pale as the newly washed sheet of a Ku-Kluxer. He said nervously, “When do you expect to see Esbenshade again?”
“Oh, probably tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you. But I was going to tell you about Vi—”
“Cut it out,” Doniger snarled.
“Oh, no, Mr. Fletcher,” said Mrs. Doniger in a deadly calm voice. “Tell us about Vi. A stunner, I believe you said...”
Johnny whistled suggestively and rolled his eyes. Then he appealed to Farnham. “Isn’t she, Eddie?”
Farnham just looked dumb, which was par for him.
“I suppose Vi’s going to lose her job, too,” purred Mrs. Doniger.
“With her looks she’s got nothing to worry about,” said Johnny.
Sam Cragg hissed loudly, “Johnny, grub!”
Johnny got up. “Oh, excuse me, folks, I’ll drop by again later.”
He walked quickly back to his own table, where the ham sandwiches, loaded with lettuce, butter and mayonnaise, were just being placed on the table. Johnny scowled as he sat down and picked up his sandwich.
“Is there a law says you’ve got to put mayonnaise on a sandwich?” he demanded of the waiter.
“Why, I don’t think so,” said the waiter. “The cook—”
“Tell him there are more people don’t like mayonnaise than do. When I get back to Congress I’m going to introduce a bill forbidding the manufacture of the damn stuff. Take this back — and see that the cook doesn’t just put new bread around the ham. I don’t want a speck of mayonnaise on it. Not even a smell. Understand...?”
“And that goes for me, too!” growled Sam.
The waiter gathered up the sandwiches. Johnny looked over at the Doniger booth. Mrs. Doniger was giving her husband the business and the latter was defending himself warmly and with the expression of a cat being whipped after upsetting the cream bowl.
“I just fixed up Doniger with his wife,” Johnny said, cheerfully to Sam.
“He’s sure catching it, too. What’d you say?”
“It wasn’t what I said; it was the way I said it. Mrs. D. is sure now that her husband’s been two-timing her with Violet Rodgers.”
Sam jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a slip. “Jeez, I forgot — she telephoned today. Said she’d meet you at the same place as last night.”
“This is a fine time to tell me — oh-oh...!” He looked past Sam.
Susan Fair was coming into the room. Behind her was Orville Seebright, wearing a neat blue suit with white piping around the vest lapels, and black piping on the coat. The head waiter was bringing them to the table next to Johnny’s and Sam’s, and as they approached Johnny got to his feet.