by Steve Fisher
After a few moments, he began to walk up and down the corridor. A couple passed him and he pretended to be on his way somewhere. Once they were inside their room, he returned to 203, took off his shoes and resumed pacing the corridor silently. He smoked one cigarette on top of another. His thoughts were like fireworks, off in all directions; and he found himself catching for breath—sucking deeply to get air into his lungs. Where is she? Where is she?
Time went on, on and on, the minutes crawling. He lit a match and checked his wristwatch a dozen times. Then he ran out of matches and couldn’t even light a cigarette; but he continued checking his watch in the moonlight on the fire escape at the rear of the hall. At two he knew she wasn’t coming. Maybe she had been followed. Maybe Bello suspected. She isn’t going to show up! That’s the thing, isn’t it? She won’t be here. Diane won’t be here. So why don’t you go back to Rainbow’s End and load up on drinks and forget this? But he couldn’t leave.
At fifteen after two he heard someone on the steps.
Just another tenant, he told himself, some weary dame who’s lost her week’s pay on the slot machines. But he watched the stairs avidly, and when Dee appeared, couldn’t even move. She stared at him for a moment in the dim light.
“Mai,” she whispered, “why you—you look terrible!” She unlocked the door of 203, and they went inside. He walked to the window that faced the street, refusing even to look at her until he had regained control of himself. He felt utterly stupid and helpless. But presently he relaxed and turned around, conscious now that he was still in his stocking feet.
She was at the door, her back to it. In black slacks and a dark blouse, she was like an exotic little peasant.
At last she said: “I’m afraid in here.”
“You’re being followed?”
“Nobody followed me, but I’m afraid. He has the syndicate on his side—big men and hundreds of little men. I don’t want to be trapped in a room like—”
“You won’t be trapped. We won’t be here very long.”
“Mai, I’m so afraid, I feel as if I’m dying of fright.”
“You won’t feel that way after tonight.”
“You have a plan?”
“Yes.”
His own fear was receding now—thank God it was receding; he was icy cold and resolved.
“I’ll do whatever you say—except—”
“There can be no exceptions. No arguments.” She was suddenly frightened anew, trying to read his eyes, to jump ahead and decipher what he was going to say before he said it. “There’s only one thing that’ll make Bello cut you free—so that you’ll really be free—where he’ll never molest you again.”
“What?”
“His pride.”
“But how are we—”
“That’s his only concern. What other people think of him. Almost anything he says or does in public—particularly in a casino, becomes famous.”
“Yes, I know, Mai, but—”
“So if somebody tells him in front of a room full of people that his girl wants to leave him—”
She grew pale. “Who’s going to do that?”
“I am. And since he’ll want to keep face, there isn’t a damn thing he can do but let you go.”
“Wait a minute.” She stared at him. “You’re going to tell him that I want out?”
He nodded. “Over that portable microphone that I sing into—so it’ll be loud and clear. To make it sound good, I’ll have to embellish it a little. Like saying that you’re in love with me. That’s a lie, but it doesn’t matter—as long as it works.”
There was silence now, and she was staring at him, her beauty never greater than at this moment: the exquisite and fragile angelic-waif face.
“You know I can’t let you do that.”
He said: “I’ve thought and thought and it’s the only possible way.”
“He’d kill you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’d certainly do something to you. Do you think he’d just forget it?”
“You asked me to help you—I was the one you chose. Remember?”
“But I’m not going to let you be hurt. Why, to even consider such a thing you must be—” She stopped. “Don’t say it.”
She was studying him. “I was going to say ‘crazy,’ but it isn’t that at all, is it?”
“No, I know the risk. I’m not crazy.”
She said slowly: “It’s—but you couldn’t!”
“Couldn’t what?”
She avoided the direct answer. “Tell me something. Think. Why does a girl choose a certain man to ask for help? One man above all others—and put her trust in him?”
“He reminds her of her father?”
“No. Try again.”
“We’re way off the subject, Diane.”
“No, we aren’t. I’m not going to let you go through with it. But if you did tell Bello I was in love with you, it wouldn’t be a lie.” She rushed on: “And you wouldn’t offer yourself up on a chopping block unless you—unless you felt the very same way!”
He felt numb all over now, and this old room where Wyatt Earp and all the others had once slept was suddenly so close it was suffocating. He saw Dee only through a haze of pain and longing.
“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re beautiful—only twenty years old—the whole world’s in front of you.”
Tears glistened in her uptilted green eyes. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m in love with you.”
He shook his head. “I’m not going to let you make two mistakes in your life.” He had to be sure this time. Sure of himself, of her. Love was too rare a thing to just jump at, or guess at.
“It isn’t a mistake!”
“We’ll get you out of this mess with Bello, then you can decide who and what you want.
“I want you!”
“No.”
“Yes.” She started unbuttoning her blouse. “I’ll prove that I want you.”
He caught her hand. “Not that way.”
“I don’t know any other way.”
“Not until you’re free. Not until it’s right. Will you let me tell him tonight?”
“If you say you love me.”
“I love you, Diane!”
“Then we’ll face him together—and take whatever he has to dish out—together. I’m that brave if you are. Are you that brave?”
He gazed at her and whispered: “Just this once in my life.”
And they were in each other’s arms then, kissing.
Thirty-three
“. . . Seven a winner. Pay the front line. Coming out again. It’s betting time. Ee-o-leven! A natural. Pay the line. He’s rolling them again. Take the odds on craps and eleven. Here they go!—Seven! Seven wins it again. Hop onto this hot shooter. Make your bets, please. Five, five a number. Now place your come and field bets. Man’s looking for a five. Nine, the number is five . . .”
It was 3:10 a.m. The play was heavy at every table in the room, the slot machines jangled ceaselessly; the mixer behind the cocktail bar buzzed almost every other minute; pretty waitresses wearing leather skirts and short cowboy boots slipped in and out with trays of free drinks for the customers who were gambling. Three-ten in the morning and Mai was at the piano. The fear was all through him now. It was a living thing in his stomach like a spasm of unendurable pain. His forehead was specked with sweat, and he was playing badly—and could scarcely sing at all. His voice sounded squeaky. Maybe he should postpone it all until tomorrow. No, no, if you postpone it now, you’ll never go through with it. You want to postpone it because you’re so afraid. He was afraid, and the fear was getting bigger all the time. He wanted to go somewhere and try and retch it up out of his stomach. He wanted to cry out against the savage pain of it. You’re not so brave now, are you? It’s nearly time when you should signal her, but you can’t; you’re going to quail; you’re too scared—you’re going to funk out. She’s glanced at you twice. She’s waiting. And if you don’t hurr
y up, the regular trio that plays at this hour will be back from intermission.
Suddenly Bello turned and was looking at him; his coal-black hair glistened with pomade, and the graying sideburns gave the heavy features a certain distinction. No mistaking, this was a big, big man; and his dead, cold expression seemed to throw down a gauntlet. Without a word, he left the crap table and started over. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, as usual, with a gray semisports shirt, open at the collar. It was his uniform. He stepped up to the higher level where the piano was.
Mai’s fingers froze on the keys, and Dee, at the table which Bello had left, stared unbelievingly. Joe watched, and even the stickman was looking up, his eyes no longer on the precious chips. All six of the piano high stools were filled, but Bello edged his way between two people, flipped over a hundred dollar chip that landed on the piano keys.
“Play My Melancholy Baby”
Mai picked up the hundred dollar chip, threw it back and if Bello hadn’t reached up and caught it in his hand, it would have hit him in the face.
“No tips at this piano.”
Bello glowered, and Mai, his hands steady now, and the lump of pain gone from his stomach, began to play the piano intro to the song. Bello’s face lost its threatening look; it changed to a smug expression of victory.
The command was obeyed: that was all that mattered to him. He didn’t know Mai would play a request for almost anybody—he’d even played this same song for Si Shelby, who’d sat there that night in his open hunting shirt, his money fanned out on the piano in front of him.
Bello stepped back down into the pit, and Mai caught Dee’s eye, nodded, gave her the signal: just so she’d be positive he meant it, he motioned with his head, and simultaneously sang:
Come to me, my melancholy baby
Very imperceptibly, she shook her head “no”; and tears she didn’t want to show glistened in her eyes. So she was scared, too. She’d thought it over.
Cuddle up and don’t be blue.
Bello was back at the table now, and made some remark to her, obviously in reference to Mai, for he pointed at him, then snickered. And Mai pleaded in song, himself surprised at how the lyrics suddenly applied.
All your fears are foolish fancy, maybe
Suddenly she was moving away from the dice table, swiftly, swiftly, as Bello stared after her, his face slowly creasing in great rage: she was coming toward the piano, and Mai kept playing, and now she was almost there, moving very fast, and walked around to the keyboard side, near the portable microphone, and sat on the piano stool with Mai.
There was scarcely a person in the entire room that didn’t know the significance of her action, and the buzz of voices was dying: there was a rush of silence. Joe signaled Mai to get Dee off the stool, and started toward them, but Bello snapped:
“No.”
It was so quiet now that his voice was heard clearly.
“Dee,” he said.
Mai stopped playing.
“Come back here.”
There was an even deeper silence. Joe evidently gave the word, and the dice chant and play had stopped at the main table. Out of deference to Bello, so he could make himself heard? As a favor to Mai, who had obviously arranged this? Or was it because of Joe’s burning curiosity?
“You heard me, come back here!”
The big man was running a desperate bluff. If she returned, he’d say she was drunk, acting up. But Dee remained on the piano stool.
Joe signaled the pit boss, and the other dice tables quit their play, the chant stopping. Even the clamor of the slot machines and much of the droning babble of the crowd died away. All attention was at the piano. Three hundred people or more were listening, watching. The sudden utter silence was almost unearthly, palling, and Mai thought: the dice have been rolling hour after hour, twenty-four hours a day, ever since the casino opened, so it’s historic—this is the day that for a while at least the dice stopped talking. Bello was looking around, uncomfortable, aware of all this, and Joe was watching him with enjoyment and contempt.
Mai picked up the microphone. Dee watched him tensely.
“She’s not coming back there any more,” Mai said, his voice magnified, “she’s staying here with me.”
Voice low, Bello snapped at Joe: “Get that man out of the casino.”
Through the microphone, Mai said: “I’m leaving. But she’s coming with me. We’re in love, Mr. Bello, and she doesn’t want to see you any more. Be the big man the world knows you to be and give us your blessing.”
He put the mike down now, placed his arm around Dee, and there was a long, naked silence through the whole casino. Then Bello’s voice was heard in what sounded almost like a snarl. He addressed Joe:
“What’s the matter with the dice game? Let’s get going!” Joe nodded to the pit boss, and suddenly all of the tables were back in full operation; and a crescendo of voices was heard: the slot machines began to clang again. Everything continued as usual. Up at the piano, Dee was faint.
“Sweetheart, let’s get out of here. Let’s get out of here right now.”
“No, no, if he has the guts to stay doing what he’s doing, so do I.”
She nodded, but reluctantly; a couple of men edged in close to Bello. And Mai was only half through a song when Joe glanced around and with a nod of his head indicated he should vacate the piano. Only then was Mai scared again. He stopped and climbed to his feet. Dee got up, too, and they left the stand.
Everybody watched them as they walked through the casino and out the door.
They hurried across the lawn toward his bungalow, and Dee was chattering in a kind of terror: “You were right. You see what his pride is? He had to prove to everybody that losing a girl meant nothing to him. He demanded that the dice game go on. That makes him a big man with the public. It meant so little, he just went on playing.”
“You sound like your pride is hurt.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Joe was a big help. Know that?”
“Yes, wasn’t he, though? Does he like you or something?”
“He hates Bello.”
“Sweetheart,” she said, “you know what we have to do, don’t you?”
They were passing the swimming pool. “If you don’t know,” she went on, “this time you’ll have to listen to me, and there can be no argument: we have to climb into your car and get out of town as fast as we can.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because if you don’t, Bello will—”
“He will anyway. If he’s going to do anything, he’ll find me—no matter where I go.”
“But, Mai—
They stopped, and he looked at her, trying to explain it very gently: “You’ve done your part—sitting up there with me. My big performance is yet to come. It’ll probably be in some dark place and less spectacular, but one goes with the other.”
“You mean you’re going to stay here and deliberately let him—”
“You can go, Diane. I’ll send you to Cincinnati and maybe I’ll meet you later. I mean, I will meet you if—” He was full of fear and couldn’t get any more words out. He took her by the hand and led her toward his bungalow. His car was parked on the narrow Rainbows End street in front.
“I won’t go,” she said, “I won’t leave you. Either we go together or I stay. But, darling, we can both go right now! Please!”
“And live in fear? Waiting for the day he—”
The telephone was ringing inside the bungalow. He hurried the remaining steps, unlocked the door and entered. She followed, turning on the lights. He picked up the phone. It was Sprig.
“Hi, Mai,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I hope you’re planning on leaving these premises in the next few minutes.”
“Well, I wasn’t, but—”
“Joe doesn’t want anything to happen here at Rainbow’s End.”
“Oh, I see.” His voice was flat.
“It’d be bad publicity for us.”
“Yeah. I guess it would.”
“Since Joe is asking you to leave he says to pay off your full contract; you can pick up your check at the desk on the way out. Okay?”
“Yeah—thank him for me.”
“Bello’s still at the table. But he’s had a couple of side conferences—so I’ll be over to watch out for you.”
“Thanks, Sprig.” He hung up and looked at Dee. “They want me off the property,” he said bitterly. “So we’ll do it your way. Make a run for it—and let the future take care of itself!”
“Oh, Mai, that’s what we have to do!”
“So help me pack, will you? They want me to hurry. And what about your stuff?”
“I don’t want it. At least half my wardrobe are dresses he bought. Can we afford new clothes for me?”
“Sure we can. We can afford anything for you.” He pulled his luggage out of the closet, then set the two pieces on the bed, unlocked them; opened drawers, tore clothes off hangers and in almost no time at all Dee was looking around, saying: “I think that’s all, unless—”
“Never mind.” He snapped the bags shut, and picked them up. “Let’s go.”
She opened the door, and he was starting out after her when she suddenly stopped. She was shoved back into the room, and two men came in, one a burly ex-pug and the other wearing a sports jacket over his brown tee shirt. They closed the door.
Mai put the suitcases down very carefully; and Dee screamed.
The men lost no more motion: they converged on Mai. He swung out at them, but the pug smashed him squarely on the jaw and he toppled backward, hitting his head on the end of the bed as he fell. Both men were kicking him in the side and in the stomach. Dee had stopped screaming, and through a blur he saw her rush at the man in the tee shirt. She had taken off one of her shoes, and was pummeling him with the high heel. He swept his arm back, sending her reeling. But she returned, brought the high heel down on the top of his head with a tremendous whack. The tee-shirted man whirled around, hit her viciously with the back of his hand. She fell, bleeding around the mouth, but got up and flew in again to the attack.
