by Dan Marlowe
“Or me. Could've followed me over here. Maybe it's seeing us together gives him an itch. Jimmy's a good boy. Don't underestimate him.” He made his voice casual. “Which brings us back to why it'd be a good idea for you to unbutton a little about what happened the night-”
“That's enough, Johnny.” She cut him off. “We've been all through that before, and the answer is no.”
“I could get tired of workin' a one-way street,” he told her softly. “I've told you things you'd have had trouble findin' out. I'm closer to things than you're likely to be. You're Vic's wife; I'd like to steer you right on this-”
He stopped when he saw her expression; he knew that he had said the wrong thing again. “You're not here because I'm Vic's wife,” she said flatly. “You're here because you think I have information that you want. Whether I do or not is problematical, but I've told you before and I'll tell you now for the final time. I'm not about to let you pull the house down around my ears because of your own personal involvement!”
The heat in her tone fanned his own fire; for an instant he balanced on the razor edge of forcing the issue to a showdown, before belated common sense came to the fore. She knows, Killain, and you don't. She may not know the murderer, but she knows more than you do. You cut yourself off from the possibility of learning what she knows, and you've bitten off your nose to spite your face. This is a strong-willed, determined woman. He spoke abruptly. “How about me takin' a shower?”
“If you keep your head dry. I'll get you towels.” Under the steaming hot water he soaked the mounting ache in his bones, and in the mirror he inspected the brass-knuckle-raised purple welts under his ribs. He dried himself carefully.
Lorraine tapped on the bathroom door. “The cab driver brought your clothes,” she called. “I put them in the bedroom.”
He felt better after the shower. In the bedroom he dressed hurriedly; he wanted to get back to the hotel. He transferred money, keys and wallet to the fresh slacks and made a little bundle of the fragments he had removed in the bathroom. “New man,” he announced upon re-entering the living room.
Her eyes were speculative. “From personal observation I don't believe there was very much the matter with the old one.” She continued before he could take advantage of the opening. “You know you're going to have a head like a gourd in the morning?”
“Maybe I should take a little something to justify it?”
“I wouldn't recommend it.” Her inspection of him was deliberate. “If you're mad I hope you don't stay mad. I do need your access to information.”
“Well then, why-”
“Because the situation almost certainly calls for halfway measures, and you don't know how to use them. As you just proved out on the street.”
Johnny boiled out the door without even saying good-by; he simmered down a little during the cab ride back to the hotel, but he was still under a driving head of steam when he entered the lobby and approached the bell captain's desk. “Thanks, Gus.” He raised his eyes aloft. “Russo around?” Gus crooked a finger across the lobby. “In the bar.” The dark-eyed glance lingered on the patch over Johnny's eye. “You and Russo?”
“Not yet.” Johnny crossed the lobby rapidly and felt a sense of release at the sight of Ed Russo in the third booth from the door, sitting across from a big man in a light-colored, wide-brimmed panama. He walked down to the booth; anticipation was so strong he could taste it. The semi-public nature of the scene concerned him not at all; here was the man. He placed both hands on the table edge, leaned forward slightly, and waited.
Ed Russo looked up carelessly from his low-voiced conversation; the thin mouth tightened, but he did not break off until it became apparent to him that Johnny had no intention of moving on. “What the hell, Killain?” he demanded forcefully. “This is a private conversation.”
Johnny considered the dapper man; it was not the reaction he had expected.
Russo was addressing his companion. “This is the guy I was telling you about that tanked me, Tim.” He turned back to Johnny, eyes on the brow patch. “For you, I hope it's nothing trivial, mister. All your troubles should be major.” His voice sharpened as the bitterness showed through. “I got fifty bucks right here says you can't take me again, wise guy.” Johnny blinked. He sends three goons to entertain you, and now he wants to bet you fifty he can do it himself? Whoa, Killain. Wrong script. Back up and get a fresh start. Russo was getting impatient; the lean, arrogant features were poised upward. “Well, sonny boy? I'll take you for fun, money or marbles.”
“You couldn't take one side of me,” Johnny growled, but the riposte was mechanical. To himself he was forced to admit that Ed Russo's response seemed genuine.
The dapper man flushed darkly; he started to rise. “Right now I'll show you, hot shot. Out in the alley.”
The big man across the table from him put a hand on Russo's arm; he spoke for the first time. “Business before pleasure, Ed.” He sounded quite jovial; Johnny looked at the expensive dark brown gabardine slacks and the cream-colored sport coat; the man had a round moon face and a livid scar that pulled down a corner of the heavy mouth.,
“You're right,” Russo was saying in evident disappointment. He sat down again slowly. “Not tonight.” He looked up at Johnny. “But any time after tonight. Any time at all. Right, Tim?”
Tim looked at Johnny; he removed a fat cigar from his breast pocket and rolled it lightly between his palms. “He looks healthy to me, Ed. What makes you think you can take him?”
“You think I can't?” Russo was angry again. “I'll bet you fifty, too. I never saw a bull like that I couldn't take!”
“You know I ride with you, Ed.” The big man said it soothingly; Johnny thought that he had never heard a deeper voice than the big man's heavy resonance. “Does it hurt to mention the guy must weigh as much as I do?”
“I don't care what he weighs. I won't be half splashed the next time he takes his sucker shot.” He rapped impatiently on the table with the bottom of his shot glass and looked around for the waiter. “Come on. Let's have one more drink and get moving.”
He had so obviously dismissed the interruption from his mind that Johnny straightened a little self-consciously; as he backed away uncertainly, until he stood with his back to the bar, Russo and the big man were again engrossed in earnest conversation.
Johnny tried to make up his mind-was Russo conning him? Somehow he didn't think so. Yet if Russo hadn't sent the goon squad, who had? Johnny shook his head, which ached. Maybe a drink would help his muddied thought processes; he left the bar to go upstairs, conscious of a massive letdown sensation.
In his room he already had a drink poured before it occurred to him he hadn't seen Sassy. She couldn't hear him come in, but the vibration of the floor under his feet always brought her trotting. He made a quick circuit of the room and the bathroom without finding her. Had she gotten out somehow? He dropped to his knees and grunted with relief when he saw the fluffy mound under the bed. “Come on out here, you,” he ordered her. “Where's that welcome I always get?”
She stared out at him, and, vaguely uneasy, he reached in for her. She didn't want to come; she hooked her claws into the rug in protest, but there was no real fight in her. He lifted her out and looked in alarm at the dull eyes and the drooping whiskers; he placed his palm lightly on the small pink nose. It was dry and hot, and even the usually lively tail hung limply.
Johnny made a hurried round trip to the refrigerator and tried to tempt the kitten with a sliver of shrimp. Yesterday she would have taken shrimp and a finger to the first joint; now she lay motionless after one apathetic sniff. He sat back on his heels and looked down at her with concern. “What the hell, baby doll-you're sick.”
She tried to crawl back under the bed, and that decided him. In the yellow pages of the phone directory he ran down the list of names, looking for the one he wanted. Kendrick… Lacy… Landry. Landry. Jeff Landry. He reached for the phone on the night table.
“Landry Ca
t and Dog Hospital-sorry, we're closed,” a woman's voice announced in a parroted gabble.
“Let me talk to Jeff Landry.”
“I'm afraid he's too busy to come to the phone right now-”
“Tell him it's Johnny Killain.”
The line hummed, and he waited impatiently. “Johnny? Is it really you?”
“Yeah, Jeff. Fine friend I am, only callin' you when I need a favor. I know it's after hours for you, but I got a sick kitten here. Be a good guy an' let me bring her over?”
“Johnny Killain with a sick kitten? It beggars the imagination. Come to the back door.”
“I'm halfway there. Put some beer on the ice.”
In the closet he found an empty shoe box which seemed large enough. He punched several pencil holes in each end, put Sassy into it and put on the cover. The kitten made little effort to fight off even this indignity, and Johnny left the room hurriedly.
In the lobby he ran into Mike Larsen. “Buy you a drink, Johnny?” Mike looked at the tape decorating Johnny's forehead. “What happened to you?”
“Tripped on the top step. Listen, Mike. Ed Russo's in the bar, third booth from the door. Take a look at the guy with him and see if you know him. I'll be back in an hour, and you can buy me that drink.”
Going through the foyer doors he was whistling for a cab.
CHAPTER 9
A he rear of the long, low building on the side street was dark, but Johnny's knock was answered almost immediately as Jeff Landry opened the door himself, hand outstretched. He practically dragged Johnny over the threshold with the vigor of a grip surprising in a man of medium size.
“Johnny, you bandit! Wonderful to see you again.” Jeff Landry was a slender man casually dressed in khakis and tennis shoes. His hair was ash-blond and close-cropped, and horn-rimmed glasses tended to minimize but not wholly conceal the impact of a face of quiet strength. The mouth and chin were firm to the point of being stubborn.
“I'm not much of a neighbor for a guy who lives just cross-town, Jeff. In the cab I was thinking how the neighborhood here had changed since I'd seen it.”
“More than you think.” Jeff Landry tapped the box under Johnny's arm. “Let's have a look at the patient. We can talk later.”
Johnny followed the veterinarian through a semi-dark maze of tiered wire cages and runways; an occasional yelp or bark disturbed the quiet, and Johnny could feel a slight scrambling in the box under his arm as the variegated smells filtered through to the kitten. There was a musty, animal odor in the air, overladen with a piny tang, and an antiseptic pungency which increased in strength as they moved to the front of the building.
He blinked at the dazzling fluorescent light which flooded the white formica-topped tables and the chromiumed instruments in glassed-in cabinets ranged around the wails of the examination room into which Jeff led him. An assortment of odd-looking machines with dangling electric cords took up most of the working space on the metal coverlet that hinged down over the double sink with its gleaming faucets and rubber hoses trailing down to the tiled floor.
Johnny looked around him and whistled softly. “You sure have improved things, Jeff.” He tapped the examination table lightly as he placed the shoe box upon it. “Looks like you could take care of me on this thing.”
“Too good for you.” Jeff Landry's voice was matter-of-fact.
Johnny laughed. “I know you better than to think you're kiddin', too.” A dozen years ago in northern Italy he had seen Jeff Landry charge a squad of soldiers abusing a mongrel dog. Jeff had needed help, but not a great deal; the white heat of his anger had dissolved the would-be sadists like melted butter.
He watched as Jeff drew on a pair of forearm-length gloves; the vet removed the cover of the shoe box, and Sassy stared up at him apprehensively. “A Persian, Johnny? You're traveling in class.”
“She adopted me. She's deaf as a mackerel, Jeff.”
The blond man lifted Sassy from her box; the kitten made no struggle, although the small ears were flattened to her skull. “It's not unusual; about sixty per cent of the purebreds are deaf. It's a mutation attributable to the inbreeding which produces the coat and eye coloration.” His eyes never left Sassy as she crouched flat on the formica surface of the table and hissed halfheartedly at the gloved hand exploration.
“You mean if she didn't have the blue eyes she wouldn't be deaf?”
Jeff Landry removed the glove from his right hand and dexterously pried open the kitten's mouth; her back arched as she started to resist, but he had accomplished his purpose and released her before she could successfully mount her opposition. “I didn't say that.” He turned to remove a small thermometer from a graduated rack. “Her eyes could be bronze and she could still be deaf. It's how the lightning strikes. What do you feed her?”
“Oh, shrimp and liver and milk, mostly. Little chopped beef once in a while.”
“How much do you feed her?”
“I usually just cover the bottom of a saucer.”
The veterinarian shook his head. “How often?”
“Pretty often, I guess,” Johnny admitted. “She seems to be hungry all the time. Until today. What's the matter, Jeff?”
Jeff Landry's voice was patient. “The matter is that I strongly suspect that all that ails our patient is a muddle-headed case of overfeeding. Reason is not given to these little articulated minuscules, Johnny. Just because you feed her today, she can't be expected to remember that you'll do so tomorrow. She'll eat herself bowlegged every chance you give her. I'm sure that you've been forcing as much on her in twelve hours as she needs in seventy-two, and a great deal of it too rich. I'll keep her overnight and make out a diet for her. She may not be as happy at mealtime, but she'll be healthier.”
He picked the kitten up with the re-gloved hand, and Johnny followed him out of the examination room's glare to the gloom of the cage walkways. He watched Jeff open the door on the top left of a tier of small cages and put Sassy inside.
“She'll be fine here tonight,” Jeff said. He moved on toward the back. “Come on. I've got a little refrigerator out here I keep drugs in. And beer.”
He kicked a kitchen chair in Johnny's direction in the small room that housed the refrigerator and a battered desk. He uncapped two bottles of beer, and Johnny dipped his head hastily to sip off the overflowing collar from the bottle pushed across to him. Jeff picked up his own bottle and swallowed twice; he lowered the beer and looked over at Johnny as he perched himself on the edge of the desk. “I'll probably have a new address the next time you come calling.”
“You're moving? How come? You sunk a lot of money in the place. I thought you were satisfied.”
“I am satisfied.” The blond man stared at his beer. “I'm getting squeezed. You remarked yourself how much the neighborhood had changed. My little place is practically lost in all the new buildings that have gone up around here. I'm in the seventh year of a ten-year lease, but my landlord has been pushing me for a year to take a settlement on the lease and move to another address. I kept telling him that due to zoning restrictions I'd have to move so far my business couldn't reasonably be expected to follow me. I kept telling him, but he kept pushing me.”
“So you got the lease. Let him push.”
Jeff took another swallow of beer. “I wonder. Lately it's been second-hand, and a little ugly. About six weeks ago a lawyer came to see me. Really a type. Said he represented an outfit who had made a deal to finance a new building for the landlord, and I was the only thing holding up the deal. He asked me to set a figure on a lease settlement, and I did, finally. You can't fight city hall forever. I might have had a little balloon in the figure I gave him, but not too much, so when this character offered me half and told me to take it or leave it I got a little sore. I threw him out. He made a few noises on the way to the effect that I'd be glad to settle for less than that before they'd finished with me.”
“So they started to muscle you around?”
Jeff hesitated. “Not in the way
you would think. I believe they're behind what's been going on, but it's been so devilishly clever-” His voice trailed off. He jumped up from the desk and began to pace the room's narrow confines. “I'm sure, Johnny, and yet I'm not sure.” He gestured impatiently. “Three weeks ago a woman brought in a thoroughbred Scottie for a bath and a clip. Twelve hours after she left it here the dog died. Of poison.”
Johnny sucked in his breath. “A slow pill.”
“I have to think so. The dog didn't get it here. The woman raised particular hell-charged negligence, malfeasance and all the rest of it. I carry liability insurance, naturally, and the company paid off. Last week it happened again. A terrier, this time. And a stinking shouting match with the customer out in the waiting room heard by fifteen people. The insurance company paid off again and canceled the policy. The next one's on me.”
“Let's go talk to that lawyer, Jeff.”
Jeff's smile was rueful. “You wouldn't think I could be stupid enough to talk to him without getting his name, would you? Well, I did. I realize now he deliberately didn't tell me.”
“Then let's go see your landlord.”
“I've already done that. He denies any knowledge of what's going on, and I get the oddest feeling that he's afraid himself. I told him point-blank I didn't give a damn whether he was responsible or not; I was holding him responsible. I told him that with the next animal that died around here in similar circumstances it was going to be me and him all over the sidewalk. He believed me. He followed me for half a block, bleating that he didn't know anything about it and that he couldn't do anything about it.”
Johnny turned it over in his mind. “Rough. It leaves you sitting and waiting for the cloudburst. I don't see what you can do.”
“I can close up. And go looking for that lawyer.”
“The idea appeals to me,” Johnny admitted. He drained off the last of the beer, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and scowled at the empty bottle. “If I was a member of the posse. There's got to be another answer, though, Jeff.”
