by Steve Fisher
“Look,” Joe said, his voice low, shaking, “I’ll attend to my business—”
“Your business—our business—everybody who is part of Rainbows End—is that crap table out there. Nothing else. Anything or anybody that keeps you away from that game while Bello’s there—” he suddenly broke off, staring at Joe.
“I think I have it!”
“Have what?”
“What do you really know about Sunny Guido?”
Joe went white. “Enough. I know enough. She’s all right. You do have a suspicious mind, don’t you? Dirty, low-down and suspicious! Forget it!”
“When she’s pulling the floor out from under you?”
“She’s not—”
“Holy Toledo,” Sprig cut in, “Joe, listen! From the very beginning—the way she hung around here, around you—weeks before any of this began! Don’t think the group didn’t make plans far in advance, because they did. And this tomato—”
“I said lay off!” Joe s fists were still knotted.
“—You wouldn’t go for just any doll—glamour girl, anything like that. Your hide’s too thick. But a schoolteacher—a pure, innocent little—”
Joe grabbed him. “Knock it off! And right now. You’re so tired, you’re sick! Quit being so overzealous! Your mind rambles on and on—building up a big thing. Well, you’re wrong, I’m telling you, you’re wrong. You get some sleep and when you have a clear mind again you’ll know damn well how wrong you are. And then maybe you’ll apologize. But meantime, stay away from Sunny. I don’t want you to even think about her. That’s an order!” He turned and stormed out of the office.
Sprig was silent for a moment, Ochoa watching him, then he said:
“He’s hooked—all the way hooked. I never would have believed it.”
“Me, either,” Ochoa said. “But Miss Guido seems like—”
“—like an angel,” Sprig interrupted. “Sure she does. Hop the first plane to San Francisco and get me a complete rundown on her. Board of Education—her family—and be back by tonight!”
Ochoa was on his feet. “After what Joe said?”
“When he can no longer take care of himself,” Sprig said, “it’s up to us to do it.” He looked at Ochoa. “Go on, get going.”
Twenty-seven
Nevada is a marriage mill; over twenty thousand people a year take the vows in Las Vegas alone—probably because it’s so quick and easy: drunk or sober, sick or well, you can fly in, get joined in matrimony, and be on your way again in less than an hour. A divorce takes longer—that is, if you’re from out of the state. You must establish a Nevada address and live there for six consecutive weeks after which time you are eligible to become a resident. They’ll cleave the bonds for you then, though, with dispatch: neatly and bloodlessly; the Las Vegas court, vying with Reno’s, cranks out over thirty-five hundred divorces annually.
Mai woke at one-thirty in the afternoon with something prodding him, urging him to hit the floor; still too sleepy to remember what it was, he phoned room service and ordered breakfast, then got up and headed for the shower. The food would be delivered by the time he was shaved, and he could gulp it down, throw his clothes on, and run. Run where? Oh, yeah. The cheap hotel downtown.
Shortly after two o’clock, wearing slacks and a sports shirt, he felt fresh, chipper, and was ready to leave the bungalow. But the moment he was outside the heat closed in, enveloping him, clinging to him soggily, until he was half gasping, his body oozing with sweat. He made his way through the inferno toward the parking lot. The swimming pool was entirely deserted, the water shimmering whitely in the angry glare that burned down from the sky; the glassy tile around it was sizzling in reflected sunlight. This was the peak of the day. The heat might ease off later. There was no guarantee, yet it might; it often did.
But in his car, with the top up, and driving at forty miles an hour, it seemed to get hotter by the minute. He didn’t head for Fremont with its downtown gambling emporiums; he parked instead on a business street a few blocks away. It was cluttered with small factories, appliance, hardware and tool stores; and squeezed between them on either side of the street, two shoddy-looking hotels.
He climbed from the car and was now so drenched with sweat, he could have sworn he was melting. He walked over to the entrance of Hotel Cornwall, which was on this side of the street and went inside quickly, expecting relief from the heat. There was none. It was hotter, stickier in the hotel’s small lobby than it was outside. No air conditioning. The guests just sweated it out. He turned and made a fast exit. Then he crossed the street to The Mammoth.
It was a commercial hotel, the lobby fairly large; but there were no air coolers here, either—only a large electric fan, droning loudly as it swung back and forth, churning up the humid air. The room clerk, a man in his fifties garbed in dungaree trousers and a tee shirt, was adding a column of figures and though aware of Mai’s presence, didn’t immediately look up. Mai stood there restlessly, his clothes wet and sticking to him, his face bathed in glistening pools. Finally he said:
“Hey, don’t any of these fleabag hotels downtown have air conditioning?”
The clerk, irritated both by the interruption and the insult, carefully made a mark beside the row of figures, then met Mai’s eyes.
“Any what kind of hotels?”
Mai grinned. “I was needling you, Dad.”
“How long do you intend to stay?”
“Just tonight.”
The clerk pushed a registration card over, and Mai signed it: “Mr and Mrs. Ed Raymond.”
“Oh, your wife is with you?” The clerk glanced around the empty lobby.
“No, she’s down on Fremont buying a dress.”
“That’ll be two dollars.”
Mai paid it, and the clerk handed him a key, then returned to his column of figures. Mai looked at the leather tab attached to the key. It was stamped with the name of the hotel and the numerals 203.
It was a small room, facing the street. The two windows were closed, the panes of glass in them dusty and weather-streaked. There was a large bed with a mattress that was lumpy in some places and sagged in others; the brass posters that held it up had evidently once been shiny but the chrome had long ago worn off and the metal was ugly and darkish. The highboy wooden dresser was warped, and the quicksilver in its mirror seemed weary now, and was so unquick you could scarcely see yourself in it. There was an old-fashioned basin atop the dresser, a Gideon Bible and a small electric fan. Yet, though the wooden walls seemed ancient, and the rug on the floor was threadbare in spots, everything was clean except the windows.
Mai mopped sweat with his already soaking-wet handkerchief, and for a moment wondered about the history of the room. Did it date back to the old days of Nevada? The outside of the building looked old enough to have originated in the eighties. And here in the room he felt like a character in a Western movie. If he looked out the window, would he see his horse tethered at the hitching post below? How many painted women of yore had contributed to bouncing the shape out of that mattress? How many lone gunmen had spent their last night on earth here? Were any babies born in that bed? How many people had died in it? The number of couples who had made love in it would be fantastic. No use speculating there. He was looking slowly around. A hotel room with a past. Then he tried to visualize Dee here. When the vision suddenly became very clear, he put the key in his pocket and left.
At a cocktail table back in Rainbows End, he surprised the waitress by ordering a straight lemonade. Then, when he’d finished it, he decided that inasmuch as he had another hour or so before it was cool enough to go swimming, he’d take a nap. He left the casino and walked through heat that now was beginning gradually to diminish: it was almost bearable.
Inside the bungalow, he undressed, put on swimming trunks and stretched out on the bed. He heard the voice a few seconds later and at first thought it was his imagination. It was low, whispered—and intensely urgent:
“Mai, open the door, quickly
. Please, quickly!”
He looked toward the window and saw Dee’s face. Then he sprang up and rushed to the door and opened it and let her in before anyone could see her. That is, if someone hadn’t already. He moved to the windows and shut the Venetian blinds tightly. Then he snapped on the bed lamp and turned around and looked at her. She had on white slacks and a green blouse and green sandals. His stomach turned over. “Dee—what’s the—why are you here?”
“I had to see you!”
“But, coming over here in—broad daylight!”
“Nobody saw me, Mai. I was careful.”
“How’d you know which bungalow was mine?”
“I just now saw you walk in here.”
He sat down on the bed and reached for a cigarette. His hands were shaking so hard he could scarcely get it out of the pack.
“I was warned—that unless I stayed away from you—”
“He warned me, too.” Now she moved to him, took the ‘ cigarette pack, extracted one, put it between his lips, then flicked a flame from her lighter. “But if you’re this scared, we’ll call it off. Okay, Mai? It was crazy anyway. I’m very selfish to ask anybody to get mixed up in anything like this on my account. After all, it’s no skin off you. I really had a nerve to even—”
“Shut up, Dee.” He puffed at the cigarette.
“No, I’m serious. I don’t want you to get hurt, I don’t want anybody to get hurt. Thanks anyway, though. The thought was there—and that’s what’s important.”
She started for the door. He jumped up, caught her arm. And in that awful moment something brand new hit him. Just the touch of her hand made him tingle. He let go of her, but now she was looking up into his face, waiting for him to say whatever he had intended to say.
He nodded. “Maybe we’d better—”
“Mai, what’s the matter?”
He turned away. “I wish to God I knew!”
“So long.”
Without facing her, he said harshly: “Look, I said we’d make a plan—work something out.” He swung around now. “And that’s what we’re still going to do. Nothing’s changed. I’ve already rented the room, in fact.” He went over and picked up the hotel key. “Here’s the key.” He gave it to her but would not look at her. “It’s tonight. Around 1:30 A.M.—right after my piano session.”
He heard her say: “Not if you want to back out.”
“I don’t want to back out. But there’s something else I have to tell you. Yesterday—when I met you at the dam—I was told to be there. My boss wanted it set up so he could bug Bello.”
“Didn’t you want to meet me?”
“Sure, but I wouldn’t have. If he hadn’t insisted, I’d have been too yellow to risk it.”
“Is he still insisting?”
“No—now it’s the other way around—like I told you. The new orders are to ‘keep a country mile away from her.’ ” He pointed at the key she was holding. “Hotel Mammoth. It’s old and sorry and hot. But a safer room to meet in than this one.”
He at last met her eyes and found her studying his face.
She said: “Touch my hand again.”
He touched it, then pulled away.
She said softly: “My real name is Diane.”
“I like that better than Dee.”
“Nobody’s ever called me by my real name.”
“May I?”
“Yes.”
There was a silence between them.
She asked: “Am I looking at you in the same way?”
“How?”
“The way you’re looking at me?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“I think I am,” she said.
“Crazy world.” He was trying to throw it away.
“It certainly is.”
“Be careful tonight, won’t you? He may have someone following you.”
She nodded. “I’ll be careful. Don’t worry. I’d better leave now.”
“All right, I’ll go outside, look around.” He raised the Venetian blinds. “You watch—and when the coast is clear, I’ll light a cigarette.”
“Good.”
Outside, it was still hot, and there was very little human traffic: but he checked everybody in sight. Then when he was sure it was safe, he lit the cigarette he’d brought with him. She slipped out of his bungalow and moved swiftly away. He watched her go.
He was trying not to think, or even feel.
Twenty-eight
4:42 P.M.
Joe was aware of a quiet commotion close to the table. The seedy player in the hunting shirt who had been in constant action since five this morning was showing signs of breaking completely. Like some kind of maniac, he was no longer rational. Eyes glazed, he continued to dig down, buy chips—which he lost within minutes. Twice he’d left the table, undoubtedly to get more money: and brought it back in large bills, even though he hadn’t once approached the cashiers window. No ordinary man carries that much cash legitimately. You stand on the house side of the dice table and watch people’s faces and you learn to judge them accurately. This man was a fugitive.
It didn’t bother Joe that he was running from the law so much as it did that he was reaching a desperate state of shock which could turn into some form of violence. He was debating whether to warn Sprig when one of the waitresses from the coffee shop, an albino blonde, moved up to the man, touched his arm. She was apparently off duty because she wore a pale blue frock that accentuated the extreme milk-white of her skin.
“Everything all right, Si honey?” Her voice was anxious. “Yeah—fine.”
“We are leaving soon, aren’t we?”
Shelby wasn’t even listening. His eyes were on the dice table.
“You said we were.”
“Anything I said—fine.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“Are we leaving?”
“Any time now.”
“I’ll go pack then.”
“Just go.”
“I shall love it.”
“Beat it, will you?”
“Hollywood!” She sighed.
He turned toward her. “If you don’t get out of here—” His temples were throbbing; he looked like a madman. He choked back his anger. “If you don’t get out of here,” he repeated, “you won’t be going anywhere.”
“All right, dear, I’ll be waiting for you.” She walked off quickly.
Studying Shelby only a moment longer, Joe knew he had to ask Sprig to keep a watch on him. He moved away from the table—headed for the office. But Sprig wasn’t there.
Rux sat at the desk and when he saw Joe seemed uneasy. “Where’s Sprig?” Joe asked.
“I—gosh, I don’t know, Mr. Martin. Maybe he’s corking off somewhere. He sure needs the sleep.”
“You lying to me?”
“No—I—he didn’t say exactly where he’d be.”
“He always says exactly where he’ll be.”
“Probably so tired he just forgot.”
Joe looked at Rux, then walked out. He glanced around the casino, and not seeing Sunny either, suddenly remembered he had noticed her start in the direction of the penthouse stairs some half hour ago. Probably to change into a swim suit, he’d decided then; it was getting toward the hour, on these sizzling days, when people finally came out to swim. She should have been down by now—and Sprig was on some mysterious errand! He squashed the cigarette he had just lit in a nearby ash stand and strode toward the stairs.
Sunny, wearing her bathing suit, sandals and a yellow toweling beach jacket, was backed against the wall of the penthouse, facing the tall, thoroughly exhausted Sprig, looking at the fury etched on his face, the deep, engulfing circles under his eyes. He had arrived shortly after she changed and it seemed now she had been facing him forever. He kept asking her endless, pointless, inane questions in the same, unchanging tired voice.
“You never knew anybody who lived in Las Vegas before?”
“No.”
&
nbsp; “You’re sure?”
He didn’t believe her. “Well, I—I come from a big family—” she started.
“Go on!”
“Go on—what?”
“And a few of the kids, your brothers and sisters, left home after they were of age and you’re not sure where some of them went. Isn’t that what you were going to say?” A terror was growing in her. “How did you know?”
“So one or two of them might have—just might have—come to Las Vegas?”
She felt cold inside. “What are you getting at?”
“Maybe you didn’t know about it until later.”
“Know what until later?” she said desperately.
“About them living here.”
He was weaving a web around her, putting words in her mouth.
“I—I don’t know what it is you want me to say!”
“Yes, you do. Think now. You do!”
She was just staring at him as the door was flung open and Joe walked in. Relief surged through her; she wanted to run to him. But she was still, motionless. Sprig turned and the two men stood gazing at one another knowing now there was real trouble between them and that it was irrevocable.
“What’d you learn?” Joe’s rage was so great he could scarcely get the words out.
“Nothing,” Sprig said, “yet.”
“Sunny, has he—touched you—laid a hand on you?”
“No.”
“He has a way of shaking a woman when he wants her to talk. It always works. He knows every trick there is.” He was looking at Sprig again. “But he doesn’t understand people. Sunny, do you have anything you want to tell him?”
She saw that Joe was in almost a trance. “Joe, he—he was very polite to me. Please, it’s all right!”
“Go downstairs.”
“Joe!”
“Go on!”
She left hurriedly.
Joe said: “If you’d shaken her she would have talked. Just like a Mama doll. The harder you shook her the more she’d repeat it: ‘I love Joe. I love Joe.’ ” There was agony on Joe’s face. “Too bad you didn’t shake her and get that confession. Yes, to use your words, that’s the Wop I was up here humping last midnight. You couldn’t leave her alone, could you? You had to pry into my private life. The best private and most private life I’ve had since the day I was born!”
