by John Roeburt
We took a room in a cheap hotel. Rose was all for selling the Sea Princess, flying back to the islands and buying another boat there. I told her to shut up—we’d see. We hit the bed and pounded our ears for sixteen straight hours. I was feeling good, cocky. I’d been sailor enough to ride out the storm.
The next few days we hung around the boatyard. I even helped out with the overhauling—I didn’t want to be too far from our dough with men working on the ship. The owner of the yard was impressed with the Sea Princess’ lines, and of course he could tell, I think, by what came off her keel that we’d been in the Caribbean. Rose spent most of her time in various movies, and at night we took long walks on the cold boardwalk, and then watched TV in some bar. I began working on her, pointing out how well the boat had stood up, that it was really my fault for not paying the radio storm warning any mind, and except for the bouncing giving us a hard time, we hadn’t suffered any real damage. The point was we had to sail the Sea Princess back to Ansel’s and there wasn’t anything to be afraid of.
After a few days Rose was able to laugh at the memory of the two of us lying on our bunks like scared stiffs, and I knew she really admired me for having pulled the ship through single-handed.
When the Sea Princess was back in the water with a new dink and other repairs, all told costing us $569, we decided to stay in Asbury for a few more days. There was another storm on the way. I tied her up to the boatyard dock and locked the cabin. There’s little chance of robbery at a private dock, so Mr. and Mrs. Anderson took a room at a hotel and the next day we decided to give Atlantic City a fling. We registered at the biggest hotel we’d stayed in thus far and Rose bought a new dress that clung more to her figure. We had a steak dinner, saw a movie, and then dropped into a good night club. Rose was a bit nervous when we first hit Atlantic City—she’d once worked there—but felt at ease again when she found the club had been torn down and replaced by a small apartment house.
We were sitting in this swank night spot, laughing at a wiseguy comedian who had a sharp tongue. Rose was giving me the lowdown on about what the guy was making and how much the members of the band were paid…when I suddenly felt her thigh stiffen against mine under the table. I turned and she was staring down at the table cloth, her face sickly pale in contrast to the dark frames of her phony glasses, her black hair. She was so pale even the remains of her sun tan seemed to have vanished. I asked, “You sick?”
“Oh, God! Mickey, it’s him!”
“Who?” I asked, looking around wildly. “Hon, what is it?”
“It’s him…the Federal man who tried to shoot me!”
“Where?” I asked, my guts full of a chill—mainly because I thought Rose was off her head.
“That table over in the corner, by the post. The big guy with the redheaded girl. Oh God, I knew we shouldn’t have come to the States!”
“Take it easy,” I said, glancing around casually. I had no difficulty making him. He was staring hard at our table. He was a handsome cuss, well set-up and lean, and with a mean face. He looked like a guy who could handle himself, a nasty joker in a brawl. Younger than me, too. Maybe five or six years since he was the star halfback.
Toying with a spoon I asked a dumb question. “Rose, are you sure?” The way the guy was looking at us told me how sure he was.
“Of course!” Her voice had the shakes.
I pressed her thigh as I told her, “Listen to me: we’re going to sit right here and play it cool. For one thing, with your glasses and all, he can’t be positive. If he comes over, we’re a couple of tourists named Anderson, so don’t get excited.”
“No. He’s the one…he’ll try to kill me!”
For a second I realized how jerky I was acting. What was I getting tense about? Even if this proved Rose’s weird story was true, Rose was in the clear. I squeezed her hand under the table—and it was cold as death. “Don’t worry. If he starts anything I’ll handle him.”
Rose turned and gave me a tight smile—a tender tiny grin that somehow seemed a farewell smile. “No, Mickey, stay put and be careful. Say I’m a pick-up and you don’t know a thing about me. I’m going to the head. If he tries to…don’t let him stop me. And don’t get yourself hurt.”
Before I could argue, or ask what she meant, Rose stood up. Holding her small pocketbook in one hand, she gave me a light, phony smile, and started for the ladies room, which was located just inside the entrance to the club. The fur trimmed coat she’d bought a few days before was still on the back of her chair.
While I was wondering why the speech about going to the can, I saw big boy get to his feet. From different angles he and Rose headed for the same point. I got up and crossed directly toward him. Rose was almost running and he wasn’t even watching me.
As Rose reached the few steps leading up into the tiny lobby, I saw his hand go to his back pocket and with the flap of his jacket raised for a split second—he was reaching for a gun in his hip pocket holster!
I raced over and walked into him hard with my shoulder. He stumbled and I went into a little jig I practiced when I was wrestling. I brought my left foot down on his right instep and as he bent over my right knee came up into his stomach. He dropped to the carpet, doubled over. He wasn’t out, only numb the way a belly wallop gets you.
I was all one silly grin as I put on an act that it was an accident. A couple of waiters rushed over to us. Rose wasn’t in sight. She’d made the ladies room. I bent down as if helping big boy to his feet. There wasn’t any doubt about the gun, I could feel it in his back pocket. I wanted to go through his pockets and find out who he was, but the waiters were on us. I gave them a dumb grin and said something about being clumsy. A beefy character, obviously the bouncer, helped me lift him to his feet. People were standing up but the bouncer and the waiters were old hands: before I knew it we were walked into the manager’s office. While I was explaining what a clumsy clown I’d been, a cop appeared.
The manager was a smooth baldie in a tux and as he was assuring the cop things were under control, big boy got his wind and flashed a card or something at the cop, then ran limping out of the office. The cop took off, too. I started after them and ran into a solid line of waiters. I asked, “What the devil is this?”
“Now, now, no trouble, please,” the manager said. The bouncer moved closer.
I said, “I don’t want trouble but my girl went to the John and she’ll wonder where I am and…” I could have bitten my fat tongue. Why did I say Rose was in the can? Could she be hiding in there, waiting?
The cop returned, growled at me, “You, sit down!” He had a firm grip on his night stick.
I sat on the edge of the manager’s desk, wondering what to do. For a few minutes we were all silent, then big boy limped in, looking very mad. He held a whispered conference with the cop while glaring at me. The cop told the manager and the rest of the help to leave. The manager said, “Now George, I don’t know what this is all about, but the club doesn’t want any trouble.”
George, the cop, nodded and ushered him out, then he shut the door and leaned against it, one hand on his holster.
The clammy feeling in my guts said I was in for a beating. A couple of wild thoughts flashed through my mind. In a straight rough and tumble I might take these two. And if they went for their guns I’d be dead. What did Rose expect me to do, stall them? Was she still in the ladies room? Hiding there, or plain sick? Or was she waiting for me outside? Did she want me to clout these…?
Big boy limped over to stand in front of me, hands loose at his sides. “What’s your name, mister?” he snapped.
I decided to bluff, do a little shoulder talking of my own. I asked, “Who are you? What is this?”
“I’ll ask the questions!” His hands were itching to clout me.
With a calmness which astonished me I heard myself saying, “If you’re a police officer I’m asking you to identify yourself.” I glanced at the cop holding up the door. “Officer, this man is carrying a gun.”
&
nbsp; “He’s a Fed,” the cop said.
“Oh.” I was completely rattled. I was in great shape—I’d flattened a Federal cop! But then Rose’s story about the police trying to kill her had been true!
“What’s your name?”
“Is walking into you, accidentally, a Federal crime?” I asked.
“I’m asking for your name, mister.”
“My name is Mickey Anderson. I’m a visitor here, stopping at a boardwalk hotel. I don’t know what this show of force is about, but I demand the right to phone my lawyer before saying anything else. His name is Jackson Clair, in New York City.” That was the name of a big time lawyer I’d been reading about in the papers.
A slight change came over the Fed’s face. Almost politely he said, “Mr. Anderson, I’m only asking for your cooperation, as a citizen. I want to talk to you about the woman you were with, ask…”
“What’s she wanted for?”
“I didn’t say she’s wanted. I merely wanted to chat with her, see if she could give me some information.”
“Chat with her? Is that how you talk to people—by pulling a gun on them?” I asked.
The cop said, “Pulling what gun?”
The Federal man said, “Pulling my gun? Why, I wanted to make sure it wasn’t loose in my holster. Sitting down and jumping up to… Did you walk into me on purpose?”
“No sir,” I said, going for dumb. “I was on my way to the John when I saw you touch your holster. I was so busy watching your hand, I guess I didn’t notice where I was walking. That’s all.”
“Where’s the woman you were sitting with?”
“Isn’t she here?” I asked brightly.
“She ran out, disappeared in the streets.”
“Yeah?” I hoped the relief I felt didn’t show. “Said she was going to the ladies’ room, so I figured I might as well go myself. Officer, I certainly don’t want trouble. I mean, I came here to see the sights and… I got into a conversation with this gal on the boardwalk and one thing became another and I made a date to meet her outside this club. Told me her name is Jane and…”
“Where’s she staying?”
I gave out with a silly grin. “I don’t know; we didn’t have time to reach that plateau.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Me? I told you I don’t want any trouble. I know from nothing. Officer, I’m a married man. I’ve told you all I know about the dame. You want to talk about me, I insist upon calling my lawyer first.”
Big boy hesitated; he didn’t quite believe me. Then with a shrug he snapped, “Get the hell out of here! Mister, you don’t begin to know how lucky you are. I could put you in jail for assault, for… Get out!”
As I walked toward the door the cop pulled out his notebook. “I’d better take your name and hotel for my report.”
Big boy jumped ahead of me, still limping, whispered something to the cop. He had one hand on the policeman’s shoulder, the other opened the door for me. Walking out I saw the cop put his notebook away as he said, “Okay, if that’s the way you want it…”
I stood in the night club lobby, looking around—as if waiting for Rose. The manager came over and when I asked what I owed, he told me to forget it—on my way out. Taking my coat from the hat check gal, I asked if she’d please go into the ladies room and see if “Jane” was there. She was a young kid with a doll face and too much make-up. She said, “If you’re talking about the big woman, she never went in. She went right out to the street.”
“Are you certain?”
“As I told that detective, I don’t keep track of the patrons going to the ladies room. Only I remember her because she was so big and because she left without her coat. That’s all I know.”
I dropped a ten buck bill on the counter. “Any idea which way she went?”
“Mister, my eyes ain’t periscopes. I’m way inside here, how could I possibly know which way?” She glanced down at the ten spot. “I could have lied and given you a line about she went toward the boardwalk, or away from it But I play it straight.”
“Okay, keep it and the sermon too.”
It was damp and chilly outside. Without her coat Rose would… Where was she? Where could she have gone to? There were a couple of cabs at the curb but I figured it would be a waste of time asking them. Certainly big boy had. Glancing around like a ham actor I strode to the corner, walked a block, and turned down a dark quiet sidestreet full of silent houses. I waited in the middle of the block. I didn’t seem to be followed. Turning into various sidestreets I went back to the hotel. I was feeling rather cocky about the cool way I’d handled Mr. Washington. Almost as good as the way I felt on bringing the Sea Princess through the storm. I had to find Rose and get her safely away…and then she was going to tell me the real story behind this cops-and-robbers deal.
The key was at the desk but I went up to our room expecting Rose to pop out of a doorway in the hall any minute. The empty silence of the room was a letdown. I sat on the bed and lit a cigar. The only thing for me to do was wait. Rose would either come to the hotel or phone. But it was nasty outside and her minus a coat.
I took off my coat and tie and turned on the radio.
But I was far too restless to merely sit and wait. I told myself that whatever mess we were in was her fault—if she’d told me the truth at the start, we never would have left Ansel’s island. Or did what had happened at the night club prove Rose had told me the truth? But for crying out loud, if all that stuff she’d given me was true—it made less sense than before. A Fed, a government man who hasn’t seen her in at least two years and couldn’t have been positive she was Rose, goes after her with his gun ready! What could Rose possibly have done to get that kind of treatment? Would he have gunned her down if I hadn’t clobbered him? Or was it an act? Then he let me bluff him with the mere mention of calling a lawyer, and he wouldn’t let the local badge make a report. Why? Another thing, he told me Rose wasn’t wanted. I’d hate to see this joker in action if she was wanted!
The whole thing didn’t make a bit of sense. This Fed knew damn well I hadn’t kneed him by “accident.” He could have hustled me down to the nearest jail and beat my brains out—yet he’d been almost polite to me. Why?
I kept chewing it around in my mind and all I came up with was a headache. Even my cigar tasted bad. The radio disc jockey said it was 2:00 A.M. I had to do something beside sitting on my rusty. Suppose Rose was hiding someplace on the beach, waiting for me—and freezing for almost two hours now? But if I left the hotel, how could she contact me? What if I went to the police, loud-talked them—or the Federal agent here, into giving me the whole story of why this joker had gone for his gun on Rose? Or would that bring the house down on us?
Hell, I was wasting time sitting here like a silly jerk.
Two hours gone. Rose could be dead by now, or… No point in losing my head. Rose would figure I’d had to give them the phony Anderson handle and this hotel…and that the place was probably crawling with dicks. But at least she could phone me and say… Say what? I was a fool: if they were watching the joint they were certainly keeping an ear on the switchboard.
I lifted the phone from its cradle to see if it was working. It was. Did a tapped phone sound any different? I saw several phonebooks and it suddenly came to me we’d been so smug we hadn’t even checked the Atlantic City book for those names. I went through the book. Nothing. There was a Philly book and a thick New York City one, too.
For lack of anything better to do I checked the Philly book. No William Sour or Gootsrat. Or in the New York directory either. To kill time I went through all the G’s and S’s in both books. In New York there was a William Saure on West 113th Street and a Willy Sowor on Cork Avenue. I felt excited for a moment—either of them might be our boy and a lead to Rose. But the lonely hotel room gave me the blues again. The devil with whether Rose’s story was true or not—where was Rose! Had big boy picked her up? Could she be waiting for me near the night club?
The thin
g sticking in my mind was—why had Rose told me she was going to the ladies room and skipped out instead? Leaving her coat didn’t make sense. If she was going to run, why didn’t she tell me so? Didn’t Rose trust me any longer? Had she really been using me all this time? Or had she been on her way to the powder room when she saw big boy come after her, and decided to flee on the spur of the moment? But she’d told me to say I’d just picked her up. And one thing I couldn’t doubt: Rose had been terrified.
At 3:00 A. M. I couldn’t sit any longer. I slipped the desk clerk a five buck bill as I told him, “If Mrs. Anderson phones, or when she returns, tell her I’ll either call or be back within an hour. She’s to wait or leave a message.”
I knew how it sounded. He let me have a small, understanding smile, as he said, “Of course, Mr. Anderson.”
I was so edgy I wanted to smack the smirk off his thin face. But playing the great detective I returned his jerky grin, added, “I…er…got a big bagged tonight and she turned huffy.”
“She’ll get over it,” Mr. Lonelyheart said smugly.
“I’m going out for some fresh air. Give her message, if she phones.”
I walked through the deserted streets to the night club. It was closed and through the glass door I saw a young fellow in old army fatigue clothes starting to clean up. By twisting my neck I could also see the manager at the bar, checking the cash with the bouncer and barkeep. I circled the block slowly, looking for any place where Rose might be hiding. I also kept looking over my shoulder to see if I was being tailed. I tried thinking of a story in case I ran into the local cop, but my mind wouldn’t come up with anything. There was a big old house with a glass enclosed porch and a TOURIST sign over the doorway, around the corner from the club. The place was completely dark. I rang the bell a few times.
After a couple of minutes a light snapped on inside and a moment later a guy in an old-fashioned nightgown came to the door. He was about thirty-five and still half-asleep. Long, stringy dark hair seemed to be sticking straight up from his head and the bony legs at the other end of the nightgown were shaking with cold. He was an odd-looking guy with a drawn face and a long lantern jaw. He asked, “You ring my bell?”
