Deep is the Pit

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  His voice did ring a familiar echo in her brain, but her continued puzzled frown indicated that she was unable to associate it with a person. She shook her head with bewilderment and leaned forward slightly to appraise him more closely. She was about to give up and lean back in her seat when she happened to glance at his left hand. At the base of the thumb were two tiny red scars beginning to turn white. One night, in a spirit of play, she had bitten at his hand as he was caressing her. It had been intended as a slight nip only, but she had accidentally bitten deeply into the skin and left the scars.

  Dotty’s eyes opened wide and her mouth formed a round O. Her hand trembled as she slid it out of his and dropped it lifelessly to her lap. Her face paled and a muscle twitched nervously at a corner of her mouth. She stared at Marty as if seeing a ghost, or her own executioner. There were rage and murder in the narrowed slits of his eyes. She leaned back in the seat and said hoarsely, “Yes, maybe that was it.” She lit a cigarette with shaking hands, her eyes never leaving Marty. She inhaled deeply, blew out a puff of smoke, and tried a smile that turned into a ghastly grimace. “Yes,” she said. “The Little Club.”

  George asked pleasantly, “Do you work there?”

  “I used to. I quit last week.” She continued watching Marty, trying to give him tacit assurance of her friendliness. The first shock of fear was wearing off and she at last managed a normal smile. “So you saw me there, Mr. — ah — ”

  “Lee. Marty Lee.”

  “Yes. Marty Lee. You know, you do remind me of someone I knew. He was quite an operator. Just what business are you in, Mr. Lee?”

  George answered for him. “Marty’s in the hotel business. In fact, tonight we’re celebrating the close of a deal. Marty just bought the Stannard Hotel.”

  Leila squealed her pleasure and leaned over to get a better look at Marty. Dotty choked over a cloud of smoke, gave George a startled look, and swung her gaze back to Marty. She was having difficulty accepting what she had been told. “You — you bought — the Stannard Hotel?”

  It was George’s turn to look puzzled. “Do you find that so odd?”

  “Mister, you have no idea. But what I mean, I’m having trouble realizing the grand company I’m in. Just to meet a Stannard is a pretty large treat for me. But on the same night to also meet a man who is able to buy a large hotel-well!”

  George smiled his pleasure. Leila giggled and cuddled closer to him. Marty turned about in his seat to face forward, his brain boiling with the problem Dotty presented. Of all the people out of Red Martin’s past, it would have to be Dotty he would run into. He considered the solution inherent in a .38 slug. Quick and positive. That would probably have to be it. He had gone much too far to allow anyone to live who knew who he was.

  They left the taxi at the Mark Hopkins and went into the fashionable Peacock Court. George had not reserved a table, as he never considered it necessary for a Stannard to be bothered with such minor matters. The maître d’ was in tune with his attitude. He saw who it was and led them immediately to a table by the edge of the dance floor reserved for someone else.

  Marty trailed to the rear, well aware of the attention Dotty was receiving from the other guests. Her gown, also an off-the-shoulder creation, had been designed for spotlights and molded each voluptuous curve of her body as closely as her own skin. He doubted that she was wearing anything under the gown except a garter belt and sheer nylons. When they were seated he also noticed that the slight former shadows were gone from under her eyes and the faint hollows had disappeared from her cheeks. A job, applause, and some small measure of success had changed her. Maybe she was on her way. Perhaps she could even go to the top of the ladder. But she knew too much.

  Leila and George got up to dance as soon as the waiter had taken their orders. Dotty leaned her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and looked into Marty’s eyes. “Now,” she said, “let’s start talking sense before the little men in white jackets come after me. Honestly, this has been the biggest shock of my life. I have to keep pinching myself or I wouldn’t believe it.”

  Marty’s eyes slid away from hers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Now, please,” she laughed. “I always knew that red hair was phony. I told you so the last time I saw you.”

  Marty shrugged his shoulders. He lit a cigarette, pulled his chair about, and leaned closer to her. “Look, Dotty, be careful what you say.”

  “Naturally. I’m not about to start shouting. So it’s Marty Lee, is it? I like that. I like it better than George Brown or Red Martin. And I like you better, too, the way you are now. It’s funny, but I always thought your eyes were green. They’re really blue, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cold blue, but nicer than green. Your mouth looks better. Not so puffy. Is that plastic surgery?”

  Marty smiled. “No. I used a little trick to change my mouth whenever I wanted to.”

  “I learn something new every day. And your hair — nice and neat and brown. More becoming. And the way you dress. You’re still a rugged-looking person, Marty, but now you’re downright good-looking as well. You know something?”

  “What?”

  “I always had a feeling that those cheap double-breasted suits you wore were not for you, that they were part of an act. I was right. But your name — Is Marty Lee an alias, too?”

  “No. That’s really my name, believe it or not.”

  She laughed and said, “I don’t believe anything about you. You’re a chameleon. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you suddenly disappeared in a puff of smoke.”

  Marty looked beyond her and saw George returning to the table with Leila. He got quickly to his feet and led Dotty onto the dance floor. When he put his arm about her he knew there was nothing under the gown. He looked down at her thick blonde hair and the soft skin of her shoulders and his arm tightened. She danced with all the skill of a professional, her hand lightly on his shoulder, her fingertips occasionally brushing his cheek.

  She looked up at him with a sudden worried light in her eyes. “Marty — ”

  “Yes?”

  “I just realized — this must be a terrific shock to you, running into me this way.”

  “You have no idea, sweetheart. You were supposed to go to New York. Remember?”

  “I know. And I was going, too. But that day I left you, when I got back to the hotel there was a call from the manager of the Little Club. I didn’t tell you about it, but I had given an audition there a few days before. He gave me a job starting the next day. I couldn’t turn it down.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, no. I hadn’t worked in some time. I had to learn all over again if I was really any good or not. You lose faith, you know. You begin to doubt.”

  “You’re very good, Dotty.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Very good. I heard you there one night. The audience was crazy about you.”

  “Yes. They did like me.”

  “When you got through singing you walked right by me. You were going to the manager’s office. I was at a little table nearby. You even brushed my shoulder when you passed.”

  She laughed softly. “Really? But I didn’t see you.”

  “Well, if you did you didn’t recognize me. It gave me a shock.” He paused, then carefully accented each word as he said, “I was afraid you might have gone to the police.”

  She stared at him in amazement and shook her head. “Oh, no, Red — I mean, Marty. You didn’t honestly think I could do that.”

  “Well, you know — I figured you probably knew who I was by then, after reading the papers.”

  “Yes, I knew who you were. But I already knew you were in some kind of racket, anyway. It wasn’t too much of a surprise to read about Red Martin.”

  Marty whispered, “Easy. Easy.”

  “Sorry.” She glanced at the other couples dancing about them. “We can’t be heard with all this music. But you couldn’t really think t
hat. Marty, are you worried about me now?”

  “Well — ”

  “Of course you are. Don’t. Don’t ever worry about me. Not that way. I know about the rewards. But, to me, money of that kind is blood money.” She nestled closer to him and purred, “Besides, you mean something to me.”

  Marty frowned down at her, perplexed by her easy acceptance of his new appearance. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, when you picked me up in L.A., I’d just about hit bottom, darling. I was ready to go on the streets. It seemed the only thing left. Even after you came along I still felt I was only a step away from it. I knew you were in the rackets somehow and I expected to be dropped the same way I was picked up. Only you didn’t do it that way. You put me back on my feet and gave me a chance to try again.” She looked up at him with a smile and sincere affection in her eyes. “I’m grateful, darling. I’ll always be grateful.”

  When they returned to the table Marty was no longer sure that a .38 would be necessary. He had his dinner and, between courses, danced with Leila and Dotty in turn and managed to hold up his end of the conversation at the table, but his mind was exploring every angle presented by the problem of Dotty. She was the one connecting link between Marty Lee and Red Martin. Every breath she took, every day she lived spelled danger. She was the one person who could upset his world and bring it crashing down about him in ruins. The most elementary sort of logic, Red Martin’s logic, dictated the urgency of getting rid of her. She was in his way, or could be. The only sensible thing was to do away with her.

  Yet when he danced with her, feeling the light suppleness of her body in his arms, or watched her at the table engaged in animated conversation with the others, or caught her eyes turned to his, a warm smile in their depths, he felt a growing repugnance toward coming to any immediate conclusion. The matter would have to be given considerable thought. Besides, there was nothing he could do that night. He would have to figure it out later.

  They went to the Fairmont, to the Cirque Room, and danced to the excellent music of a name band from New York. George was back on Scotch and soda and beginning to show its effects. Leila giggled at everything he said and kept plying him with drinks. Marty helped his condition along by unobtrusively placing his own drinks before George and retrieving an empty glass. No one was aware of the fact that Marty was not drinking. When he felt that George had consumed too much he began switching glasses with Leila. For a small woman, she could consume enormous quantities of alcohol.

  Dotty drank very little. She seemed preoccupied and, after a few dances, excused herself from the party. Marty expected her to return in a minute or two, but she was gone at least half an hour. When she returned to the table he noticed a slight smudge of ink on the fingers of her right hand. He frowned and wondered for what purpose she had been using a hotel pen.

  She was more relaxed after her return and apparently seemed interested only in dancing, in Marty, and in the band. When she danced she hummed the melody of the music under her breath. On the dance floor she told Marty, as if discussing a trade secret, “This outfit is good. This is the sort of band I’d like to work with in New York. With these boys you aren’t just another musical instrument. They give a singer a chance.”

  Marty grasped at the straw she was offering. “Would you still like to go back to New York?”

  “I was thinking of it — until tonight. That’s why I quit the Little Club. I still have the grand you gave me, and a bit more.”

  Marty said stiffly, “But something changed your mind?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Her arm tightened about his shoulders and her fingertips caressed his cheek. “Now I think I’d rather talk it over with you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Later?”

  “Sure. George won’t last much longer.”

  George, however, had better lasting qualities than Marty suspected. He continued drinking and getting drunker, but he stayed on his feet, he was able to dance, he did not stagger, and, though his speech was thick, he remained coherent. He wanted to do the town. They went to two other hotels and at one in the morning wound up in the Chez Rouge, a plush night club where even the waiters looked embarrassed when they presented the checks. The maître d’ recognized George and the condition he was enjoying and ushered them to a zebra-striped booth close to the bandstand, but away from the more lighted area about the dance floor. George immediately ordered crêpes suzette and two rounds of drinks.

  He overheard Marty and Dotty discussing the band and looked blearily at Leila. “Never heard Dotty sing. Tell me, baby, is she good?”

  Leila nodded vigorously and said, “Oh, very good.”

  “Like to hear her? I sure would. Just love a good voice.” He swung his head about and focused his eyes on Dotty. “How ‘bout singin’ for us?”

  Dotty laughed. “Not here, darling. They wouldn’t stand for it.”

  George stiffened, squared his shoulders, and looked angry. “Not stand for it! You kiddin?’ Anything I want — ” He waved his hand airily before his face. “Just wait minute. I’ll fix it. Fix anything. Li’l ole fixer,” he giggled.

  “Tha’s me.”

  He got to his feet and stalked toward the bandstand with great dignity. The orchestra leader frowned on him and gave him an argument, but suddenly the manager joined them, all smiles, rubbing his hands, nodding his head vigorously. Anything Mr. Stannard desired. Of course. Of course. It would be a treat for everyone.

  George stalked back to the table, took Dotty’s arms, and lifted her to her feet. “It’s all set, honey. I fixed it. Le’s hear you sing. Just gotta hear you sing.”

  “Oh, please. Those musicians aren’t going to like — ”

  “T’ell with musicians. Manager’s friend mine. Oughta be. Prac’ly support this place. Come on, honey. Boys are waitin’. Mustn’t keep boys waitin’.”

  Dotty sighed and followed him to the bandstand. The orchestra leader was still angry, but brightened slightly at sight of Dotty’s theatrical beauty. At least the customers would have something to look at. He conferred with her briefly regarding a selection and the key and talked it over with the musicians. George returned to his table, beaming happily at what he had accomplished. But a sudden suspicion almost sobered him.

  “Jees,” he whispered to Leila, “what if she’s lousy?”

  “I tell you, she’s good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “I dunno.”

  “You just wait and hear, Georgie boy. If I had a voice like hers I wouldn’t be — I mean, I’d be in the big time.”

  “My God,” he groaned, “if she’s lousy makes me simples’ kind of ass.”

  “Now, Georgie, she’s very good, I tell you.”

  “Le’s hope so. Marty, pray with me.”

  Marty laughed. “Stop worrying. She’s good.”

  “You think so, too? Tha’s better. Respec’ your ideas. O.K.,” he shouted, “knock their pants off, Dotty.”

  His words were drowned in the opening bars of the music. Dotty had selected a popular hit song that gave full range to the throaty quality of her voice. She sang with her peculiar style of unusual intensity, as if she sincerely meant every word of the lyrics, and made her audience believe in them as well. Most of the audience, at that hour, had consumed about as much alcohol as they could hold or desired, but Dotty nevertheless managed to capture their interest. When she finished the song she was greeted with a burst of applause and shouts for more. The orchestra leader was beaming at her, intensely relieved, and also applauding. Dotty sang two more numbers before she was allowed to leave the floor.

  The manager hurried to her side and escorted her back to the table. He was an unctuous little man, wholly bald and almost as round as he was tall. He seemed to bow and cringe in the Stannard presence, but recaptured some measure of dignity when George introduced him to Leila, then Marty. “Sam Levin, Marty Lee. Stric’ly Shylock, Marty, but nice guy.”

  Sam blinked at Marty. “
I haven’t seen you around, Mr. Lee.”

  “I haven’t been in town long.”

  George snorted. “Tha’s good one. Not here long, but gets things done. Know what we’re cel’bratin’, Sam? Marty jus’ bought Stannard Hotel. You’re firs’ to know. Bought the whole place, lock, stock, barrel. How you like that?”

  Sam’s eyes snapped open with surprise, then narrowed shrewdly. It was so obvious what he was thinking that Marty almost laughed. He was trying to place Marty in the long list of prominent names he knew and, failing that, had to assume that he was one of that mysterious group of important men who were so clever they accomplished big things subtly and quietly. Which made him even more intriguing to Sam. It was also apparent that he was deeply impressed and that Dotty, the purpose of his visit to the table, was going to benefit by it.

  He shook hands with Marty all over again, congratulated him, and hoped that he would become a steady guest of Chez Rouge. He talked with Dotty for a moment and learned that she had been at the Little Club and that she was momentarily free. “I don’t like to brag,” he smiled, “but you know this is the top club in town.”

  She nodded, holding her breath, waiting anxiously for what he had to say. “Yes, I know.”

  “It so happens we could use you.”

  Marty swore under his breath and said quickly, “She was thinking of going to New York.”

  Dotty said, “That could wait.” She looked about the room with shining eyes. “A spot like this — the Chez Rouge — ”

  Sam’s smile broadened. “Of course. I see you know what it means. Good name. Prestige. You go to New York from here, they know you. You’re somebody. They listen. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You drop by here tomorrow afternoon. Let’s say two o’clock. We’ll talk things over. O.K.?”

  “Oh, I’ll be here, Mr. Levin.”

  “Good. Good. And, naturally, you know, town like this, with men like Mr. Stannard and Mr. Lee interested — you go to the top. Not that you don’t have it yourself,” he added quickly. “You got it, darling. You got it good.” He bowed to each in turn. “Miss White. Miss Kimball. Mr. Lee. Mr. Stannard. It’s a pleasure.”