He continued to read the papers, scouting the personals and want ads for both leads and jobs. He did a lot of leg work, up and down the winter streets, making a systematic canvass of barbershops and nearby cafes and hangouts—any place that in the remotest likelihood might produce a lead to Lou Roberts.
The damp snow weather had passed and the air was dry and cold. It braced him, but he was on edge, restless, longing for some kind of action. He had given up making the rounds of the taverns, because it had got him nowhere and he didn’t want to spend the money. Besides, he felt his best lead so far was right there in the rooming house, if only he could find a way to develop it without drying up the springs of information. He hadn’t seen Mrs. Blake since the Thanksgiving “tête-à-tête.” He had thought about going to see her, to pump her about Roberts, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t talk about it when sober, and drunk, she was, to put it mildly, undependable.
Neither had he seen Irene since the night she had come fishing for an invitation to dinner. He suspected it would be more difficult to get information out of her than from Mrs. Blake, but he knew the time would come when the way would open.
* * * *
It came sooner than he had any right to expect—on a cold, windless night in early December. As usual, he was sitting in his room, in the dark, waiting, stolid and patient, as if he were suspended motionless while the world moved about him, near him, all around him, but not touching him.
At ten-thirty he heard footsteps in the hall, a man and a woman, and recognized the tone of Irene’s giggle. They passed his door and a moment later the light went on in her room. The shade was only half drawn and Irene made no move to pull it down. There was nothing unusual in this; sometimes she did and sometimes she didn’t.
Her client was a well-dressed man of middle age who was in a state of drunkenness bordering on stupefaction. He handed her some money, which she laid on a night-stand near the bed. Then she tried to put him off, apparently in the hope that he would pass out and forget the terms of their transaction. But he wouldn’t be put off and finally she submitted, not bothering to undress beyond the essential minimum. The procedure required about three minutes and Mickey found himself elaborately disinterested. At its conclusion, the man, with alcoholic extravagance, opened his wallet and dangled a piece of currency.
Irene played it coy, lowering her eyes modestly; then, without waiting too long, raised her skirt and permitted him to stuff the bonus into the top of her stocking. He gave her a pat and weaved out of the room. Mickey heard him going away and downstairs, and then it was quiet again. Irene went to the bathroom, returned and sat on the bed, attended to her manicure and brooded.
Ten or fifteen minutes passed and he heard footsteps approaching again, heavy, masculine, not drunk. There was some knocking and Irene got up to let him in. It was a younger man than her recently departed customer. He was heavy-set, bulky in an overcoat and a low-brimmed hat. The collar was turned up and Mickey could see little of his face.
He said something to her and Irene stood aside and gestured toward the money on the nightstand. He counted it, put some of the bills in his pocket and left the remainder. Irene watched him sullenly. He said something more and she shook her head and shifted her nail file to her left hand. The man spoke again and she shook her head stubbornly.
He seized her wrists, twisting till the file fell from her hand. He had bent her backward and she was staring up at him, shaking her head. Her mouth worked as if she were cursing him. He pushed her down onto the bed and she kicked at him. He pushed her dress down and made a search about her stockings. It didn’t take long. He found the hidden currency and put it in his pocket. He straightened and spoke to her and Irene kicked at him with both feet. He pushed them aside, leaned over the bed and struck her three times across the face, right, left and right again. She rolled slowly onto her side and buried her face in her arms. The man started out of the room.
It looked like the break he’d been waiting for. Mickey reached for his coat and hat and stood at the door, listening to the heavy feet going away. They started down and he counted the steps to the first landing. Then he left the room quietly and went after him, buttoning his coat as he went.
At the top of the stairs he waited, peering down the switchback of the banisters. When the guy was two full flights clown, Mickey went on down himself. He heard the front door of the building open and close as he turned down the last flight toward the ground floor. Mrs. Blake’s apartment opened, and she slid into the hall and leaned beside the door, watching where the guy had disappeared. She didn’t look at Mickey till he started past her.
“What’d he do, beat her up again?” she snapped. “She probably asked for it, sucker.”
“You know his name?” Mickey asked, his hand on the doorknob.
She just glared at him.
“Men!” she said, and she made a spitting mouth. “Chasing after a dirty, chiseling bitch like her. When a good man could have it for free if he had any sense.”
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “If I run into a good man, I’ll let him know.”
He got outside, moving quickly now, crowding the shadows of the entry as he headed toward the street. The guy was walking away to Mickey’s right, toward the deserted corner half a block away. A heavily bundled couple, male and female, passed and Mickey left the entry and got to the sidewalk behind them.
His man turned right at the corner. The screening couple was moving fast and Mickey paused in the shelter of the abandoned store front in the corner building and looked around. If the guy had a car handy, he would have to do some running to get back to his own and get it going.
But the subject was still walking, faster now. The entire neighborhood was closed down for the night and Mickey remembered an alley midway along the block. He moved around the corner and went on at a shuffling trot, closing the gap between them. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the dry concrete.
When they reached the wide-mouthed alley, they flanked it, one at each corner. The bulky one hadn’t looked around.
“Hey, you,” Mickey said, and moved diagonally into the alley.
The guy stopped, stood stiffly, his head swiveling cautiously.
“Don’t look around,” Mickey said. “Just back up around the corner. You’re covered and, man, I’ll drop you, believe me. Now back up in here.”
There was a moment of hesitation, then the pimp grumbled, “Okay, take it easy.”
He backed slowly till he was clear of the brick building that formed one wall of the alley.
“In here,” Mickey said.
Uncertainly, the big guy backed into the shadows. Mickey grabbed the collar of the overcoat, jerked hard and swung him against the wall, moving out in the same moment to pin his arms to the brick. The impact knocked the guy’s hat off and Mickey could see him all right now. He wasn’t anybody familiar. His face was gross-featured and, at the moment, fearful.
“What the hell—?” he said.
“I want the dough you took off Irene,” Mickey said.
“You’re nuts—”
Mickey slapped him with the back of his hand. The guy’s head snapped and he went off balance. Mickey straightened him up.
“Okay, okay,” the guy said. “It’s not worth it. You want me to get it out or you want to feel around for it?”
“Go ahead,” Mickey said, “get it out. Just the money.”
He released the arms, stepped back a little but stayed within reach. The guy reached into his pocket and paused, looking at Mickey’s open hands.
“Some guts,” he grumbled. “You ain’t even heeled.”
“Try something,” Mickey said.
“Okay, forget it.”
His hand came out and there was a bill in it. Mickey gestured impatiently.
“Come on. The one you took out of her stocking. Don’t pull that switch on me; I’ll make you hurt for a month.”
“Listen, it was only a twenty.”
“Get it up.”
&n
bsp; The guy reached into his overcoat pocket and brought out another bill.
“Just toss it over there,” Mickey said, nodding.
He flipped the bill to one side.
“I didn’t know Irene had a boyfriend,” he said.
“You got the wrong lead,” Mickey said. “I’m no boyfriend. I’m taking over.”
“You’re what? You’re nuts! I been working this string for a year.”
“I don’t want the string. Just Irene. I figure I can make her into something.”
“Make her into what, for crissake?”
“I got an attachment for her. See, I sort of inherited her, from Lou Roberts.”
“Roberts. That schnook? He’s been gone from here forever. You been suckered.”
“Maybe. You got the message now? Don’t come around Irene. She’s mine.”
“You can have her. She ain’t worth the trouble it takes to climb the stairs.”
“Pick up your hat,” Mickey said. “You can go now.”
The guy leaned down warily and picked up his hat. “Hey,” he said, “you said you inherited her from Roberts. What happened to him?”
“Nothing. He’s living it up, like always.”
A short, throaty laugh.
“Living it up—in Denver?”
Mickey said nothing.
“Well, good luck, sucker,” the other one said. “Tell Irene goodbye for me.”
“Get going now, huh?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He put on his hat, hitched up his coat and turned away out of the alley. Mickey scooped up the bill and headed back to the rooming house. Mrs. Blake was not in sight when he got there.
He went upstairs and knocked on Irene’s door. There was a long pause. Then he heard her voice close to the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Joe. Joe Marine.”
“Who? Oh. Well, what do you want?”
“I’ve got something for you.”
A pause.
“I’ll bet you have.”
“Something that belongs to you,” he said. “Money.” After a moment he heard the bolt slide back, and the door opened. She had undressed and was wearing the sheer negligee again. Her feet were in worn pumps with rundown heels.
“Well?” she said.
He pushed inside, closed the door and leaned against it. “What happened?” she said dully. “You finally get hungry?”
He held up the twenty-dollar bill. She looked at it cautiously, ran her tongue over her lips.
“What’s it for?” she asked.
“It’s yours. A guy gave it to you and another guy took it away from you.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You go around doing good or something?” she said.
“It’s the same bill. I got it from the guy who took it from you.”
“You what? Off Patsy? You’re crazy!”
“So I’m bringing it back.”
She reached for the money.
“All right. It’s mine. Give it to me.”
He held onto it.
“I will. But I want to know something.”
Her shoulders slumped. She turned away, sat down on the bed and rubbed her face with her hands.
“Okay,” she said wearily, “give me the hook. What do you want, the story of my life?”
“Just part of it,” he said. “The part about Lou Roberts.”
Her head lifted slowly and she made a face—a bad face. He thought for a second she was going to be sick. “What about Lou Roberts?” she said.
“Well, I heard some things about him. I’m trying to get in touch with him.”
She looked at him for a long time.
“Get out of here,” she said. “Go on. Blow.”
He shrugged, stuffed the money into his pocket.
“Maybe I had the wrong dope,” he said. “I understood you knew Lou Roberts.”
She was sitting stiff and straight on the bed. Her hands clutched her knees so tightly that the knuckles were pale. “Yeah,” she said, “I knew Lou Roberts.”
She rose to her feet. Her hands fumbled at the belt of her robe. She gathered the front panels in both hands, opened the negligee and faced him.
It was on her middle belly. It was clear enough—an L-shaped pink scar, forming an incomplete frame for her navel. It had been cut skillfully, deep enough to scar, not deep enough to destroy. It would be a thing for a girl to remember.
She looked down at herself almost curiously.
“Guys see that, you know,” she said. “‘That’s pretty cute,’ they say. I tell them it stands for love.”
She closed the robe and sat down on the bed.
“Do you know where Roberts is now?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I don’t know.”
He laid the twenty on the nightstand.
“Okay,” he said. “Good night.”
* * * *
He had got his coat off and was hanging it up when she knocked on the door, a flurry of small fists beating. He opened up and she came in, reaching for him.
“Listen,” she said, “you got that money from Patsy, you would have to beat the hell out of him. What’d you do? Is he dead?”
“No, he’s not dead.”
She swayed against him, pushed back, ran her hands through her hair and leaned against the wall, shaking her head.
“Oh God,” she said, “you dumb jerk. Now what? He’ll come back. He’ll lay for me.”
“Now take it easy—”
“Take it easy! What do you know around here? Girls have got killed for less than what you did—”
“Don’t worry about Patsy. He won’t be back.”
“Oh, he won’t be back, huh? They always come back. With their big dirty hands and the stinking cigars—they come back. With acid they come back—with knives—razors—”
He took her arms and shook her gently. Her long platinum hair swung about her face. She showed her bad teeth at him.
“Let me go! You got me killed. That’s not enough?”
“Listen to me,” Mickey said, holding her. “Patsy is chicken. I stacked him up against the wall. He wasn’t even bruised. I asked him for the money and he gave it to me. That’s how tough Patsy is.”
“You’re not a girl!” she yelled.
She put her face against his chest.
“Oh God!” she said. “Oh sweet Jesus! The guys I run into!”
She felt fragile in his hands, like a thin stick that would break in two if he didn’t let go. There was an unpleasant smell about her, the smell of fear. She was shaking spasmodically and he thought she wasn’t putting it on. She was really scared.
Of course, he thought, she might just be cold in that skimpy bathrobe…
Suddenly she pulled away and threw herself on the bed. After a minute, Mickey went to the closet, took down his suitcase and opened it on the bed beside her.
“Oh God!” she was moaning. “Oh God, what’ll I do?” When he didn’t say anything, she raised herself and stared at the suitcase.
“So you’re going to run out now?” she said.
“Not exactly.”
“Boy, you fixed me good.”
He was packing hurriedly now and he let some time go by before he said casually, “Then maybe you’d better go with me.”
“Go—where?” she said.
“Like out West,” he said.
Her eyes showed some interest.
“Las Vegas?” she said hopefully.
“Maybe, in due time.”
“Where first?”
“Denver,” he said.
“Denver!” She frowned petulantly, her lower lip out-thrust. “My God, you really are looking for Lou Roberts?” He stared at her. She put her hand to her mouth.
“So you knew he was in Denver. How come you didn’t tell me?”
She pouted.
“I didn’t want to get mixed up in anything.”
“You don’t have to get mixed up in anything. But you can help m
e find him. I’ll make it worth your while.”
She chewed her lip, calculating.
“If I go to Denver with you,” she said, “when you get through there will you take me to Las Vegas?”
“Maybe. I won’t make a deal on it.”
“Then I won’t go.”
“If you don’t go,” Mickey said, “I’ll find Patsy and tell him I changed my mind. He can have you back.”
“You dirty rat!”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
She sat up and hugged her knees to her breast.
“When are you going?” she asked.
“As soon as you’re ready.”
“All right.”
She got off the bed carefully.
“Need any help with your suitcase?” he said.
“I haven’t got a suitcase.”
He took his own off the bed.
“You can use what’s left of mine,” he said.
He went with her to her room and put the suitcase on the bed. She was shrugging out of the negligee when he went out. He wrote a note to Mrs. Blake, reminding her that his rent was paid up for an extra week and saying he was sorry he couldn’t give her more notice. When he looked across the air shaft, Irene was replacing the cap on a half-full pint bottle of whisky. He went back in there and closed the suitcase. There was a cheap, brown fur coat lying on the bed.
“Is your rent paid up?” he asked her.
“Sure. So what?” she said.
“How much do you owe Mrs. Blake, up to today?”
“Nothing!” She looked at him. “Well, around ten dollars, I guess.”
“How much?”
“Twelve-fifty,” she muttered.
“Have you got it?”
“Maybe.”
“Then leave it here.”
“Leave it! Are you nuts? It’ll just get stolen.”
“Even if it does, you’ll know you left it.”
“I will not! That old hag has been making life miserable for me for a year.”
“Then give her a good belt sometime. But leave the money.”
The Noir Novel Page 6
