I shrugged. “I get around,” I said, and pulled up a chair.
“Willie,” Eastman said to the punk in the dinner jacket, “this is Joe Spinder, guy from my home town. Joe, meet Willie. Mabel, meet Joe.”
Willie, who had a pale smooth little face and big eyes, looked at me and jerked his head. The girl said, “Hi, Joe.”
She looked sullen and tired.
“Have a drink, Joe,” Eastman said. “Scotch?”
“Sure,” I said.
Eastman started snapping his fingers for a waiter.
I looked him over, trying to figure him out. I would never have figured him for a hophead. He was not much of a guy for my money. I had never liked him. He was the fishy-eyed type with a drooling look around the corners of his mouth, and he wasn’t popular around Preston. But I had never thought of him as a dope fiend. I had never heard anyone say that about him—and believe me, brother, if anybody had thought that about him, or about anyone else in Preston, it would sooner or later have been mentioned. But here he was in a room full of dopes in the Sheraton Hotel. There hadn’t been any doubt about the other people I saw in that room. It put Don Eastman in a very funny position. But I couldn’t tell now whether he was hopped or not. I itched to go get Singer and tell him about it so we could get a brain working on it, but now that I had found Eastman, I couldn’t afford to leave without him.
The girl named Mabel was staring at me.
“You’re not bad,” she said suddenly. “Come to the city often?”
“Once in a while,” I said.
“Your friend Eastman is quite a boy,” she said. “What ever happened to that gorgeous thing he used to bring up here? What was her name—Mason—?”
The waiter brought me a scotch and soda.
“She’s dead,” I said, picking up my drink.
Mabel blinked. “Just like that?” she said. “She’s dead?”
“Just like that. Deader than hell.”
Mabel thought it over. Finally she shook her head and shrugged.
“Well—she was too good-looking to live.”
I didn’t say anything. I noticed little Willie talking very fast to Don Eastman. I couldn’t hear what he said.
“Does Eastman know she’s dead?” Mabel asked.
“I think he does,” I said.
Mabel looked at Eastman. Then she looked at me.
“I don’t think it bothers him very much,” she said.
Eastman leaned across the table. “You must have got a number when you came through the door,” he said. “What was it?”
I remembered the conversation with the mug behind the bar.
“Number 8,” I said.
Mabel, staring at Eastman, said loudly, “I hear your beautiful girlfriend is dead.”
Don’s eyes opened wide and his jaw sagged. But just for a moment.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said to me. “We’d better go down to Number 8. We can talk down there. It’s noisy in here.”
He got up. I got up, too, thinking, “It’s all right with me.” We weren’t getting anywhere in here. I hoped Willie and Mabel would stay here. Mabel did. But Willie got right up and came along. We swam through the haze of smoke, pushing people out of the way, and got into the little corridor. Don turned left and I followed. Willie was right behind me. We came to the end, where the corridor turned to the left again. Here there were doors every four or five feet on both sides and they were all numbered, odd on the left, even on the right.
We were in the high numbers at this end. As we passed the door of Number 14 I wondered if the guy I had got the password from was in there. But I didn’t bother to go in and look. Three more doors and we came to Number 8. Don Eastman tried the knob, it turned, and we stepped in.
It was a small room. There was a frosted window in the wall and below it a tacky-looking, battered studio couch. Some of the fringe was torn loose and hung down around the edges. There were some dirty, lumpy pillows on it that had no doubt been part of the hotel furnishings since 1890. There was a small table beside the couch with a lamp and an ash tray. The lamp was lighted with an amber bulb, about thirty watts. There was a rag rug on the floor and one straight chair. That was all, except for a strange, bitter odor in the air.
Don Eastman sat down on the couch. I sat on the chair. Willie closed the door and leaned against it. I had brought my drink with me. The glass was cool and solid against the palm of my hand. It felt good.
Eastman was looking at me hard. After a while he lit a cigarette, took a couple of drags, and said, “Now what the hell do you want?”
He didn’t sound like the old home-town pal now. He sounded edgy and suspicious. I had only one play now—to try to make him think I was friendly until I could get him to Singer Batts.
“I just dropped in to look around,” I said, “and have a few drinks.”
I took a couple of swallows to prove it. He didn’t seem to be impressed. Little Willie, the paleface, leaned against the door and stared at me.
“Who told you about this place?” Eastman said.
“I’m in the hotel business,” I said. “We hear about things.”
“Did Curly Evans tell you about it?”
“No,” I said. I took another drink. “By the way,” I added, “Curly’s dead.”
This got him. He set his drink down on the little stand and his hands gripped the edge of the couch. He closed his eyes tight, then opened them slowly.
“Curly? Dead?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Shot. In the back.”
Eastman looked around the room. He looked at me. Finally he looked at Willie.
“I’ve been right here,” he said, “in the hotel, ever since noon. Haven’t I, Willie?”
Willie didn’t say a word. Eastman kept staring at him, but he wouldn’t open his mouth. I saw then that Eastman was scared. Things were looking up. Maybe I could handle him after all. I looked at my watch. It was eight-forty-five. A little over three hours to get Eastman back to Preston and D.A. Weaver and to find Sam Granger.
“Look,” I said, “Singer’s outside. Why don’t you come out and join us?”
Again he stared at Willie. It began to look like Willie was giving all the cues around here—and he was pretty close-mouthed.
“No,” Eastman said. “I’m tied up—sort of…
He wasn’t tough anymore. He was like a guy caught between the bull and the barbed-wire fence.
“Well, then,” I said, “let’s go get another drink.”
I stood up and started for the door. Willie didn’t move. “No drink?” I said.
No answer.
“All right, then.… I’d like to wash my hands. Where do I go?”
I had to get out of there. It was a stalemate. Maybe Singer would have an idea. I would find him and maybe we could coax Don Eastman out of the Sheraton.
“Well?” I said. “Where do I go?”
“Willie will show you,” Eastman said.
“What the hell?” I said. “I’m old enough to go by myself.”
“It’s for your own good,” Eastman said. “You don’t know who you might run into around here.”
“That’s no lie,” I said. “Let’s go, Willie.”
Willie stepped aside to let me go through the door, and I went out into the corridor, hearing him close the door behind me.
“Down the corridor to the left,” he said.
When we came to the end of the corridor, I started to turn to the right, which was the direction from which I had come in the beginning. But Willie put his hand on my arm and said, “This way.”
I turned back and saw a door in the corner, where the corridor made the right angle turn. It was marked MEN. That was what I had asked for and that was where Willie was taking me. He motioned with his thumb and leaned against the wall.
“I’ll wait here,” he said.
“You going to let me go in by myself, Papa?” I said.
He just gave me a dirty look.
I wa
s liking this little punk less and less as time went by. I decided to needle him a little just to see what would happen.
“You ought not to stand here alone, Junior,” I said. “They tell me it’s dangerous. Come along with big brother. I’ll take care of you.”
I put my hand on his arm. He looked at me with a face full of hate and slapped my arm out of the way. I laughed.
“Why, you nasty thing,” I said. “You slapped my wrist!”
I was hoping he’d make a pass at me after that one, but he didn’t. He just kept hating me with his eyes and shut his lips tight. I laughed again and stepped on in under the MEN sign.
As I went in I was already making up my mind what I could say to Singer when I found him—if I could shake Willie. But almost at once I realized this way was no escape. There was one little window with frosted glass, like the one in the room I had left, and it was nailed shut. But even if it had been open I couldn’t have got through it.
I got out a cigarette and sat down to think it over. I had the funny feeling that I was only beginning this little adventure. But I had no idea what the next play would be. I didn’t know whether it would be made by me or by somebody else. The way things had been going, I figured it would probably be somebody else. I hoped it would be little Willie, but I was afraid it would be another guy.
If only I could get through to Singer, I thought, and then knew I was dreaming. I knew Eastman was suspicious, and I knew Willie’s job was to watch over me.
I had finished my cigarette and there was nothing left to do now but go out and watch for the next move.
There was one chance that was worth trying, just in case I was being too melodramatic and had figured it all wrong.
I stepped outside and there stood little Willie, waiting.
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got to go now. Say good-by to Eastman for me.”
I started off toward the little door that led back to the legitimate side of the dive. But little Willie got in front of me. He was smiling with his lips but there was murder in his eyes.
“No,” he said. “Eastman wants to see you again. He likes you.”
“I like you too, Junior,” I said. “But I don’t care whether I never see you again. One side—I’m coming through.”
I took a step and threw one at his head.
I don’t know what happened to that punch. I know it never landed on anything. I don’t know just what movements I made, but I felt like I had grabbed onto a ferris wheel. I swung up with it in beautiful shape, but somewhere at the top I seemed to lose my hold and instead of swinging on around with the wheel I dropped straight down. And suddenly I didn’t have any wind and a big lump was growing on my forehead.
I lay there a little while, getting my breath back, and then I crawled slowly to my feet.
“Try that one again,” I said, “and Papa will spank the guts out of you.”
But I was just talking to see whether I still could. He knew it.
“Come on,” he snapped, pushing me around to face the other way. He wasn’t kidding a bit.
“All right,” I said, “if little Donald wants to see me that much.”
We went back down the corridor between the numbered doors. At Number 8 he reached in front of me for the knob. I almost took another crack at him, but my head was aching and I could feel loose blood in my nose and my memory was too fresh.
The door opened and Willie gave me a shove. He didn’t come in with me but slammed the door shut and I could hear his footsteps going away. I looked around for Eastman and turned a little sick.
There were two people in the room now, and one of them was still Don Eastman, on the couch. The other, sitting in the straight chair and smoking a cigar, was the big, pock-marked guy from out front who had let me into the inner sanctum. Don didn’t look at me. He sat hunched down on the couch watching the other guy from the corner of his eye.
The mug looked at me all right—the way you look at a toad or a lizard. I could see that it wouldn’t be little Willie I would have to deal with. Maybe that was for the best.
I got out a cigarette.
“Well, well,” I said. “Anybody like a real cigarette?”
There was no answer. The big guy kept looking at me steady and straight. Don Eastman didn’t seem to have heard me. I lit my cigarette and threw the match on the floor.
The mug took a long drag on his cigar and blew the smoke out slowly.
“Mind if I sit down?” I said, and I did, on the floor.
“Get up!” the mug said.
I decided I would get up, because when I was down on the floor that guy looked too high up. But I waited a little while so it wouldn’t be so obvious.
“What are you doing here?” he said, in his wood-rasp voice.
I tried to look surprised. “I just came in for a smoke,” I said. “Guy down at Freddie’s—”
“Stop it,” the mug said. “You never been near Freddie’s. You don’t know nobody from Freddie’s.”
“You’re wrong there, bud,” I said. “I do know a guy—that is, I did. Guy’s dead now. Killed—bumped off, only today.”
Don Eastman’s head jerked up. He gave me a long look and then turned his head.
“What are you looking for here?” the mug said.
“I don’t know,” I said, and that was the honest truth.
The mug got up out of the chair and came over to stand in front of me. He walked with a light, springy step, like a fighter. The rest of him was anything but light and springy.
“I said what are you looking for here?”
“I said I don’t know.” It was the toughest thing I had ever tried to do—looking straight into that ugly face.
“Who’s with you?” he said.
“Nobody. I’m on my own.”
I never saw it coming. It was his left. The back of his hand smashed against my face and I stumbled back and banged my head on the door. He had had a ring on that hand. I felt a little trickle of blood working down toward my lip. I couldn’t see anything for quite a while. When I could, he was standing right over me. His eyes were like extra small black-eyed peas.
“Who’s with you?” he said again.
Beyond his shoulder I could see Don Eastman sitting there not moving a muscle, and it made me sore. Instead of answering his question, I kicked the mug in the stomach. I kicked as hard as I could and I heard him grunt. He backed away. There was enough room now for me to slide out and get to the chair. But there wasn’t much time. That kick hadn’t been enough to hurt him. I’d only taken a couple of steps when he was back again.
At first I tried to box with him. It was like sparring with a mad bull. He outweighed me seventy-five pounds and he was using every bit of it. He hit me in the belly twice and then started in on my face. I ducked out from under once and let him have one on the nose, but it only made him madder. My ears began to ring and the red stuff was flooding out of my nose and I felt like every bone in my head was broken. I couldn’t hold my arms up any longer and I started to slip down to the floor. He stopped then and dragged me up to my feet and held me against the wall with one hand on my collar.
“Talk,” he snarled. “Who’s with you?”
Don Eastman piped up. “I know who’s with him,” he said. “It won’t do you any good to beat this guy up. He’s too dumb to give you any trouble.”
“Shut up,” the mug said. Those were his two favorite words. And to me he said, “Who’s with you and what are you looking for?”
“Try something else,” I said. “This is getting monotonous.”
So he let me have it again. First with the back of his hand, then with the flat of it, back and forth, until I lost count. He had knocked all the fight out of me. All I wanted was to pass out. I kept thinking, “Singer, you better get out of here—I wish I could let you know—you better get out of here,” and then finally, as I had wished, I passed out. The last thing I remember was Don Eastman’s pale, thin face staring at our little scene with his mouth open and his eye
s scared.
CHAPTER 12
I never believed it when I read in the mystery books about how a guy would get knocked out and come to in a strange place just in time to hear the straight dope and figure everything out. But I swear that’s what happened to me. Not that I figured it out, but I did get in on some stuff that helped a lot later.
I don’t know how long it was. It seemed like I’d been blotto for a couple of years. But when I began to wake up the first thing I heard was that mug’s rasping voice and then Don Eastman’s, and I thought I was still in Number 8.
I wasn’t. I was in a different room. It had a moist, dank smell and I was lying on a stone floor. I opened my eyes to slits—it nearly split my head open—and took a peek.
It was a big room. I was lying against the wall on one side. In the middle of the room stood an old steel desk. Near the desk were a couple of chairs. The mug was sitting at the desk and Don Eastman in one of the chairs. Also present was my little Pal Willie, still dressed in his white coat. And there was another guy, just as big as the mug that had beat me up, only better looking. The only light in the room came from a lamp on the desk, but it threw a pretty big glare. I closed my eyes to relieve the pressure inside my head and listened. I guess the other big boy had just come in. The mug behind the desk asked, “Didn’t you find that other one yet?”
“No,” the guy said.
The mug swore.
“He couldn’t get out. He’s in here somewhere. Get everybody on the prowl—the dames too. I want to talk to him.”
I said a silent prayer for Singer. I knew what kind of talker this lad was.
The other guy went out through a heavy door in the wall opposite the spot where I was lying. The mug started in on Don Eastman.
“Listen, hophead—” he said.
“I’m not a hophead, and you know it,” Eastman said.
“Shut up. You’d be better off if you were. Who was this guy got knocked off in that little hick town of yours? The one this punk was talking about upstairs.”
“It was a guy name of Curly Evans.”
“He the one came snooping around here a while back?”
“Yes.”
Hue and Cry Page 12
