Seigel’s face went a dusky red and a look of vicious fury jumped into his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself in time.
“Go away, Dolly,” Maurer said without looking round. “I’ve had enough of you tonight. Go home!”
Dolores slid off her stool, picked up her ermine wrap she had thrown carelessly over the back of a chair and walked across the room, trailing the wrap behind her. She moved slowly, a little smile on her red lips, and she swayed her hips slightly, attracting the attention of Gollowitz and Seigel who both watched her with intent expressions. As she passed Seigel, she wrinkled her nose at him.
“Good night, Abe,” she said at the door.
“Good night,” Gollowitz said with a little bow. He was careful not to look at her nor to let Maurer see the anger in his eyes.
“Good night, Louis,” she said.
“Oh, get out!” Maurer exclaimed angrily. “We’re busy!”
“And good night, darling.”
She went out, closing the door behind her.
Maurer made an impatient gesture with his hands.
“Damned women! If that bitch doesn’t…”
“We shouldn’t keep Mrs. Conrad waiting,” Gollowitz put in sharply.
“That’s right,” Maurer said. He looked over at Seigel. “Get friendly with her, Louis. She might be useful, but watch your tongue. Make sure she isn’t after information.”
“I’ll watch it,” Seigel said.
“Get back to her. I don’t have to tell you how to handle her, but handle her right.”
Seigel nodded and stepped out into the passage and closed the door.
Janey was waiting for him in the cocktail bar, and it gave him sadistic pleasure to see how worried she looked as she sat at the table. It was so obvious that she was thinking he had walked out on her, and she was once more alone.
“Well for goodness sake!” she exclaimed when she saw him. “You said five minutes and you’ve been a quarter of an hour.”
He grinned at her.
“The number was engaged.” He ran his eyes over her. She was good, but not in the same class as that red-headed devil. Still, she would have to do instead. He would take her somewhere in the dark and imagine she was Dolores. She wasn’t going to forget this night with him. He would leave a scar on her mind — a scar in memory of Dolores.
“Come on,” he said, taking her arm possessively. “Let’s eat.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I
MOE GLEB flicked a fried egg on to his plate, added two thick rashers of ham, dropped the hissing fry-pan into the sink and carried the plate to the table.
He was a thickset, undersized youth with a mop of sandy-coloured hair. His small, heart-shaped face was as white as fresh mutton fat; his small, deep-set eyes, his pinched thin mouth were hard and vicious. He looked what he was: a young hoodlum fighting with no holds barred to get into the money, as dangerous and as savage as a treed wild cat.
He sat down at the table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and began to eat ravenously.
From the window, Peter Weiner watched him.
“For cryin’ out loud!” Moe snarled, looking up suddenly. “Wadjer starin’ at? Ain’t yuh seen a guy eat before?”
“I was admiring your appetite,” Pete said quietly. “You’ve eaten twelve eggs and two pounds of ham since nine o’clock last night.”
“So wad? I gotta do somethin’ while we wait, ain’t I? Why the hell don’t yuh eat?”
Pete shrugged.
“I guess I’m not hungry. How much longer do you think we’ve got to wait like this?”
Moe eyed him; a sudden shrewd expression crossed his face.
This guy was queer, he was thinking. Not that he could blame him. If he had that port wine stain spread over his puss like Pete had, he’d be queer himself.
“Until that bum Louis sez we can go.” He shovelled ham into his mouth, chewed for a moment, reached for his coffee and took a long drink. “Wad gets up my bugle is why the hell yuh should be the guy to hit the frill. Why pick on yuh? Wad’s the matter wid me? I’ve hit scores of guys. Yuh ain’t hit any yet, have yuh?”
Pete shook his head.
“I’ve got to start some time.” He leaned forward and picked up Frances Coleman’s photograph and stared at it. “I wish it hadn’t to be her.”
“Jay-sus!” Moe said, grinning. “That’s right. I could do plenty to her without hittin’ her. Plenty!”
Pete stared at the photograph. The girl’s face had a queer effect on him. It wasn’t that she was so pretty; she was pretty, but not more than the average girl you saw around Pacific City. There was something in her eyes that moved him: an eager, joyous expression of someone who found life the most exciting adventure.
Moe watched him. He took in the neat grey flannel suit, the brown brogue shoes and the white shirt and neat blue and red stripe tie. The guy, Moe thought a little enviously, looked like a freshman from some swank college: he talked like one, too.
He couldn’t have been much older than Moe himself; around twenty-two or three. If it hadn’t been for the birth-mark, he would have been good-looking enough to get on the movies, Moe decided, but that stain would have put paid to the best-looking movie actor in the world: bad enough to haunt a house with. Moe told himself.
“Did Seigel say why we had to do this job, Moe?” Pete asked abruptly.
“I didn’t ask him. Yuh only ask that bum a question once, and then yuh go an’ buy yuhself a new set of teeth.” Moe poured himself more coffee. “It’s a job, see? Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. Yuh know how to do it, don’t yer?”
“Yes, I know,” Pete said, and a frozen, hard expression came over his face. As he stood in the light from the window, his eyes staring down into the street, Moe felt an uneasy twinge run through him. This guy could be tough, he told himself. Sort of crazy in the head. When he looked like that Moe didn’t like being in the same room with him.
Just then the telephone bell began to ring.
“I’ll get it,” Moe said, and dived out of the room to the pay booth in the passage.
Pete again looked at the photograph. He imagined how she would regard him when she saw him. That lively look of excitement and interest would drain out of her eyes and would be replaced by the flinching, slightly disgusted look all girls gave him when they came upon him, and he felt a cold hard knotting inside him; a sick rage that made the blood beat against his temples. This time he wouldn’t pretend not to notice the look; he wouldn’t have to force a smile and try to overcome the first impression she would have of him; not that he had ever succeeded in overcoming any first impression; they had never given him the chance.
As if he were some freak, some revolting object of pity, they would hurriedly look away, make some excuse — anything so long as they didn’t have to stay facing him, and she would do that, and when she did, he would kill her.
Moe charged back into the room.
“Come on! Let’s go! We’ve exactly half an hour to get there, do the job and get away, and the goddamn joint’s the other side of the town.”
Pete picked up a bundle of magazines, checked to make sure the three-inch, razor-sharp ice-pick was in its sheath under his coat, and followed Moe at a run down the dirty rickety stairs and out to the ancient Packard parked at the kerb.
Although it looked old, the Packard’s engine was almost as good as new under Moe’s skilful handling, and the car shot away from the kerb with a burst of speed that always surprised Pete.
“Here’s what we do,” Moe said, talking out of the side of his mouth. “I stay wid the heep and keep the engine running. Yuh ring the bell. If she comes to the door, give her the spiel about the magazines, and get her to invite yuh in. If someone else comes to the door, ask for her: Miss Coleman, see? Get her alone. Make out yer coy or something, see? Then give it to her. Hit her hard, and she won’t squeal. Then beat it. Use yer rod if yuh have to. Get back in the heep. We beat it to Wilcox an’ 14th Street and ditch the heep. Dutch’ll pick us up and take us to the club. We take a speed-boat to Reid Key an’ an airplane to Cuba.”