The ball is driven with such speed that it sometimes breaks a leg or arm. The playing court or cachet is spacious, its green walls rising to the high-netted skylight of the auditorium. Where the concrete of the cacha floor ends in the red foul line and meets the wooden floor of the auditorium, there is a vertical wire screen which protects the tiers of customers.
The server drops the ball, catches it on the rebound, and hurls it with a terrific forehand stroke against the wall. The opposing player has to intercept the ball with his basket and keep it in play. The players move like lightning, their cesta-lengthened hands reaching out miraculously to intercept and return bullet-like rallies of the ball. The pelota continues in play until it falls in illegal territory, or a contestant fails to make good a return.
There are few ball games calling for greater strength, endurance and skill, and it is said most jai alai players die young. If they’re not sooner or later severely injured by the ball, their hearts give out.
I had followed Miss Spence and her boy friend in their Cadillac sedan to a large coral-tinted stucco building, which turned out to be the jai alai headquarters. I had watched Miss Spence leave her boy friend at the player’s gate and enter the auditorium. I had tagged along behind her.
Now I was sitting beside her on a plush seat in the front row of the first of the tiers behind the wire screen, looking down into the floodlit cacha.
Four energetic young Spaniards were dashing about the floor slamming the almost invisible ball back and forth, and performing acrobatic miracles. The crowd seemed to be getting a big bang out of them, but I was more interested in Miss Spence.
She had spread out on the flat plush top of the balcony wall a program, a pair of binoculars, her hand-bag, a carton of cigarettes and her orange scarf. The heady perfume of No. 5 Chanel brooded over her nick-nacks, herself, and of course, me.
Sitting so close to her—the seats were cut on economical lines—I could feel a subtle warmth from her body, and her perfume had a distinct effect on me. I wondered vaguely what she would do if I enfolded her in a Charles Boyer embrace.
The four Spaniards finished their game and walked off the court to a scattering of applause. They looked jaded and hot. If I’d been in their place I would have been carried off on a stretcher, with a dewy-eyed nurse in attendance packing ice around my temples.
There was an interval, and Miss Spence looked around the auditorium as if she expected the rest of the audience to stand up and sing the National Anthem at the sight of her. They didn’t.
She looked to her right, and then to her left. As I was on her left, she looked at me. I gave her a sad, coy leer, and hoped it would unhook the disdainful expression on her face. It didn’t exactly do that, but it registered enough for her to study me.
I leaned forward confidentially. “They say the elastic shortage has made woman’s position in world affairs less secure than it was four years back,” I said briskly.
She didn’t say “Huh?", but she wanted to. She looked away instead, the way you look when a drunk speaks to you. Then she looked back and caught my grin. She smiled bleakly.
“Reilly’s the name,” I said. “I’m a playboy with a lot of dough and a yen for red-heads. You’d better scream for help while there’s time. I’m considered to be a fast worker.”
She looked me over. No smile now. Eyes medium to hard.
“I could handle you without help,” she said in a husky voice that sent chills up and down my spine, “and I don’t like playboys.”
“My mistake,” I said, shaking my head. “I missed out on psychology when I worked my way through college. I’d’ve thought playboys would have been your strong suit. Let’s forget it,” and I picked up my program and pretended to study it.
She gave me another bleak stare and concentrated on the court below.
Four men had just walked on. One of them was Gomez. You could tell he was the local champ. Not only did the crowd give him a tremendous hand, but the other three players hung back and let him scoop the limelight. He was full of bounce and arrogance. I watched him wave to the crowd. He certainly had something to be arrogant about. I’ve never seen such a specimen of a he-man. He looked in our direction and gave Miss Spence a special wave. She ignored him, so I waved for her, just for the hell of it. He didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture.
Miss Spence’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t say anything.
The four men were now in a huddle in the middle of the court, testing the pelota which had just been thrown in. Then they broke up and went to their positions.
“Do these guys get paid to play this sissy game?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth.
“What makes you think you’re so tough?” she snapped back, before she remembered her dignity.
“Give me a chance and I’ll show you,” I said.
She leaned forward and looked down at the players. Her eyes brooded sudden death.
Gomez served. I’ll say this for him, he could certainly sling a mean pelota. The ball whizzed through the air, struck the front wall and shot back, hugging the wall and buzzing like an outsized hornet. One of the other players turned into the side wall and took three quick steps up its perpendicular height, like a man running up a short flight of stairs. He trapped the ball in his cesta, dropped back and slammed the ball away. White figures darted about the court, arms reached out, the ball whizzed to and fro. Gomez did all the things you’d expect a champ to do, and did them well. His stamina was terrifying. The score moved quickly. It looked a walk-over
for him.
I gave Miss Spence a sidelong look. She was watching the game with a bored disdainful expression on her face as if she knew what was going to happen, and didn’t care if and when it did happen.
I remembered what the hall porter had said about her flopping at the drop of a hat. I wondered if it had to be a certain kind of a hat or whether any hat would do. I wished I’d asked for further details.
“Before long that side of beef will be looking for you,” I said softly. “Suppose you and me walk out on him? I could show you the moon. If you don’t like moons, I’ll show you my tattoo marks instead.”
Her long, slender, red-tipped fingers tapped on the binocular case.
“I still don’t like playboys,” she said, and looked away.
Gomez had smashed his cesta. Scowling, he signalled time out, and went over to a Negro attendant who strapped a new basket on his hand.
I looked around to make sure no one was paying us any attention. No one was. I made my hand into a fist and slugged Miss Spence just above her hip bone. She rocked, and breath whistled through her nose.
“Maybe you like tough guys better?” I said, smiling at her.
She didn’t look at me, but her nose was pinched and her eyes like holes in a mask. She gathered up her junk off the balcony wall and stood up.
“Show me the moon,” she said in a brittle hard voice, and pushed past the spectators to the gangway.
I followed her out, accompanied by a storm of cheering. I guessed Gomez had taken the final tan to, and I’d launched Miss Spence just in time.
The dignified doorman signalled for her car as soon as he saw her coining. By the time we had reached the revolving doors the black and chromium Cadillac was lined up, waiting.
The doorman gave me a hard look as he handed Miss Spence into the car. She left the driving
seat vacant, and I slid under the wheel. We drifted away with the smoothness of a falling leaf, and with less noise.
I drove fast to Lancing Avenue. She didn’t say anything during the drive, and she sat stiff and straight, looking at the road ahead, her big white teeth gnawing her underlip.
I stopped outside the big apartment block, opened the door and got out. She got out too. We walked across the lobby, and as I passed the hall porter I winked at him. He stared back as if he was seeing a mirage.
We rode up to the fourth floor in an automatic elevator, and walked along the broad corridor to apartment 466. We
didn’t speak or look at each other. The atmosphere was loaded with an off-key excitement.
She unlocked the door and we went into a big room full of apricot and chromium furniture. I shut the door, tossed my hat on a chair and faced her.
She looked at me from the fireplace. Her disdainful expression was still hooked to her face, but her eyes were expectant, bright.
“Come here,” she said, almost thickly.
I crossed the room and put my hands on her hip-bones. I smiled at her.
“Hold me close, you beast,” she said.
I put my arms around her loosely at first. Her hair had a harsh feeling against my face. I tightened my arms and pulled her against me. Her mouth felt hard against mine, but after a while her lips opened. She was shivering.
“Tough guy,” she said softly, her breath going into my mouth.
“What was Herrick to you?” I asked.
Her body stiffened in my arms and her breath made a harsh sound. Her head pulled back until her eyes, wide open, were staring at me.
“Who are you?” she asked, in a soft dull voice.
“Chester Cain,” I said.
Her face fell to pieces. She pushed away, white, her eyes vacant, blank. I let her go
“Who?”
“Chester Cain.”
Slowly she got herself m hand. Her eyes roved around the room, lit on the telephone, lingered, then came back to me.
“Sit down,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”
She wandered towards the telephone. A gentle hissing sound came from between her tightlylocked teeth.
“I don’t want to talk to you.” she managed to jerk out, in grabbed it. She struck at me with her nails. I let go of the telephone and grabbed her wrist, twisting it. She was surprisingly strong. We swayed, and she tried to claw me with her free hand. I ducked my head, and she missed. I expected her to scream, but she didn’t, she fought silently, panting a little, her eyes glowing, her mouth working.
We scuffed up the rugs, and did a lot of tramping and shuffling, but I worked her over to the divan and then trapped her ankle and pushed.
She hit the divan and bounced up, but I flung her down again. She kicked me on the shin, gave me a punch in the face and tried to bite my jugular. I cursed her gently and went into a clinch with her. She writhed, twisted and scratched. We were both panting. She butted me in the eye with the top of her head.
I said, “The hell with this,” flung her off and stood back. I pulled my gun on her. “Let’s skip it,” I went on, “or I’ll blow a hole in you.”
She glared up at me, her eyes savage, but the gun seemed to cool her.
“Stay put, sister,” I said, drawing up a chair. I sat down.
She looked me over, and then flopped back on the divan. I’d torn her shirt and a shoulder peeped through. It was a nice shoulder, white and firm.
“You think I killed Herrick,” I said, “but I didn’t.”
She continued to eye me savagely, and said nothing.
“Killeano’s mob killed him, and tried to pin it on me,” I went on.
“You killed him all right,” she said, and added some fancy names. Her language would have turned a stevedore pale.
“Use your head,” I said. “I’ve just arrived here. I never saw Herrick before until I met him in the Casino for a couple of minutes. He asked me to get out of town because he thought I’d cause trouble, and Killeano made that the excuse for killing him and framing me. Can’t you see how simple it is? Why should I want to kill Herrick? Think, Tutz, work on it. If you were Killeano and you wanted Herrick out of the way, wouldn’t you spring the killing when a guy with my reputation blows into town? It was a gift.”
She looked doubtful.
“Killeano wanted him out of the way all right,” she muttered. “It could be, but I don’t believe it.”
I told her the story, how Speratza had invited me to the
Casino, how Miss Wonderly had been detailed to look after me, how I’d seen Flaggerty watching us, and the whole works. She sat watching me, and the angry bitterness seeped out of her eyes.
“All right,” she said, shrugging. “I’m the sucker, so you didn’t kill him.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said. “But I’m in a jam. You can help me out.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why should I?”
“Suppose you tell me,” I said, smiling at her. “What was Herrick to you?”
She swung off the divan and went over to the big cocktail cabinet.
“I’m keeping out of this,” she said, taking out two glasses and pouring whisky. She came over and handed me one, looked down at me, and smiled coldly. “You’re tough, all right,” she said. “I feel like I’ve been fed through a mangle.”
I pulled her down on my lap. She was a big armful, but I handled her.
“Let’s be friends,” I said. “You liked Herrick, didn’t you?”
She pushed away from me and stood up.
“Cut that stuff right out,” she said. “I’m not quite a sap.”
I drank some whisky, lit a cigarette and shrugged.
“I could beat it out of you,” I said, giving her the cold eye.
“Try,” she said, sitting on the divan.
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “I’ll have a talk with your pal Gomez. He’ll be interested to know you sexed me up to this room.”
That threw a scare into her.
“You dare!” she snapped, jumping to her feet.
“Come on, be nice.”
“Herrick paid me to play the tables at the Casino,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t know why, so don’t ask me. He always took the money I’d won and gave me other notes in exchange.”
I stared at her.
“Why did he do that?” I said.
She was just going to say she didn’t know, when the door jerked open and Gomez walked in.
Chapter Three
GUNFIRE
1
A POLICE siren wailed in the still night air. Car tyres bit gravel. Doors slammed. Feet pounded on concrete.
I stood in the shadow of the wall facing the rear exit of Miss Spence’s apartment block. It wasn’t a particularly good place to be in with a flock of buttons buzzing around, but I’d been in worse places.
The alley was narrow and sealed at one end. The other end, opening on to the front drive, was lit by a white-blue overhead lamp.
I held the Luger in my right fist, and edged along the shadows. I came to the dead end, looked up. A couple of feet above me I could see the dark sky and the stars. I looked back down the alley. A flat, capped figure was peering around the corner of the wall. He couldn’t see me, but I could see him.
He was very cautious, but I could have drilled him between the eyes without buying myself a truss. He seemed shy of showing me any more of himself. Maybe he thought his head was made of bullet-proof steel. Maybe it was.
I went down on one knee, waited.
He did exactly what I thought he would do. He pulled a flash and sent a long bright beam of light in search of me.
The roar of the Luger rolled around the narrow alley, bounced off the walls. The cop’s flash disintegrated; darkness settled down again.
I had about sixty seconds to get moving before he recovered his nerve. I moved.
The top of the wall was gritty under my hands. I was glad I’d learned the trick of rolling over walls instead of sitting astride them. I was dropping into the far-side darkness when the cop opened up with a chopper. Slugs threw up a little cloud of mortar and brick dust six feet above my head. I didn’t wait.
Beyond the wall was an expanse of trees, shrubs and darkness. I guessed it was the garden of the apartment block. I melted into the darkness; kept edging to my right, where I knew I’d eventually come out to the main street.
There was much shouting in the front drive. Heads peeped cautiously out of windows. The chopper continued to grind away. No one was taking chances.
I kept on.
The Army certainly did a swell job in teaching me how to act like a Red Indian. Sitting Bull had nothing on me. Moving through the shrubs and trees, I made no more noise than a ghost and was a lot less visible.
The night was now full of police sirens, some near, some distant, some almost too faint to hear. There seemed a lot of Law on the move.
I reached the wall surrounding the garden as some bright boy decided to turn on a floodlight. I had just pulled myself up and was lying on top of the wall when the lights came on. I felt like a nudist in a subway on a Saturday in the rush-hour.
Enough artillery opened up to slaughter an army. Slugs hummed and buzzed. One of them nicked my sleeve. I dropped into the street faster than a lizard.
A cop from across the street took a pot-shot at me as I zigzagged along the sidewalk. I took a pot-shot at him. He fell on his knees, clasping his wrist. He yelled blue murder.
I got into my stride. Maybe I did touch the ground twice in my sprint for a friendly archway, but I doubt it. The archway led to a big house that loomed white above high white walls, capped with red tiles that reflected the moonlight.
Bullets skipped by me, struck sparks from the road. I reached the archway, ducked under cover. I was breathing like an old man with asthma, sweat ran down my face. Keeping close to the protecting wall, I looked into the street. Men moved, darted for cover, edging nearer to me. The street was lousy with cops.
I drew a bead on one of them. The slug passed through his hat, and he fell down, half-dead with fright.
I ducked back as soon as I’d fired. Three choppers opened up, and for the next three minutes death hung in the air. I let them blaze away, sneaked backwards, took the bend of the wall, and did another sprint. I was over another wall into another garden before they had made up their
minds that it’d be safe to advance,
I'll Get You for This Page 7
