Johnny’s eyes blinked, widened.
“You know her?” Botello yelled.
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Couple of years.”
“Friend of yours?”
“She was a singer in my band.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
“Okay,” Johnny muttered sullenly. “She was a friend, too.”
“You might,” Botello put it delicately, “Even say you were more than friends?”
“That’s none of your damned business!”
Botello used the sap on him. First around the face, then on his already bruised and aching body. When he sprawled across the floor, one of the deputies dug the toe of his shoe into his kidney.
“All right,” Botello swore at the other two men, “get him over to the lavatory. I don’t want my floor messed up.”
They dragged Johnny to the basin and held him there while he retched and gagged. Then they handed him a paper towel and he washed his face weakly.
“Now,” Botello grunted, “let’s get on with this. It’s gettin’ late and I want to get to bed.”
One of the deputies gave Johnny a cigarette. He moved shakily toward a chair, but they pushed him back in front of Botello’s desk and made him stand.
Botello’s voice became silk again. Pure silk, drawn delicately through gloved fingers. “We know a helluva lot about you, Johnny.” He consulted the clipboard again. “Been on the telephone all day about you. Let’s see. You’re a member of the New York local union. Workin’ on a travelin’ card. Had this band you got now for a year. Before that you had a bigger band with Miff Smith and the bass player, Mole, and the piano player, Howard, that’s with you now. Also, you had a sexy-lookin’ bitch singing.” he held up a glossy publicity photo of Johnny’s big band with Christine out front.
“We have also found out,” the sheriff added discreetly, “that Miss Roberts had other duties which consisted of keepin’ you warm on cold nights.”
“That was a long time ago,” Johnny reminded him wearily. “Christine left the band in Chicago six months ago. She walked out on me. I haven’t seen her since—and don’t want to.”
“M-mm.” Botello sat down on the corner of his desk again. He drew up one leg, clasping his fingers around the knee. Thoughtfully, he wiggled his toes inside his socks, frowning at them.
“I want you to tell me everything that happened Monday night.”
Sullenly, the trumpet player shrugged. “I was in my room until nearly ten-thirty, fooling around with some records and arrangements. Then I walked down the block to Miff’s place. He lives about a half block down from me, across the street. I dropped by to have a drink with him...and I found him that way—dead.”
“The coroner says he got it about that time,” Botello muttered, running his gaze over notes on the clipboard.
“Listen,” Johnny swore through his swollen lips. “Miff Smith was one of my best friends. I loved the guy. I know you’re desperate to find a patsy for this murder but you’ll have a hell of a time inventing a motive to hang on me!”
“Yeah, you loved him like a brother,” Botello said sourly. “Like Cain loved Abel. Did you know he was playing around with this Christine babe at the time she was supposedly your girl friend?”
The statement came out of the blue and hit Johnny harder than Botello had with the sap. His mouth came open but he couldn’t say anything.
“Hah!” Botello snorted triumphantly. “Hah!”
Johnny swallowed. “You’re lying!” he managed to say at last.
“These letters say I’m not lyin’” He picked up some dog-eared envelopes and threw them in Nickles’ face. “They’re from Miff Smith to Christine Roberts, about one a week for the past six months. They give a pretty juicy history of the affair between them. We began checking on all this Tuesday morning. Found the Christine woman in St. Louis, had the law there round her up. When she learned Smith had been murdered, she sang long and loud, and turned these letters in. They were flown out here to us. She thought a lot of that drummer and if you killed him, she wants to see you fry for it.”
“It would seem,” Botello concluded, “that our drummer hasn’t been hitting all his licks on the drums these last two years, Johnny, my boy. When Christine left your band, she says she was fed up with you. She and Miff Smith were planning on getting together on a more permanent basis as soon as she located a job for both of them in the same band.”
Well, Christine was running true to form, all right. However, it was hard for Johnny to buy the fact that she had been double-crossing him with his best friend—he’d thought Miff was too loyal a friend for that.
But women had always been Miff’s weakness. Probably Christine had thrown the full power of her curves at him and he hadn’t had the will power to resist. No doubt Christine, being the kind of gal she was, took special pleasure in seducing Johnny’s best friend.
Still, Johnny doubted that Miff actually planned on leaving the band and joining up with Christine in some other outfit. Miff had been playing with Johnny for too many years—and he was too fickle about his women. No doubt, with Christine out of sight, he’d forgotten about her, even though he did write letters. He always like to keep his old flames on the string that way.
Johnny shrugged wearily. “Okay, so Miff was getting to first base with her too. One or two more or less wouldn’t matter. I sure wouldn’t have killed him for that. His little finger was worth more than all the Christines in the world.”
Botello moved close to him. His face grew mean again, like a bulldog’s about to snap. “Stop lyin’, Nickles. Tell the truth. We know you were plenty gone on that black-haired bitch. You been soakin’ yourself in booze ever since she walked out on you. You been brooding about it, wondering why she left, and if it was on account of some other guy. This week you somehow find out it was on account of another guy. More—you find out who the guy is—your drummer, Miff Smith. So you blow your lid, slip down the street and shoot the guy. Then you produce this pin and try to hang the thing on Raye Cowles, a poor innocent child who hardly knew the guy!”
Johnny had to laugh. Bruised, aching, sick and so weak he could scarcely stand, he still had to throw back his head and laugh. It came from deep back in his throat in weird croaking sounds.
It goaded Botello into an insane rage. He grabbed up the blackjack and went to work with it again in earnest, swinging his bearish arms with such force that he grunted every time the sap thudded into Nickles’ body.
“Where did you hide the gun?” he screamed over and again as he swung the sap.
But his voice was a long way off. It came echoing down an empty corridor, growing more and more distant until it was just a whisper, ringing hollowly in the dark, red haze. And then there was nothing but a puddle of India ink swirling around in a suffocating whirlpool that sucked everything down...down...down...to where all time and feeling ceased to exist....
* * * * * * *
When Johnny came to, he was lying on the hard bunk of a jail cell, staring at the bunk above him. Two beatings in a little over twenty-four hours was more than his raw nerves could stand. He began to shiver with a wracking chill. Then he covered his face with his hands and broke into loud sobs. After awhile he quieted down and slept for a little while and then he woke up again, stiff and sore, his mouth filled with dried blood.
Somebody was standing over him, shaking him. Achingly, he sat up on the bunk with his head in his hands. He looked at his watch and saw with surprise that it was only 2:30. Actually, they had dragged him out of Botello’s office only a little over an hour ago.
“We’ve come back for you, Johnny,” the deputy told im. “You’re going back for some more questioning.” He caught Nickles by the arm roughly and pulled him to his feet.
Johnny was trying to make his dull brain function. He held a hand out. “Wait,” he mumbled through his bruised lips. “I’m ready to confess. I’ll show you where I hid the gun.”
The dep
uty grinned. “Now you’re being smart, fellah.”
They went back into Botello’s office together.
“He’s discovered he has a brain,” the deputy told Botello. “He wants to confess.”
The heavyset sheriff smiled and rubbed his palms together. “That’s more like it. You’re being sensible, Johnny. Most of them come around to it sooner or later after we question them here.” He punched a button on his desk and a clerk came in with a shorthand notebook.
“Let’s get through with this. Maybe we can get a couple of hours’ sleep before the night’s over,” Botello swore. “Go ahead, Johnny. Start talking. Right from the beginning.”
After the confession was taken down and recorded, Johnny signed it. Then they asked him where the gun was hidden.
“I’ll have to show you. I threw it in the weeds on the outskirts of town near the dump yard. I can’t remember exactly where, but I’ll remember if we drove out there.”
Botello cursed and said he might just as well give up the idea of getting any sleep that night. He put on his shoes, got his hat and told one of the deputies to put handcuffs on Johnny. Then all three went downstairs and out to Botello’s car. The deputy drove, and Johnny and the sheriff sat in the back seat—a grim twosome.
With the window down, the night air washed over Nickles like refreshing cool ice water. He breathed in great drafts of it. His body was one dull ache from head to foot. Nausea lay in the pit of his stomach like a sick, greasy lump. They drove for a half-hour, through the city streets to the highway that skirted the edge of town.
“Well?” Botello asked impatiently. “We passed the city dump ten minutes ago.”
“I’m watching,” Johnny mumbled. He had the window rolled down. He sat forward on the edge of the seat, watching as the driver played his spotlight along the side of the road. The handcuffs cut into his wrists.
“Here,” he suddenly exclaimed. “This gravel pit.”
“All right,” Botello said to the driver. “Stop here.” But he made no move to leave the car. He took out his heavy revolver and checked it.
In the front seat, the driver lit a cigarette. The flare of his match played over his face. He kept the motor running.
“Well,” Johnny said thickly, “don’t you want me to show you where I threw it?”
“What?” Botello asked blankly.
A thin trickle of ice water suddenly rippled up Johnny’s spine. The pounding of his heart sounded loud in his ears.
“The gun. The gun I killed Miff with.”
Botello chuckled.
The night was still. Off in the weeds, a cricket chirped. The motor in the heavy car ticked over softly.
“Come on, Johnny,” the sheriff grunted, opening his door. “Let’s go for a little walk. Let’s see where you hid that gun.”
Then Johnny stopped kidding himself. He hadn’t fooled Botello for one minute. The wily sheriff knew as well as he that there was no gun here. Furthermore, Botello knew Johnny had not killed Miff Smith. But, with Cowles and the newspaper putting pressure on him, he had to produce a murderer in short order. He had checked into the band members and when he ran into the Christine angle, he’d seen a perfect setup for a trumped-up murder charge and a jealousy motive. Now he had a signed confession. But he wasn’t going to chance testing its validity in a courtroom. And he wasn’t going to give George Swenninger a chance to defend Johnny in the Herald. No, Johnny Nickles was going to be conveniently “Killed while trying to escape.”
They opened the door for Johnny. Botello and the deputy were out in the road, waiting for him.
Johnny half-stood up in the back of the big Packard. With the rear door open, the dome light had automatically flashed on, dimly illuminating the interior of the car. He fumbled, getting out of the car, playing for time. The Packard, he saw, was equipped with automatic shift. And the motor was still running....
It happened very quickly.
Johnny simply spilled himself over the front seat, taking a head-first dive. His hands, manacled together, plunged frantically for the accelerator. In the road, Botello and the deputy yelled simultaneously. Then Johnny’s groping fingers struck the accelerator. He mashed it flat. The big motor boomed and the car leaped forward, spinning its wheels. Johnny said a brief prayer of gratitude for the engineers who had developed automatic shifts.
A gun roared and glass shattered overhead. The heavy car swerved down the road, careening from one side to the other. With his hands imprisoned by the handcuffs, he was unable to steer. He simply hoped for the best while he worked his feet down and his body around. But before he could turn around, there was a shuddering crash, and the car slowed. The impact spilled Johnny to the floorboards, wrenching his shoulder. He struggled to a sitting position. Far behind him in the road, a pistol thundered again and a slug ricocheted off the Packard’s hood. He could see out of the window. The heavy car had skewed off the road, into a gully. It was half-buried in weeds and loose soil.
Johnny gripped the big white steering wheel with his hands and stamped the accelerator. The heavy car churned and bucked, but it didn’t budge. The wheels were spinning in the ditch.
Back in the road there were more yells and pistol shots and the sound of running feet. In another minute, Botello and his deputy would catch up with him.
Sweat ran down Johnny’s face. He put the car in reverse and worked it back a little. A bullet sang past his ear and put a splash in the shatterproof windshield. He tried forward again. This time the car gained a few inches. The motor screamed. The rear wheels howled. It crawled up on the road like a gigantic, reluctant beetle. Finally, it seemed to give a last shake and sprang into life. This time Johnny was in the right position. He could see, steer, and feed gasoline to the eager motor. He got away fast.
It took him less than twenty minutes to get back to the heart of the city. He ditched the big car in an alley as fast as he could. Then he set out on foot, staying in the shadows of back streets. It took him another half hour to reach the hotel where he had left Ruth. Luckily, the dim lobby was deserted and the night clerk was dozing behind the desk. Johnny walked up the stairs softly. He rapped at the door of the room where Ruth Jordon was waiting for him.
Her voice whispered through the panel. “Johnny?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Let me in. Quick.”
The lock turned and the door swung open. The room was dark. Ruth stood in stocking feet and slip. In the shadows, her bare shoulders gleamed. She stared at Johnny standing out in the dim light of the hallway. She saw his bruised, sick face, his manacled hands, his torn clothes. Her fingers covered a muffled scream.
Johnny took a couple of shuffling step into the room and fell flat on his face. He didn’t get up for a long, long time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TOO LATE TO BEHAVE
Friday Afternoon, 12:00 Noon.
Johnny came awake slowly. He looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Somewhere nearby, water was running. Cool, fresh sheets hugged his bare body. He felt all right until he tried to sit up, then the soreness in his bruised body came alive. His arms were numb from the cramped position the handcuffs had kept them in. His wrists were rubbed raw.
He relaxed against the pillow, letting all of what had happened last night flow back into his consciousness. The deep sleep had been one of complete exhaustion. Now he felt like someone shaking off the after effects of a powerful drug. He turned his head, and looked around the room. He was still in the small hotel room he had rented for Ruth yesterday. The room’s single window was open, letting in light and a gentle breeze.
In the bathroom, the running water suddenly stopped.
By craning his neck, Johnny could see that the bathroom door was slightly ajar. Through the opening he caught flashes of a woman’s slim golden body and a white bath towel.
He tried to call and succeeded in producing a sound which came out something like a cross between a groan and a croak.
“Johnny?” Ruth poked a dripping blonde head out of the
bathroom door, holding the big bath towel in front of her. She grinned at him. “Feeling better, darling?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know yet.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Wait a sec. I’ll be through in a jiffy.” She retreated behind the door again. The towel rustled vigorously. In a moment she came out, wearing only her pink nylon panties, bra and a heavy towel around her shoulders, knotted in front like a shawl. She sat on the edge of the bed, fluffing out her damp blonde ringlets with a face towel. Then she lifted one of her long, beautiful legs and rubbed it with the towel.
“How did I get here?” Johnny asked.
“In bed?”
He nodded.
“I put you there, darling.”
“All by yourself.”
She laughed. “You helped a little! You weren’t completely out. I had an awful time getting your clothes off though, on account of those handcuffs. I finally found a razor blade in the bathroom and cut your shirt and coat off. I couldn’t leave you in those horrible, dirty clothes.”
Johnny looked down at the thin sheet covering him, then, next to him, the rumpled pillow smeared with lipstick.
She colored slightly. “Well, I didn’t want to sleep on the floor either.” She suddenly leaned over him, his eyes wide and damp. Her lips were trembling. “What happened, Johnny?” She whispered. “How did you get like this?”
“I had another run-in with the law. Light us a cigarette, will you?”
She got two from the dresser, lit them and put one between his lips. He inhaled deeply. Then he told her briefly about last night and his arrest for Miff’s murder. Briefly, because he didn’t want to go into detail about the beating and his near murder.
She looked at him with her wide blue eyes stained a dark violet. She dug her fingers into her hair, pressing her palms against her cheeks. “No, Johnny,” she whispered shakily. “No....”
He inhaled the cigarette smoke savagely. “Can’t you remember anything about Monday night yet? We’ve got the answer to the whole thing here in this room, in your head—if you could only think!”
Honky-Tonk Girl Page 12
