Adams put his feet on the floor. He raised himself erect by pulling on the edge of his desk. He brought his pipe down level, took it out of his mouth and spit into a wastebasket. He said: “That old icicle? When was he ever news? Sure.” He stood up wearily, added: “Come along, Uncle,” and started along the end of the room.
They went along another row of desks, past a fat girl in smudged make-up who was typing and laughing at what she was writing.
They went through a door into a big room that was mostly six-foot tiers of filing cases with an occasional alcove in which there was a small table and a chair.
Adams prowled the filing cases, jerked one out and set a folder on a table.
“Park yourself. What’s the graft?”
Carmady leaned on the table on an elbow, scuffed through a thick wad of cuttings. They were monotonous, political in nature, not front page. Senator Courtway said this and that on this and that matter of public interest, addressed this and that meeting, went or returned from this and that place. It all seemed very dull.
He looked at a few halftone cuts of a thin, white-haired man with a blank, composed face, deep set dark eyes in which there was no light or warmth. After a while he said: “Got a print I could sneeze? A real one, I mean.”
Adams sighed, stretched himself, disappeared down the line of file walls. He came back with a shiny black and white photograph, tossed it down on the table.
“You can keep it,” he said. “We got dozens. The guy lives forever. Shall I have it autographed for you?”
Carmady looked at the photo with narrow eyes, for a long time. “It’s right,” he said slowly. “Was Courtway ever married?”
“Not since I left off my diapers,” Adams growled. “Probably not ever. Say, what’n hell’s the mystery?”
Carmady smiled slowly at him. He reached his flask out, set it on the table beside the folder. Adams’ face brightened swiftly and his long arm reached.
“Then he never had a kid,” Carmady said.
Adams leered over the flask. “Well—not for publication, I guess. If I’m any judge of a mug, not at all.” He drank deeply, wiped his lips, drank again.
“And that,” Carmady said, “is very funny indeed. Have three more drinks—and forget you ever saw me.”
THREE
The fat man put his face close to Carmady’s face. He said with a wheeze: “You think it’s fixed, neighbor?”
“Yeah. For Werra.”
“How much says so?”
“Count your poke.”
“I got five yards that want to grow.”
“Take it,” Carmady said tonelessly, and kept on looking at the back of a corn-blond head in a ringside seat. A white wrap with white fur was below the glassily waved hair. He couldn’t see the face. He didn’t have to.
The fat man blinked his eyes and got a thick wallet carefully out of a pocket inside his vest. He held it on the edge of his knee, counted out ten fifty-dollar bills, rolled them up, edged the wallet back against his ribs.
“You’re on, sucker,” he wheezed. “Let’s see your dough.”
Carmady brought his eyes back, reached out a flat pack of new hundreds, riffled them. He slipped five from under the printed band, held them out.
“Boy, this is from home,” the fat man said. He put his face close to Carmady’s face again. “I’m Skeets O’Neal. No little powders, huh?”
Carmady smiled very slowly and pushed his money into the fat man’s hand. “You hold it, Skeets. I’m Carmady. Old Marcus Carmady’s son. I can shoot faster than you can run—and fix it afterwards.”
The fat man took a long hard breath and leaned back in his seat. Tony Acosta stared soft-eyed at the money in the fat man’s pudgy tight hand. He licked his lips and turned a small embarrassed smile on Carmady.
“Gee, that’s lost dough, Mister Carmady,” he whispered. “Unless—unless you got something inside.”
“Enough to be worth a five-yard plunge,” Carmady growled.
The buzzer sounded for the sixth.
The first five had been anybody’s fight. The big blond boy, Duke Targo, wasn’t trying. The dark one, Deacon Werra, a powerful, loose-limbed Polack with bad teeth and only two cauliflower ears, had the physique but didn’t know anything but rough clinching and a giant swing that started in the basement and never connected. He had been good enough to hold Targo off so far. The fans razzed Targo a good deal.
When the stool swung back out of the ring Targo hitched at his black and silver trunks, smiled with a small tight smile at the girl in the white wrap. He was very good-looking, without a mark on him. There was blood on his left shoulder from Werra’s nose.
The bell rang and Werra charged across the ring, slid off Targo’s shoulder, got a left hook in. Targo got more of the hook than was in it. He piled back into the ropes, bounced out, clinched.
Carmady smiled quietly in the darkness.
The referee broke them easily. Targo broke clean, Werra tried for an uppercut and missed. They sparred for a minute. There was waltz music from the gallery. Then Werra started a swing from his shoetops. Targo seemed to wait for it, to wait for it to hit him. There was a queer strained smile on his face. The girl in the white wrap stood up suddenly.
Werra’s swing grazed Targo’s jaw. It barely staggered him. Targo lashed a long right that caught Werra over the eye. A left hook smashed Werra’s jaw, then a right cross almost to the same spot.
The dark boy went down on his hands and knees, slipped slowly all the way to the floor, lay with both his gloves under him. There were catcalls as he was counted out.
The fat man struggled to his feet, grinning hugely. He said: “How you like it, pal? Still think it was a set piece?”
“It came unstuck,” Carmady said in a voice as toneless as a police radio.
The fat man said: “So long, pal. Come around lots.” He kicked Carmady’s ankle climbing over him.
Carmady sat motionless, watched the auditorium empty. The fighters and their handlers had gone down the stairs under the ring. The girl in the white wrap had disappeared in the crowd. The lights went out and the barnlike structure looked cheap, sordid.
Tony Acosta fidgeted, watching a man in striped overalls picking up papers between the seats.
Carmady stood up suddenly, said: “I’m going to talk to that bum, Tony. Wait outside in the car for me.”
He went swiftly up the slope to the lobby, through the remnants of the gallery crowd to a gray door marked “No Admittance.” He went through that and down a ramp to another door marked the same way. A special cop in faded and unbuttoned khaki stood in front of it, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a hamburger in the other.
Carmady flashed a police card and the cop lurched out of the way without looking at the card. He hiccoughed peacefully as Carmady went through the door, then along a narrow passage with numbered doors lining it. There was noise behind the doors. The fourth door on the left had a scribbled card with the name “Duke Targo” fastened to the panel by a thumbtack.
Carmady opened it into the heavy sound of a shower going, out of sight.
In a narrow and utterly bare room a man in a white sweater was sitting on the end of a rubbing table that had clothes scattered on it. Carmady recognized him as Targo’s chief second.
He said: “Where’s the Duke?”
The sweatered man jerked a thumb towards the shower noise. Then a man came around the door and lurched very close to Carmady. He was tall and had curly brown hair with hard gray color in it. He had a big drink in his hand. His face had the flat glitter of extreme drunkenness. His hair was damp, his eyes bloodshot. His lips curled and uncurled in rapid smiles without meaning. He said thickly: “Scramola, umpchay.”
Carmady shut the door calmly and leaned against it and started to get his cigarette case from his vest pocket, inside his open blue raincoat. He didn’t look at the curly-haired man at all.
The curly-haired man lunged his free right hand up suddenly, snapped it under his coat, out
again. A blue steel gun shone dully against his light suit. The glass in his left hand slopped liquor.
“None of that!” he snarled.
Carmady brought the cigarette case out very slowly, showed it in his hand, opened it and put a cigarette between his lips. The blue gun was very close to him, not very steady. The hand holding the glass shook in a sort of jerky rhythm.
Carmady said loosely: “You ought to be looking for trouble.”
The sweatered man got off the rubbing table. Then he stood very still and looked at the gun. The curly-haired man said: “We like trouble. Frisk him, Mike.”
The sweatered man said: “I don’t want any part of it, Shenvair. For Pete’s sake, take it easy. You’re lit like a ferry boat.”
Carmady said: “It’s okey to frisk me. I’m not rodded.”
“Nix,” the sweatered man said. “This guy is the Duke’s bodyguard. Deal me out.”
The curly-haired man said: “Sure, I’m drunk,” and giggled.
“You’re a friend of the Duke?” the sweatered man asked.
“I’ve got some information for him,” Carmady said.
“About what?”
Carmady didn’t say anything. “Okey,” the sweatered man said. He shrugged bitterly.
“Know what, Mike?” the curly-haired man said suddenly and violently. “I think this Sonofabitch wants my job. Hell, yes.” He punched Carmady with the muzzle of the gun. “You ain’t a shamus, are you, mister?”
“Maybe,” Carmady said: “And keep your iron next to your own belly.”
The curly-haired man turned his head a little and grinned back over his shoulder.
“What d’you know about that, Mike? He’s a shamus. Sure he wants my job. Sure he does.”
“Put the heater up, you fool,” the sweatered man said disgustedly.
The curly-haired man turned a little more. “I’m his protection, ain’t I?” he complained.
Carmady knocked the gun aside almost casually, with the hand that held his cigarette case. The curly-haired man snapped his head around again. Carmady slid close to him, sank a stiff punch in his stomach, holding the gun away with his forearm. The curly-haired man gagged, sprayed liquor down the front of Carmady’s raincoat. His glass shattered on the floor. The blue gun left his hand and went over in a corner. The sweatered man went after it.
The noise of the shower had stopped unnoticed and the blond fighter came out toweling himself vigorously. He stared open-mouthed at the tableau.
Carmady said: “I don’t need this any more.”
He heaved the curly-haired man away from him and laced his jaw with a hard right as he went back. The curly-haired man staggered across the room, hit the wall, slid down it and sat on the floor.
The sweatered man snatched the gun up and stood rigid, watching Carmady.
Carmady got out a handkerchief and wiped the front of his coat, while Targo shut his large well-shaped mouth slowly and began to move the towel back and forth across his chest. After a moment he said: “Just who the hell may you be?”
Carmady said: “I used to be a private dick. Carmady’s the name. I think you need help.”
Targo’s face got a little redder than the shower had left it. “Why?”
“I heard you were supposed to throw it, and I think you tried to. But Werra was too lousy. You couldn’t help yourself. That means you’re in a jam.”
Targo said very slowly: “People get their teeth kicked in for saying things like that.”
The room was very still for a moment. The drunk sat up on the floor and blinked, tried to get his feet under him, and gave it up.
Carmady added quietly: “Benny Cyrano is a friend of mine. He’s your backer, isn’t he?”
The sweatered man laughed harshly. Then he broke the gun and slid the shells out of it, dropped the gun on the floor. He went to the door, went out, slammed the door shut.
Targo looked at the shut door, looked back at Carmady. He said very slowly: “What did you hear?”
“Your friend Jean Adrian lives in my hotel, on my floor. She got sapped by a hood this afternoon. I happened by and saw the hood running away, picked her up. She told me a little of what it was all about.”
Targo had put on his underwear and socks and shoes. He reached into a locker for a black satin shirt, put that on. He said: “She didn’t tell me.”
“She wouldn’t—before the fight.”
Targo nodded slightly. Then he said: “If you know Benny, you may be all right. I’ve been getting threats. Maybe it’s a lot of birdseed and maybe it’s some Spring Street punter’s idea of how to make himself a little easy dough. I fought my fight the way I wanted to. Now you can take the air, mister.”
He put on high-waisted black trousers and knotted a white tie on his black shirt. He got a white serge coat trimmed with black braid out of the locker, put that on. A black and white handkerchief flared from the pocket in three points.
Carmady stared at the clothes, moved a little towards the door and looked down at the drunk.
“Okey,” he said. “I see you’ve got a bodyguard. It was just an idea I had. Excuse it, please.”
He went out, closed the door gently, and went back up the ramp to the lobby, out to the street. He walked through the rain around the corner of the building to a big graveled parking lot.
The lights of a car blinked at him and his coupe slid along the wet gravel and pulled up. Tony Acosta was at the wheel.
Carmady got in at the right side and said: “Let’s go out to Cyrano’s and have a drink, Tony.”
“Jeeze, that’s swell. Miss Adrian’s in the floor show there. You know, the blonde I told you about.”
Carmady said: “I saw Targo. I kind of liked him—but I didn’t like his clothes.”
FOUR
Gus Neishacker was a two-hundred-pound fashion plate with very red cheeks and thin, exquisitely penciled eyebrows—eyebrows from a Chinese vase. There was a red carnation in the lapel of his wide-shouldered dinner jacket and he kept sniffing at it while he watched the headwaiter seat a party of guests. When Carmady and Tony Acosta came through the foyer arch he flashed a sudden smile and went to them with his hand out.
“How’s a boy, Ted? Party?”
Carmady said: “Just the two of us. Meet Mister Acosta. Gus Neishacker, Cyrano’s floor manager.”
Gus Neishacker shook hands with Tony without looking at him. He said: “Let’s see, the last time you dropped in—”
“She left town,” Carmady said. “We’ll sit near the ring but not too near. We don’t dance together.”
Gus Neishacker jerked a menu from under the headwaiter’s arm and led the way down five crimson steps, along the tables that skirted the oval dance floor.
They sat down. Carmady ordered rye highballs and Denver sandwiches: Neishacker gave the order to a waiter, pulled a chair out and sat down at the table. He took a pencil out and made triangles on the inside of a match cover.
“See the fights?” he asked carelessly.
“Was that what they were?”
Gus Neishacker smiled indulgently. “Benny talked to the Duke. He says you’re wise.” He looked suddenly at Tony Acosta.
“Tony’s all right,” Carmady said.
“Yeah. Well do us a favor, will you? See it stops right here. Benny likes this boy. He wouldn’t let him get hurt. He’d put protection all around him—real protection—if he thought that threat stuff was anything but some pool-hall bum’s idea of a very funny joke. Benny never backs but one boxfighter at a time, and he picks them damn careful.”
Carmady lit a cigarette, blew smoke from a corner of his mouth, said quietly: “It’s none of my business, but I’m telling you it’s screwy. I have a nose for that sort of thing.”
Gus Neishacker stared at him a minute, then shrugged. He said: “I hope you’re wrong,” stood up quickly and walked away among the tables. He bent to smile here and there, and speak to a customer.
Tony Acosta’s velvet eyes shone. He said: “Jeeze, Mist
er Carmady, you think it’s rough stuff?”
Carmady nodded, didn’t say anything. The waiter put their drinks and sandwiches on the table, went away. The band on the stage at the end of the oval floor blared out a long chord and a slick, grinning m.c. slid out on the stage and put his lips to a small open mike.
The floor show began. A line of half-naked girls ran out under a rain of colored lights. They coiled and uncoiled in a long sinuous line, their bare legs flashing, their navels little dimples of darkness in soft white, very nude flesh.
A hard-boiled redhead sang a hard-boiled song in a voice that could have been used to split firewood. The girls came back in black tights and silk hats, did the same dance with a slightly different exposure.
The music softened and a tall high-yaller torch singer drooped under an amber light and sang of something very far away and unhappy, in a voice like old ivory.
Carmady sipped his drink, poked at his sandwich in the dim light. Tony Acosta’s hard young face was a small tense blur beside him.
The torch singer went away and there was a little pause and then suddenly all the lights in the place went out except the lights over the music racks of the band and little pale amber lights at the entrances to the radiating aisles of booths beyond the tables.
There were squeals in the thick darkness. A single white spot winked on, high up under the roof, settled on a runway beside the stage. Faces were chalk-white in the reflected glare. There was the red glow of a cigarette tip here and there. Four tall black men moved in the light, carrying a white mummy case on their shoulders. They came slowly, in rhythm, down the runway. They wore white Egyptian headdresses and loin-cloths of white leather and white sandals laced to the knee. The black smoothness of their limbs was like black marble in the moonlight.
They reached the middle of the dance floor and slowly up-ended the mummy case until the cover tipped forward and fell and was caught. Then slowly, very slowly, a swathed white figure tipped forward and fell—slowly, like the last leaf from a dead tree. It tipped in the air, seemed to hover, then plunged towards the floor under a shattering roll of drums.
The Simple Art of Murder Page 30
