by John Roeburt
“Did a tall woman check in here around midnight?”
He blinked and rubbed his arms against his sides. “Nobody has checked in here all month, officer.”
“I’m not a cop. Are you sure…?”
“Geez. You got me out of my bed to ask that? I ought to bust you one on your nose!”
“Skip the tough chatter, you’re not built for it,” I said, waving another five dollar bill. “Here, buy yourself some salt water taffy. Nobody checked in at any time tonight?”
He opened the door wide enough to take the money. “I don’t know if this is worth getting up for. We ain’t had a guest in months. Summertime is when we get people.” He held the bill up to his face, saw it was a five spot. “Anything else?”
“Forget it and sleep warm,” I said, turning away. One thing: in “detective” work, flashing money was better than showing a badge.
I went around the block in the opposite direction and even poked under the boardwalk. I sat on some stone steps and shook the sand out of my shoes, watching the waves breaking, the crests foamy clean and white in the darkness. Away out I saw the dim lights of a ship, a big one. The ocean seemed so safe. I cursed myself for ever being stupid enough to leave the islands, for not realizing we had life in the bag.
I walked back to the club. There was only a single light deep inside the place. I banged on the glass door with a coin. It made an awful racket. After a moment the porter in the army fatigues came up and asked through the door what I wanted. I said I’d lost something in the club. He told me to come back tomorrow afternoon. Pressing two ten dollar bills against the door, I said, “I want to look for it now.”
He hesitated. He had a worn RANGER shoulder patch on his fatigue jacket. It seemed wrong for him to be working as a porter. He also had a sort of holster full of tools hanging from the back of his belt. He took out a big wrench as he unlocked the door with his left hand, told me, “Make it quick, I’ve a lot of work ahead of me. What did you lose, a lighter?”
“No, a girl,” I said, stepping inside. The sight of my face worried him.
Backing away he asked, “You the guy who caused the roughhouse tonight?”
“Roughhouse?” I repeated, talking fast. “Buddy, my girl ran out on me. She isn’t at her hotel and she left her coat here. I think she might be hiding around in the club, in the building. All I want is to make sure she isn’t here.”
“And if you find her here, then what? I don’t want any trouble.”
A wild feeling of joy raced through me: Rose was here! “Buddy, she wasn’t running from me. I think she saw her husband and took a powder. I’m only trying to help her.”
I added another ten to the two in my mitt. He shook his head. Up close I saw he was older than I’d first thought. I told him, “Buddy, if I was here for trouble do you think that wrench would stop me? I worked with a Ranger team in Italy so I know you’re tough. But look at my puss. I have a big edge on you in muscle and experience. Believe me: I’m only a guy hunting for a girl, afraid she’s in trouble.”
“I’ll chance it and believe you. Walk ahead of me, into the club.”
There was a single light on a stand in the center of the small stage. It was a big bulb but didn’t seem to give out much light—the club looked smaller than I’d imagined, trashy and drab now. Two waxing machines stood on the tiny dance floor and with the chairs turned upside down on the tables, the joint seemed a weird forest of plain chair legs. The porter said, “Wait here while I get my keys,” and stepped behind the bar. He took something out of a drawer. It was a very black .45. He said evenly, “Maybe you’re telling the truth, maybe not. I have a permit for this and know how to use it. So don’t fool around.”
“Only an idiot talks back to a .45.”
Waving the gun at me like a pointer he told me to lean over the bar with my hands out. I did it, watching him in the bar mirror, expecting to have my head split open any second. All he did was give me a fast frisk, then he asked, “All right, what you want, her coat?”
“Okay if I stand up?”
“Go ahead. Only remember—no matter how tough you think you are—I have the difference in my hand. And don’t try coming too close to me. Whatcha want?”
I dropped the three tens on the bar. “The hat check girl was sure my girl ran out of here. But I have an idea she must have doubled back. There’s a service alley outside, where does that lead to?”
“The kitchen. Be impossible for her to have returned there without being seen.”
“How about upstairs?” Rose might have returned and gone home with the cook. She was desperate enough.
“You blind? This is a one-story building. No way of reaching the roof from the outside.”
“How about the cellar?”
“There’s a door from the outside but she’d have to be able to pick a tough lock. We’ll look. Walk ahead of me. I’ll steer you.”
The cellar was a clean, well lighted place with neat stacks of liquor cases and other supplies. I called out, “Rose, this is Mickey.” The sound echoed back sadly and faded into the plain silence. I nodded at a locked door in one corner.
“The oil burner. She couldn’t be in there.”
I asked, “Can we look?”
He walked me over and unlocked the door. There were only a couple of big tanks and the burner. We went back upstairs and through the kitchen, looked in the refrigerator room. Standing in the center of the dance floor I called Rose’s name again and didn’t even get the weary echo.
He asked, “That about ends the tour. Satisfied?”
“Let’s stop horsing around: where is she?”
“Jack, the first thing I do when I report is check the place. We do find a drunk sleeping around now and then. She isn’t here. I would have called the police if she had been. I don’t take a chance with female drunks.”
“When I first came in you said something about if she was here. Sounded to me like you knew she was here.”
“Mister, I had to know the play in case she returned while you were here. I don’t stand still for a guy walloping a dame but I ain’t going to risk my life over it either. You want her coat, take it. Hanging over there. Let me get back to my work. I have to finish by morning.”
“Forget the coat.” I headed for the main door. We passed two doors cleverly marked STAGS and MARES. “Let’s look in here.”
“If it will make you happy, but be careful, the floors are slippery. I’ve already hosed down the toilets so…”
“You did what?”
He gave me a cautious look. “Hosed down the toilets. I always start with them. You want to make sure, let’s go.”
“No, it’s okay. I guess she’ll get in touch with me. Sorry I bothered you.” I tried not to walk too fast toward the door.
“Jack, you’d better get a decent night’s sleep,” he said, unlocking the door with his left hand.
“Yeah. You know how it is, I just met her and thought we’d…you know.”
“I don’t know, I’m happily married.”
“Lucky you,” I said, rushing out. He locked the door, waved his gun at me, and went back to work.
I walked toward the center of town, hunting for a phone. Even though as a detective I was a good sailor, I felt cocky again, for I knew where she was. In fact Rose’d told me where she was going. Although I’d made a mistake back there, calling her name—after I’d told the Fed she was “Jane,” still, that didn’t matter now.
As Rose stood up at the table she’d said, “I’m going to the head.” Rose had been on boats enough to call the john a head.
I’d been sitting around like a dummy while Rose had somehow gone back to Asbury Park and the Sea Princess…the only place she could go to.
CHAPTER VII
I couldn’t find an all-night restaurant so I headed back for the hotel area and walked into the phone booth in the lobby of a large hotel. It was a few minutes after four and I had to tell the operator to keep ringing before I awoke anybody in the boat ho
use. I answered a sleepy, “Hello?” with, “This is Whalen off the Sea Princess. Has my wife gone on board yet?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Mr. Whalen, I didn’t get to sleep until two because I was watching the late late show. No way she could have got on the dock without me opening the gate.”
“When she comes, tell her I called and that I’ll phone again.” I hung up and sat in the booth for a moment, started a cigar working. Now I didn’t know what to think.
I’d always seen in the movies how a guy made sure his call couldn’t be traced by making a second one. That worked—in all the movies. The Sea Princess was our ace in our sleeve and I had to cover any tracks leading to her… There was a middle aged man with a real pot belly and detective written over his wide face watching me.
I opened the booth door and for a moment we both stared at each other, then I asked, “Something on your mind?”
“You.” He had a mild voice and his hands were in sight. I wondered if this tub of old lard actually thought he could take me. “Kind of late to walk in, camp in the booth.”
Of course he was the house dick. Still, even if I had the face of a goon I was dressed respectably. Also I had to make that cover-up call. I pointed up at the sign over the booth. “It says public phone and doesn’t list any hours.”
“So it does.”
“I’m going to make another call.”
“I’m not stopping you, merely standing here.”
I shut the door. All the change I had was three quarters. I put one in the phone, asked information for the number of the hotel desk. I dialed that and told the clerk to give me the house man and make it snappy. Using two-bits for a dime call made me feel very wealthy, for some reason. The desk clerk asked, “Who is calling, please?”
“The police!” I snapped.
My watching buddy took a wave from the desk and as he waddled over, I hung up and walked out. I could suddenly understand all of Rose’s fears: a house dick comes over to eye a guy making a phone call in the middle of the night…a guy with a face like mine…and I became jittery. It was a normal move for the house man. Or was it?
I sat on a boardwalk bench and finished my cigar, watching the stars and the waves breaking on the beach—longing to be out there with Rose on the Sea Princess again, away from all this mess.
I went back to our hotel and with a little smirk the desk clerk informed me Mrs. Anderson hadn’t called. I took the key and went up to our room. Opening the door, I saw the place was a wreck. The mattress had been cut open, suitcases turned upside down, drawers out. Like a prize fool I walked straight into the room and heard the swish sound of a blackjack cutting air a split second before the ceiling fell on me. As a curtain of darkness came over my eyes I thought I saw a pair of legs making for the door—one leg limping a bit.
I came to with my head throbbing like a bad motor. The top of my noggin was puffed and touching it made me scream. My side was on fire, too. The bastard had kicked me. It took a long moment to get the room in focus. I made it to my feet and staggered over to the bed, my knees shaking so it reminded me of my wrestling days and the hammy way I’d go rubber-legged. I sat very still for a long time, waiting for my head to land, praying I didn’t have a concussion. I went through my pockets. My wallet and the dough was still there.
Going to the bathroom I ran cold water over my wrists. I touched my head tenderly. No blood. I opened my shirt. My left side was an angry red but the ribs seemed okay. I urinated and except for a small pain in my kidney, things were in working order. I held a towel full of cold water to my face and head. My wrist watch said a half hour had passed, but most of that had been sitting on the bed.
I locked the door and asked the elevator operator if he’d taken a man down who limped? He said no and his was the only car working in the early morning. Of course I wasn’t sure I’d actually seen the limping legs.
In the lobby I asked the clerk and he said, “No one has entered or left here in the last two hours, except you. Any trouble, sir?”
“No.”
I started for the door and he called after me, “Your clothes are unbuttoned, sir.”
I buttoned my shirt and coat and went out. There was a pale line of light on the horizon and the cold sea air was what the doctor ordered. I was full of a lot of feelings: fear, bewilderment—and for the first time since I’d hooked up with Rose, I was damn angry. I walked toward the center of town and found the bus terminal. I got some change and phoned the boat house again. The same sleepy voice answered and when I said, “This is Whalen…” he said, “Aw now, Mr. Whalen, I don’t like to complain but… I told you about the late late show. I hardly ever stay up to watch ’em because I’m a guy who needs his sleep. First you get me up and then about the time I’m closing my eyes again your wife comes and now…”
The only feeling I had was one of pure, sweet relief. I cut in with, “Listen, it’s worth ten bucks if you’ll get her to the phone.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Whalen. Hold on.”
It took fifteen minutes for Rose to walk the dock and reach the boat house phone. I sat there, almost humming to myself. I felt cocky again. It would be a snap for me to reach Asbury, only about thirty miles away. Hell, I could even buy an outboard and make it along the coast. I turned to see if anybody in the bus terminal was watching me. The sudden movement of my sore head made me dizzy.
A couple of other ideas came bubbling to the surface of my cocky mood. I was still angry about the clout on the head, wanted to pay somebody back. Since Rose was safe on the boat, I could go to New York and look up the two “Sour” jokers I’d found in the phone book, perhaps get to the bottom of all this. The other idea was: I had to solve things, or at least give it a good try. Now that I was certain a Federal man was after Rose, I’d best damn well know what sort of mess she was in. Not that I was really frightened. I mean, no matter how badly she was wanted by Washington, I’d never leave her. Still, it was better knowing what I was facing and this would be my last chance. I had to go to New York, follow even a slim clue like the phone book names that… Rose’s voice interrupted my thinking.
The words coming fast, she asked, “Where are you phoning from?” Her voice was hoarse but full of the warmth I knew.
“A public booth. Don’t worry, it won’t be traced. I promised the boat house guy a ten spot, give it to him. Are you okay, honey?”
“Yes.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you?”
“Fine. Maybe pooped from looking for you…”
“Where are you?”
“Still in Atlantic City.”
“Oh God, what’s keeping you? Mickey, I expected to find you waiting here for me. We must sail at once.”
“It took me some time to get your message,” I wisecracked. “Look, I’d like to get to the bottom of all this. Long as we’re here and…”
“No, Mickey!” Hysteria was back in her voice. “We’ve had it! Promise me you’ll come directly here, and be very careful.”
“Okay, but it will take time. I don’t want to bring any company. Are you certain you weren’t followed?”
“Yes. I managed to get a bus to Philly, a train to New York. Then a subway to Newark where I hired a cab to drive me to Elizabeth, and a few more cabs to here.”
“Damn,” I said, full of admiration. “Now listen, sit tight and don’t worry. I’ll be along. But it will take time. I mean, I’ll have to do all that twisting and turning, too, and at this hour in the morning there may not be any trains. No matter what happens, you wait on the boat.”
“I will, but hurry. Darling, you’re really not hurt or in trouble?”
“No. I won’t try to call you again, too risky. I’m leaving here now and I should be with you by late afternoon.”
“Be careful, Mickey.”
“Yeah. And you stay put and wait.”
I hung up and called the other hotel, asked for the house man again, and hung up. To be even safer, I phoned our hotel and asked fo
r their rates. With two cover calls, we couldn’t be traced—unless the movies were liars.
I was in luck, there was a direct bus to New York leaving in five minutes. I watched the people boarding it and didn’t see anybody looking like a dick. But then I didn’t know how to make a tail. Obviously big boy had been following me around ever since I left the club last night. Although he could have easily checked the hotels for a Mickey Anderson.
It was a four hour ride to New York on the turnpike and I had a headache most of the way. But when I walked out into Times Square I had coffee and felt better. I couldn’t comb my hair so I bought a hat. For a few minutes I wandered around Broadway, and seeing the rushing people, the big buildings, was a charge. I glanced around like a hick, somehow expecting Hal among the crowds. I had to find out about train and bus schedules and the safest way was the phone. It turned out to be a snap to reach Asbury Park almost any time I wanted to. And now that Rose was safe, what did I have to lose by digging around a little? Maybe Rose had been telling the truth—I was sure she had—but her story was so weird there had to be more to it.
Really wasn’t much looking I could do, except checking on the “Sours” in the phone book, and that wouldn’t take more than an hour.
I rode a subway uptown, to say I’d been on one, and when I got off and asked for the address on West 113th Street, a street cleaner told me I’d taken the wrong train and I finally took a cab.
I found myself in a colored neighborhood and William Saure turned out to be an elderly brown man who thought I was a cop and had never heard of any Willie Sour or Josef Fedor, and was quite relieved when I told him it was all a mistake.
That left Willy Sowor on Cork Avenue—wherever that was. A cab let me off in front of a seedy looking brownstone rooming house in a block of old houses and swank new apartments. I rang the basement bell and when I didn’t get any answer, trotted up the stoop steps, rang another bell.
