At Santa Barbara the police car turned east again, drifted slowly along the curb to Noon Street. It stopped at the corner above the lunch wagon. Pete Anglich’s face tightened again, but he didn’t say anything.
“Okey,” Angus drawled. “Take the flippers off.”
The dick on Pete Anglich’s other side dug a key out of his vest, unlocked the handcuffs, jangled them pleasantly before he put them away on his hip. Angus swung the door open and stepped out of the car.
“Out,” he said over his shoulder.
Pete Anglich got out. Angus walked a little way from the street light, stopped, beckoned. His hand moved under his coat, came out with a gun. He said softly: “Had to play it this way. Otherwise we’d tip the town. Pearson’s the only one that knows you. Any ideas?”
Pete Anglich took his gun, shook his head slowly, slid the gun under his own coat, keeping his body between it and the car at the curb behind.
“The stake-out was spotted, I guess,” he said slowly. “There was a girl hanging around there, but maybe that just happened, too.”
Angus stared at him silently for a moment, then nodded and went back to the car. The door slammed shut, and the car drifted off down the street and picked up speed.
Pete Anglich walked along Santa Barbara to Central, south on Central. After a while a bright sign glared at him in violet letters—Juggernaut Club. He went up broad carpeted stairs toward noise and dance music.
4
The girl had to go sideways to get between the close-set tables around the small dance floor. Her hips touched the back of a man’s shoulder and he reached out and grabbed her hand, grinning. She smiled mechanically, pulled her hand away and came on.
She looked better in the bronze metal-cloth dress with bare arms and the brown hair curling low on her neck; better than in the shabby polo coat and cheap felt hat, better even than in skyscraper heels, bare legs and thighs, the irreducible minimum above the waistline, and a dull gold opera hat tipped rakishly over one ear.
Her face looked haggard, small, pretty, shallow. Her eyes had a wide stare. The dance band made a sharp racket over the clatter of dishes, the thick hum of talk, the shuffling feet on the dance floor. The girl came slowly up to Pete Anglich’s table, pulled the other chair out and sat down.
She propped her chin on the backs of her hands, put her elbows on the tablecloth, stared at him.
“Hello there,” she said in a voice that shook a little.
Pete Anglich pushed a pack of cigarettes across the table, watched her shake one loose and get it between her lips. He struck a match. She had to take it out of his hand to light her cigarette.
“Drink?”
“I’ll say.”
He signaled the fuzzy-haired, almond-eyed waiter, ordered a couple of sidecars. The waiter went away. Pete Anglich leaned back on his chair and looked at one of his blunt fingertips.
The girl said very softly: “I got your note, mister.”
“Like it?” His voice was stiffly casual. He didn’t look at her.
She laughed off key. “We’ve got to please the customers.”
Pete Anglich looked past her shoulder at the corner of the band shell. A man stood there smoking, beside a small microphone. He was heavily built, old for an m.c., with slick gray hair and a big nose and the thickened complexion of a steady drinker. He was smiling at everything and everybody. Pete Anglich looked at him a little while, watching the direction of his glances. He said stiffly, in the same casual voice, “But you’d be here anyway.”
The girl stiffened, then slumped. “You don’t have to insult me, mister.”
He looked at her slowly, with an empty up-from-under look. “You’re down and out, knee-deep in nothing, baby. I’ve been that way often enough to know the symptoms. Besides, you got me in plenty jam tonight. I owe you a couple insults.”
The fuzzy-haired waiter came back and slid a tray on the cloth, wiped the bottoms of two glasses with a dirty towel, set them out. He went away again.
The girl put her hand around a glass, lifted it quickly and took a long drink. She shivered a little as she put the glass down. Her face was white.
“Wisecrack or something,” she said rapidly. “Don’t just sit there. I’m watched.”
Pete Anglich touched his fresh drink, smiled very deliberately toward the corner of the band shell.
“Yeah, I can imagine. Tell me about that pick-up on Noon Street.”
She reached out quickly and touched his arm. Her sharp nails dug into it. “Not here,” she breathed. “I don’t know how you found me and I don’t care. You looked like the kind of Joe that would help a girl out. I was scared stiff. But don’t talk about it here. I’ll do anything you want, go anywhere you want. Only not here.”
Pete Anglich took his arm from under her hand, leaned back again. His eyes were cold, but his mouth was kind.
“I get it. Trimmer’s wishes. Was he tailing the job?”
She nodded quickly. “I hadn’t gone three blocks before he picked me up. He thought it was a swell gag, what I did, but he won’t think so when he sees you here. That makes you wise.”
Pete Anglich sipped his drink. “He is coming this way,” he said, coolly.
The gray-haired m.c. Was moving among the tables, bowing and talking, but edging toward the one where Pete Anglich sat with the girl. The girl was staring into a big gilt mirror behind Pete Anglich’s head. Her face was suddenly distorted, shattered with terror. Her lips were shaking uncontrollably.
Trimmer Waltz idled casually up to the table, leaned a hand down on it. He poked his big-veined nose at Pete Anglich. There was a soft, flat grin on his face.
“Hi, Pete. Haven’t seen you around since they buried McKinley. How’s tricks?”
“Not bad, not good,” Pete Anglich said huskily. “I been on a drunk.”
Trimmer Waltz broadened his smile, turned it on the girl. She looked at him quickly, looked away, picking at the tablecloth.
Waltz’s voice was soft, cooing. “Know the little lady before—or just pick her out of the line-up?”
Pete Anglich shrugged, looked bored. “Just wanted somebody to share a drink with, Trimmer. Sent her a note. Okey?”
“Sure. Perfect.” Waltz picked one of the glasses up, sniffed at it. He shook his head sadly. “Wish we could serve better stuff. At four bits a throw it can’t be done. How about tipping a few out of a right bottle, back in my den?”
“Both of us?” Pete Anglich asked gently.
“Both of you is right. In about five minutes. I got to circulate a little first.”
He pinched the girl’s cheek, went on, with a loose swing of his tailored shoulders.
The girl said slowly, thickly, hopelessly, “So Pete’s your name. You must want to die young, Pete. Mine’s Token Ware. Silly name, isn’t it?”
“I like it,” Pete Anglich said softly.
The girl stared at a point below the white scar on Pete Anglich’s throat. Her eyes slowly filled with tears.
Trimmer Waltz drifted among the tables, speaking to a customer here and there. He edged over to the far wall, came along it to the band shell, stood there ranging the house with his eyes until he was looking directly at Pete Anglich. He jerked his head, stepped back through a pair of thick curtains.
Pete Anglich pushed his chair back and stood up. “Let’s go,” he said.
Token Ware crushed a cigarette out in a glass tray with jerky fingers, finished the drink in her glass, stood up. They went back between the tables, along the edge of the dance floor, over to the side of the band shell.
The curtains opened on to a dim hallway with doors on both sides. A shabby red carpet masked the floor. The walls were chipped, the doors cracked.
“The one at the end on the left,” Token Ware whispered.
They came to it. Pete Anglich knocked. Trimmer Waltz’s voice called out to come in. Pete Anglich stood a moment looking at the door, then turned his head and looked at the girl with his eyes hard and narrow. He pushed the d
oor open, gestured at her. They went in.
The room was not very light. A small oblong reading lamp on the desk shed glow on polished wood, but less on the shabby red carpet, and the long heavy red drapes across the outer wall. The air was close, with a thick, sweetish smell of liquor.
Trimmer Waltz sat behind the desk with his hands touching a tray that contained a cut-glass decanter, some gold-veined glasses, an ice bucket and a siphon of charged water.
He smiled, rubbed one side of his big nose.
“Park yourselves, folks. Liqueur Scotch at six-ninety a fifth. That’s what it costs me—wholesale.”
Pete Anglich shut the door, looked slowly around the room, at the floor-length window drapes, at the unlighted ceiling light. He unbuttoned the top button of his coat with a slow, easy movement.
“Hot in here,” he said softly. “Any windows behind those drapes?”
The girl sat in a round chair on the opposite side of the desk from Waltz. He smiled at her very gently.
“Good idea,” Waltz said. “Open one up, will you?”
Pete Anglich went past the end of the desk, toward the curtains. As he got beyond Waltz, his hand went up under his coat and touched the butt of his gun. He moved softly toward the red drapes. The tips of wide, square-toed black shoes just barely showed under the curtains, in the shadow between the curtains and the wall.
Pete Anglich reached the curtains, put his left hand out and jerked them open.
The shoes on the floor against the wall were empty. Waltz laughed dryly behind Pete Anglich. Then a thick, cold voice said: “Put ‘em high, boy.”
The girl made a strangled sound, not quite a scream. Pete Anglich dropped his hands and turned slowly and looked. The Negro was enormous in stature, gorilla-like, and wore a baggy checked suit that made him even more enormous. He had come soundlessly on shoeless feet out of a closet door, and his right hand almost covered a huge black gun.
Trimmer Waltz held a gun too, a Savage. The two men stared quietly at Pete Anglich. Pete Anglich put his hands up in the air, his eyes blank, his small mouth set hard.
The Negro in the checked suit came toward him in long, loose strides, pressed the gun against his chest, then reached under his coat. His hand came out with Pete Anglich’s gun. He dropped it behind him on the floor. He shifted his own gun casually and hit Pete Anglich on the side of the jaw with the flat of it.
Pete Anglich staggered and the salt taste of blood came under his tongue. He blinked, said thickly: “I’ll remember you a long time, big boy.”
The Negro grinned. “Not so long, pal. Not so long.”
He hit Pete Anglich again with the gun, then suddenly he jammed it into a side pocket and his two big hands shot out, clamped themselves on Pete Anglich’s throat.
“When they’s tough I likes to squeeze ‘em,” he said almost softly.
Thumbs that felt as big and hard as doorknobs pressed into the arteries on Pete Anglich’s neck. The face before him and above him grew enormous, an enormous shadowy face with a wide grin in the middle of it. It waved in lessening light, an unreal, a fantastic face.
Pete Anglich hit the face, with puny blows, the blows of a toy balloon. His fists didn’t feel anything as they hit the face. The big man twisted him around and put a knee into his back, and bent him down over the knee.
There was no sound for a while except the thunder of blood threshing in Pete Anglich’s head. Then, far away, he seemed to hear a girl scream thinly. From still farther away the voice of Trimmer Waltz muttered: “Easy now, Rufe. Easy.”
A vast blackness shot with hot red filled Pete Anglich’s world. The darkness grew silent. Nothing moved in it now, not even blood.
The Negro lowered Pete Anglich’s limp body to the floor, stepped back and rubbed his hands together.
“Yeah, I likes to squeeze ‘em,” he said.
5
The Negro in the checked suit sat on the side of the daybed and picked languidly at a five-stringed banjo. His large face was solemn and peaceful, a little sad. He plucked the banjo strings slowly, with his bare fingers, his head on one side, a crumpled cigarette-end sticking barely past his lips at one corner of his mouth.
Low down in his throat he was making a kind of droning sound. He was singing.
A cheap electric clock on the mantel said 11:35. It was a small living room with bright, overstuffed furniture, a red floor lamp with a cluster of French dolls at its base, a gay carpet with large diamond shapes in it, two curtained windows with a mirror between them.
A door at the back was ajar. A door near it opening into the hall was shut.
Pete Anglich lay on his back on the floor, with his mouth open and his arms outflung. His breath was a thick snore. His eyes were shut, and his face in the reddish glow of the lamp looked flushed and feverish.
The Negro put the banjo down out of his immense hands, stood up and yawned and stretched. He walked across the room and looked at a calendar over the mantel.
“This ain’t August,” he said disgustedly.
He tore a leaf from the calendar, rolled it into a ball and threw it at Pete Anglich’s face. It hit the unconscious man’s cheek. He didn’t stir. The Negro spit the cigarette-end into his palm, held his palm out flat, and flicked a fingernail at it, sent it sailing in the same direction as the paper ball.
He loafed a few steps and leaned down, fingering a bruise on Pete Anglich’s temple. He pressed the bruise, grinning softly. Pete Anglich didn’t move.
The Negro straightened and kicked the unconscious man in the ribs thoughtfully, over and over again, not very hard. Pete Anglich moved a little, gurgled, and rolled his head to one side. The Negro looked pleased, left him, went back to the daybed. He carried his banjo over to the hail door and leaned it against the wall. There was a gun lying on a newspaper on a small table. He went through a partly open inner door and came back with a pint bottle of gin, half full. He rubbed the bottle over carefully with a handkerchief, set it on the mantel.
“About time now, pal,” he mused out loud. “When you wake up, maybe you don’t feel so good. Maybe need a shot…Hey, I gotta better hunch.”
He reached for the bottle again, went down on one big knee, poured gin over Pete Anglich’s mouth and chin, slopped it loosely on the front of his shirt. He stood the bottle on the floor, after wiping it off again, and flicked the glass stopper under the daybed.
“Grab it, white boy,” he said softly. “Prints don’t never hurt.”
He got the newspaper with the gun on it, slid the gun off on the carpet, and moved it with his foot until it lay just out of reach of Pete Anglich’s outflung hand.
He studied the layout carefully from the door, nodded, picked his banjo up. He opened the door, peeped out, then looked back.
“So long, pal,” he said softly. “Time for me to breeze. ‘You ain’t got a lot of future comin’, but what you got you get sudden.”
He shut the door, went along the hallway to stairs and down the stairs. Radios made faint sound behind shut doors. The entrance lobby of the apartment house was empty. The Negro in the checked suit slipped into a pay booth in the dark corner of the lobby, dropped his nickel and dialed.
A heavy voice said: “Police department.”
The Negro put his lips close to the transmitter and got a whine into his voice.
“This the cops? Say, there’s been a shootin’ scrape in the Calliope Apartments, Two-Forty-Six East Forty-Eight, Apartment Four-B. Got it?…Well, do somethin’ about it, flatfoot!”
He hung up quickly, giggling, ran down the front steps of the apartment house and jumped into a small, dirty sedan. He kicked it to life and drove toward Central Avenue. He was a block from Central Avenue when the red eye of a prowl car swung around from Central on to East Forty-Eight Street.
The Negro in the sedan chuckled and went on his way. He was singing down in his throat when the prowl car whirred past him.
The instant the door latch clicked Pete Anglich opened his eyes halfway. He turned his
head slowly, and a grin of pain came on his face and stayed on it, but he kept on turning his head until he could see the emptiness of one end of the room and the middle. He tipped his head far back on the floor, saw the rest of the room.
He rolled toward the gun and took hold of it. It was his own gun. He sat up and snapped the gate open mechanically. His face stiffened out of the grin. One shell in the gun had been fired. The barrel smelled of powder fumes.
He came to his feet and crept toward the slightly open inner door, keeping his head low. When he reached the door he bent still lower, and slowly pushed the door wide open. Nothing happened. He looked into a bedroom with twin beds, made up and covered with rose damask with a gold design in it.
Somebody lay on one of the beds. A woman. She didn’t move. The hard, tight grin came back on Pete Anglich’s face. He rose straight up and walked softly on the balls of his feet over to the side of the bed. A door beyond was open on a bathroom, but no sound came from it. Pete Anglich looked down at the colored girl on the bed.
He caught his breath and let it out slowly. The girl was dead. Her eyes were half open, uninterested, her hands lazy at her sides: Her legs were twisted a little and bare skin showed above one sheer stocking, below the short skirt. A green hat lay on the floor. She had four-and-a-half-inch French heels. There was a scent of Midnight Narcissus in the room. He remembered the girl outside the Surprise Hotel.
She was quite dead, dead long enough for the blood to have clotted over the powder-scorched hole below her left breast.
Pete Anglich went back to the living room, grabbed up the gin bottle, and emptied it without stopping or choking. He stood a moment, breathing hard, thinking. The gun hung slack in his left hand. His small, tight mouth hardly showed at all.
He worked his fingers on the glass of the gin bottle, tossed it empty on top of the daybed, slid his gun into the underarm holster, went to the door and stepped quietly into the hall.
Collected Stories of Raymond Chandler Page 44
