“Tell me about your work,” she said.
“Too dull.”
“Your work in Buffo’s couldn’t be dull.”
“I haven’t been inspired,” I said. She lay against me and let me feel the silken roundness of her shoulders. In this pose, she lost all signs of age. She was bait for a man’s hands. “Buffo leaves me cold.”
“You questioned the poor man?” she laughed.
“Buffo doesn’t talk much.”
“It depends on what you ask him.”
“Or maybe who asks him?”
“That could be, Dave. What did you want to know?”
“I’m curious about Nancy Blackburn.”
“Curious?” Some part of her deliberate pitch for me faded on her question. She seemed to tighten at the mention of Nancy. But when she turned her head to me, the quick and anxious look of the siren returned. She licked at her lip. “That kid’s a little bitch.”
“I didn’t think you two loved each other.”
“She doesn’t give me a chance.”
“And how about you? You don’t bubble with affection when you see her, either.”
“To hell with her.” She tossed Nancy out of our conversation with a snap of her fingers. She was watching me closely now, appraising the full depth of my alcoholic stupor. Her fingers bit into my wrist. “To hell with all of them, Dave.”
“What about Eustace?”
“I could be coaxed to forget him. Let’s talk some more about you.”
“Talk? Now?”
“Later?”
“Why talk at all?”
Her glass somehow left her hand and fell to the rug and rolled away incongruously, the liquor and ice slipping and spilling out of it, across the rug in a strange, blossoming stain. She was unaware of the accident. She was alive with a new purpose now, answering my question with her body. She kissed me hard. I held her on the couch, letting her follow through on this part of her playlet wondering how long it would take for the next act, the quiet retreat to the adjoining chamber. But she seemed more concerned with the immediate present.
“I wish I could help you, Dave.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m very fond of you,” she whispered.
“What would Eustace say?”
It was either the mention of his name or the quiet rapping at the door that took her out of my arms, moving her quickly to the door. I heard her whisper a few mumbled words before she returned.
“Speak of the devil,” she said sadly, adjusting her make-up at the mirror. “I’ve got to leave you now. Eustace just came in.”
“When can I see you again, Lisa?”
“Soon,” she said at the door. “Will it be very soon, Dave?”
“Maybe sooner than you expect.”
She ran down the hall. She skipped lightly along the carpet, her body suddenly free and loose and completely under control. What had happened to her zany drunkenness? She opened the door to the narrow stairway and when I reached it her heels were tap-tap-tapping downstairs in a smooth and measured tread.
I allowed her to reach the bottom before I followed. There was a small hall beyond the door at the landing, between the terrace bar and the entrance to the main house. And somebody was talking out there.
“Is he still up there?”
“He’ll be there for a while,” Lisa answered, whispering.
“Drunk?”
“Drunk enough.”
“Good girl. Everything went off fine.”
“How fine?”
“Permanently fine.”
“And my jerk?” Lisa’s voice had a lilt in it now.
“He arrived a little while ago.”
“In the bar?”
“He’s waiting for you.”
“I’ll handle him,” she said. There was a pause. “You need me anymore?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The muffled sound of her heels came again, this time passing the door at my ear and then out into the terrace, where the sound became hard and brittle. I opened the door a crack and squinted out into the gloom of the hallway. It seemed darker, suddenly. A few of the lights must have been eliminated since Lisa and I went upstairs. I moved toward the sound of activity, a low murmur from the terrace.
But I didn’t move far.
Somebody stopped me. Somebody hit me with the back of the building the whole wall crashing in on my head, crumbling around me as I went down, a fine spray of starlike silt and black areas of nothingness.
Then I was out.
CHAPTER 9
The bartender awoke me. He used his apron, fanning me. He held a small jigger of tomato juice to my lips. He came into focus when he let me swallow the water he had brought along as a chaser.
“You conked out,” he said affably. “Feel better now?”
“I didn’t conk out.”
“All right, all right. Finish this juice, bub.”
His good-natured doubt didn’t charm me. I slapped the tumbler of tomato juice out of his hand. It fell against the wall with a flat crash. The red liquid ridged the shoulder of his white jacket on the rebound. He looked as though somebody had stabbed him, high on his chest, under the neck. He clucked at me sadly.
“You better get out of here, son,” he said. “The boss doesn’t like this kind of horseplay.”
“How did you happen to find me?”
“On the way to the john,” he said. “Spotted you on the way to the john.”
“I was slugged.”
“You asking me, or telling me?”
“I’m telling you. See anybody come through this hall?”
“I just told you. I came through to go to the john.” He shook his head at me wearily. “I can’t see into this hall from my bar, now can I?”
He was right, of course. The bar lay around the side of the house, outside the edge of the terrace. Anybody could have slugged me and sat on me, butchered me and sliced me into small and unsavory pieces without being seen or heard out there. I brushed myself off. There was a small symphony of hammers banging in my head, behind my right ear. There was no blood.
“Miss Varick came through here,” I said.
“She’s out there now. With Mr. Blackburn.”
“She came out alone?”
“All alone, bub.”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe five, six minutes, is all.”
“Go back to your bottles,” I said.
I walked through the hall, away from the bar, looking for doors back there. There were two ways out, one at the end of the little hallway, a door that led to a larger corridor adjoining the kitchen. Another door opened into a still larger corridor, through which I could see all the way down the middle of Buffo’s establishment, a connecting hall to the restaurant up front. Nobody stirred here, either. Whoever slugged me could have moved out and away quickly. There was no reason to hope for a return of my assailant. There was no reason to stand there, listening to my stomach pump bile into my fists.
So I started back toward the casino.
The crowd in the casino had fattened. A variety of gambling folk stood around the big wheel. Buffo catered to a cross section of the trade. There were many familiar faces out of the society columns and the upper echelon of the theatre and sports and politics. There were many from the track. Including Hank Luchon.
Luchon stood close to Nancy, devouring her with his brittle, farm-boy eyes. She turned to smile at him and he colored and fumbled under the power of her charm. He looked younger and spryer in civilian clothes, a rustic; a yokel out painting the town red.
The croupier spun the wheel. The little ball bounced. The little ball came to rest. Then the croupier cleaned the table.
Nancy was out of money.
“Let’s get some air,�
�� she told me. “I can use a few gulps.”
“The wheel failed you?”
“The wheel rarely favors me.”
“Then why do you play it?”
“A good question,” Nancy laughed. “A good question for a psychiatrist. Let’s have a drink. Let’s have a few dozen drinks.”
She guided me along the terrace, a girl with a purpose.
Until she saw her father in the bar.
Nancy stared inside. The corner of the small bar was framed in the window. Lisa Varick and Blackburn together. The bartender said a few words to them and then disappeared and they were alone in a cozy tableau. When her father kissed Lisa, Nancy turned abruptly from the scene and started down the garden path.
“I need plenty of air,” she said.
We rounded the turn to the front of the mansion, walking under the big trees. She seemed to be making up her mind about a deep and disturbing problem, kicking out at the pebbles in the driveway the way a small and petulant schoolgirl might kick away her frustrations.
“What’s eating you, Nancy?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Want me to guess?”
She paused to look up at me and squeeze my hand and say: “Let’s forget about it, shall we? Playing guessing games will do me no good. I’ll feel happier away from Buffo’s. I don’t want to see Lisa Varick again tonight. She makes my stomach do nip-ups.” She began to tug me back to the parking lot. “Let’s you and I go somewhere for a good strong cup of coffee, Dave.”
“I can use a cup of coffee.”
From the moment I swung left outside Buffo’s gate, in the instant when the lights on the broad lawn died away and we entered the black lane that wound down to the main road, as soon as we were blanketed in the private pocket of gloom around the wheel of my car, I began to feel the overpowering pull of Nancy Blackburn’s personality. My dashboard lights were off and the winding lane took all of my concentration. But driving wasn’t an easy assignment. Nancy snuggled against me at the wheel, her head on my shoulder; her right hand lightly on mine.
“Which way to the coffee?” I asked when we reached the main road.
“The back road is prettiest, Dave.”
“It takes us to good java?”
“Let’s forget about the java.”
I turned into the back road. “Where are we headed?”
“Why not just drive?” she asked sleepily.
“I need a destination.”
“Stay on this road. It crosses the island. It’ll take us to Jones Beach.”
“Too far,” I said. “And too bleak.”
“Maybe I feel bleak.”
“Serves you right for throwing your money away at the damned fool roulette wheel.”
“Don’t bawl me out,” she said petulantly. “For heaven’s sake, stop being the big strong man, Dave. Be a darling and take me to Jones Beach?”
“Bad therapy,” I said. “You’ll feel bleaker at the beach. The beach after midnight is the most dismal place on earth.”
“Sounds wonderful to me.”
“You’re asking for melancholy. Why?”
“I’m asking for sympathy,” she said quietly. “Can’t you tell the difference?”
I slowed the car and pulled off to the side of the road. We were in an area of scrub trees and rolling hills, lit by the soft moon. The road wound lazily up through the hills, a two-lane affair, fashioned for the occasional traffic bound for the small towns off the great highways. I cut the motor and killed the headlights. We seemed to sink into a pocket of moist, cool air. Nancy shivered and came closer to me, her hand searching for mine and finding it.
“Close your eyes and pretend you’re at Jones Beach,” I said. I kissed her and felt her supple body melt into me. She wanted to be kissed again and again. Her mouth was hungry and anxious. “What’s bothering you, Nancy?”
“How does all this add up to you, Mr. Hemingway?”
“It adds up nicely. I like the way it adds up.”
“How do you figure it?” She shivered a bit. “Romance? Mystery? Or just a zany detour?”
“I’ll settle for the romance.”
“You’re just trying to be nice Dave.”
“And failing?’
She stared at me through the gloom. Her face was an oval of gray against the surrounding mists. For a long time the silence grew between us. When I punctuated the pause with a fresh burst of affection, her kiss seemed frozen and hard. She pulled away from me gently.
“Suppose I didn’t want this drive for romance?” she asked.
“Then call me a cad and we’ll go home.”
“But you’re not a cad,” she said, gripping my hand again. “You’re nice, Dave. And I don’t want to go home. Not yet. I want to talk to you.”
“What are you trying to say, Nancy?” I couldn’t quite bury the edge of my annoyance with her. “You’re talking in riddles now.”
“You mustn’t scold me. Or I’ll retire into my personal cave and never come out. I’m the sensitive type.”
“You’re also the enigmatic type.”
Then suddenly, and with complete abandon, Nancy began to cry. She sobbed piteously. She leaned down and held her pretty face and let fly with the tears. Her sorrow was not born of sadness. She was reacting to an inner surge of tension and anxiety. I held her tight, until the sobbing slowed and died.
“Handkerchief,” she said.
She blew her nose and took a cigarette and puffed it until she felt better. In the occasional glow of the burning end, her face seemed relaxed and purposeful now.
“Let’s start all over again,” I suggested. “What’s bothering you?”
“My conscience, Dave.”
“You’re talking in riddles again.’
“I’ve been a bad girl,” she said softly. She paused to look for a sign from me, a gesture of understanding. I pressed her hand and she went on. “I’ve been withholding important information from you. About Nickles Shuba.”
“Let’s have it now.”
“Nickles phoned me today.”
“He what?” My surprise came through in a burst of noise. Inadvertently I had leaned on the horn. The blast shocked the stillness of the hills and set up an echo that went careening off into the distances. The horn bleat touched off a note of madness in the scene. It brought Nancy back into my arms, all atremble again and clutching me desperately. Yet the sting of the blast relieved the mounting tension in me. My anger was gone.
“Why did he phone you, Nancy?”
“He saw us talking at Arcturus’ stall. He wanted to know who you were. When I told him you were Jake West’s nephew, Nickles insisted that he must talk to you.”
I stopped her there. The impact of her news slapped all traces of the Scotch out of my brain and I struggled for a rational approach to the fresh and important information she was giving me. I slowed her down and had her repeat the beginning of her confession. How did Nickles sound? He was frightened, it seemed to Nancy. And what frightened him? She couldn’t tell me. But his voice had seemed quite agitated, an unusual thing for Shuba, a man who prided himself on his steady, even temperament, a man who did not seem the type to scare easily.
“Think back, Nancy. Did he give any hint why he wanted to see me?”
“He said he was in bad trouble. He needed you.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“He wouldn’t explain.” She shivered again, caught up in her memory of the phone conversation. “He chattered on and on. It was unusual for Nickles. He’s a smooth talker. He said that he was desperate to see you, Dave. That was why I brought you to Buffo’s. I told Nickles that he could meet you there. But he didn’t show up. I’m worried about him now. I’m frightened.”
“Did he say anything at all about Jake West?”
“It was all g
arbled. He called Jake a name.”
“What kind of a name?”
“Let me think a moment, Dave.”
Over the hill to the east the sky was ribbed with small pink clouds of a delicate color, vaguely tinted and floating low on the misted horizon. It would be dawn soon. The dome of sky above us was lightening slowly. A bird cried in a distant tree. A tree toad chirped. The little valley came slowly into focus for me now, the veil of fog rising above the line of hills to let the morning in. When Nancy looked my way, I could see her face clearly.
“A movie name,” she said. “Nickles called him Valentino. Rudy Valentino.”
“I’ll be damned. Valentino—the great lover.”
“Exactly, Dave. Nickles said: ‘Tell Jake’s nephew I have news for him about his uncle, Rudy Valentino.’ Just like that. But behind the little joke, he was pleading with me to give you the message. Nickles sounded desperate.”
“You told nobody about this?”
“Not a soul.”
“Not even your father?”
“Why,” she asked, “would I tell Dad about it?”
“Nickles called you at home?”
“Naturally.”
“Is it natural for him to call you there? He’s done it before?”
“Never,” she said sharply. “This is the first time he phoned me. What are you trying to insinuate?”
I took her in hand again. I showed her by the pressure of my fingers that this was no time for further hysterics. “Listen, Nancy, and try to understand me. This is the first real lead I’ve had to the background of Jake West. Is that clear to you? It’s the first crumb that I can use. That’s why I’m so damned anxious to explore it all the way down the line. To the bitter end. That’s why I want you to tell me everything. Every word you can remember. Every idea you think might be important.”
She shuddered as I spouted my monologue. She hunched against me and went limp, completely subdued now.
“I’ve told you everything, Dave. Everything.”
“That’s all I have to know.”
Win, Place, and Die! Page 8
