“Tell you what you do, Paul,” Johnny said swiftly. “I've got to go out again. You run downstairs an' have Vic get Sophie Madieros in here to hold down the switchboard until the day crew comes on. Then have Amy take Sally over to the apartment and stay there with her till I get there. You and Dominic should be able to keep Vic afloat the balance of the shift if I don't get back. Got it?”
“Got it.” Paul slid the elevator door closed and descended to the lobby, and in his own room Johnny changed quickly. In the mirror he frowned at himself as he knotted his tie, and he retested the puffiness of his mouth.
“—that monkey'd known how to get his shoulder behind it he might've saved himself some splinters,” he murmured half aloud, crossed the room and picked up the phone. Vic Barnes' voice came on the line, and Johnny shook his head. They were really spread a little thin with the front desk man having to take the switchboard, too. “Get me the Rollin' Stone, Vic. Sally's got the number stuck up on the board somewhere.”
“Right,” Vic replied placidly. Johnny could hear him dialing. Vic Barnes was a placid individual, a plump man with graying hair combed straight back from a high forehead, very high color and a shiny face.
“Mick?” Johnny asked abruptly when he had the connection. “Killain. You get that address?”
“You're not goin' up there now? People sleep nights!”
“You get the address?”
“Jesus, what a one-track mind! Write it down.”
Johnny wrote it down, hung up the phone and stuffed the address in a pocket. His mind was on Manuel Ybarra. For looks the ex-fighter reminded him of the rugged fishermen on the Spanish Costa Brava, burly and capable. For an instant he thought of long-ago days under a burning sun on coastal waters edged by miles of dazzlingly white sand beaches. Then he pulled himself up sharply and left the room.
He shivered in the chill reach of the wind, which enveloped him as the taxi's headlights disappeared around the corner; he stared around him at the dingy tenement area revealed in the widely spaced streetlights, and he looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. 5-B. Fifth floor, and these old buildings obviously had never heard of an elevator. Never heard of a buzzer system for the front door, either, he decided; it opened at a touch after he walked up the slippery iron steps that led off the street.
Inside he turned to the dimly lighted stairs and climbed steadily. No heat was wasted on the hallways; the building temperature didn't seem much higher than that of the street outside, but at least there was no wind. A single naked light bulb halfway up each flight illuminated the landings dimly, leaving bulkier shadows at top and bottom. Stale cooking odors pursued him upward as he climbed.
In the poor light of the fifth floor hallway he studied drab and scarified wallpaper and cat-footedly circled doors until he found the lumpy “B” in battered tin. He knocked softly and listened in the quiet to water noises from protesting drains and the creaks and groans of the old building in the winter night. He had to knock again before there was a stirring behind the door.
“What is it?” It was a woman's hushed tone, and Johnny frowned. Before he could make up his mind to reply, he heard the door open cautiously on the chain latch and felt himself under inspection. The room behind the woman was unlighted, and he could make out only the indeterminate pale blur of her features, so far beneath his own eye level as to mark her as no more than an inch or two above five feet.
“Well?” she demanded huskily, her voice sounding young.
“I need to see Manuel,” he told her.
“Why?” she challenged immediately.
“I have to talk to him.”
“Perhaps tomorrow—” she began firmly, and from behind the door to her left Johnny could hear a hissing Spanish whisper.
“Describe him!”
“Huge,” she murmured rapidly in kind. “Hard. A crooked nose. In a gray uniform. Truly—”
“Open the door,” Manuel Ybarra said in English in a normal voice. “He was at the tavern tonight.” There was an instant of doubt as she turned to look at him. “Open the door, Consuelo,” the man repeated impatiently.
At the rattle of the chain latch Johnny moved forward a bit hesitantly; there was still no light in the room. He was still at the threshold when, to his left, Manuel turned on a lamp. The thick-shouldered man, in underwear and socks, was calmly returning a switch-blade knife to the lamp table's drawer.
In the same instant, at the other side of the room, Johnny caught a flashing glimpse of skimpily nightgowned femininity before a blanket swirled and descended serape-fashion, eclipsing the vision from neck to toe. Small she might be, Johnny reflected, but never petite; the curves were full-bodied.
“Dios!”
the girl exclaimed indignantly, with a toss of a blue-black mane. She glared at Manuel. “You have to shame me?”
The dark man paid no attention. “You mus' have much impatience,” he said softly to Johnny. As an afterthought he gestured at the blanket. “My sister, Consuelo.” He shrugged broadly. “My penance.” He glanced at her, eying Johnny speculatively. “This is the big Johnny, from the hotel. The one of whom the Senor Mick is a compadre.”
Johnny stared frankly at the creamily oval face, classically Castilian in depth from brow to chin. Her nose and mouth were small, but very well made, and her lips provocatively full. She might have been twenty-five. The firm set of her chin and her wide-spaced dark eyes warned of an independent nature, and he extended his hand gravely. “This penance of which your brother speaks,” he said to her in Spanish, then, shifting to English, “it should happen to me.”
The soft ivory of her face bloomed with a tinge of added color as she retrieved her hand from his, but she looked up at him squarely. “If I'd known you knew Spanish, I hope you believe I'd not have said that about the nose—”
“Nicest thing's been said about it for years,” he assured her. He turned to Manuel. “Thanks for the welcome, amigo. I'll make it short. The two men in the tavern tonight—”
“What two men in the tavern?” the girl interrupted.
“Be quiet, girl.” Her brother said it almost absently as he studied Johnny. “The little fighter was a friend of yours?”
“You can make it stronger than that.”
Manuel nodded soberly. He knuckled his chin reflectively, the rasp of his beard plain in the quiet. “A very good left hand, for his weight,” he said after a moment. “Very good.” He pursed his lips. “You had a question ?”
“When they came in, they spoke to each other. I'd like to know what they said.”
The dark man inclined his head slightly. “I heard what they said. The Senor Mick asked idly, to no purpose, and I denied it, because I do not wish to speak for the world to hear.” He considered Johnny carefully for a moment, then nodded again as if to himself. “They came through the door together, the tall one on the left—so.” Manuel positioned a hand in the air. “When he had looked around the tall one said quickly to the other 'Es este el hombre?' and pointed with his gun. The second man replied 'Esta es.' The gun had motioned at the little fighter, and the tall one at once turned to him.” Manuel shrugged. “The rest you saw. It is not given to all of us to go with such espina dorsal.”
“So the tall one asked 'Is he the man?' ” Johnny said musingly. “This is a tavern stick-up?”
Manuel looked somber. “The little fighter was in trouble?”
“Trouble?” Johnny repeated irritatedly. “Where the hell's the trouble? The kid took his dive, didn't he? Went clear off the thirty-foot board to do it.”
“It was a peculiar ending to the fight,” Manuel admitted.
The blanket-swathed girl spoke quietly. “He was killed, the man of whom you speak?” Johnny nodded, and within the blanket he could see her shiver. “Men!” she said bitterly. “There's not one among you who acquires the least of the sense God gives a girl child at birth.” She jerked a plump shoulder at her brother. “Look at that one. Twenty per cent vision in the left eye; sixty per cent in th
e right. And deteriorating.”
Manuel grinned. “She fears to have the support of me.”
“At least you can pimp for me,” she told him impudently, and the grin disappeared as his features darkened.
“I do not like the sound of that remark in this company,” he said heavily. “I could find my belt—”
She ignored him and apologized to Johnny. “He exaggerates about the support. Not about the belt, when I was younger.” She grimaced. “He saved his money when he was fighting. He has a little income. We live in this neighborhood because our friends live here. And rather than what I have said, I am not a schoolgirl, but I must nearly get down on my knees for permission to have a man walk with me.”
“This income of mine,” Manuel said thoughtfully. “I have not seen it lately.”
“Because with money you are a big fool,” his sister told him tranquilly. She smiled at Johnny. “I sing nights at the Three Sisters. It's a small place, but the food's excellent. I can recommend particularly the chicken valenciana.”
“Dinner tomorrow night?” Johnny promptly inquired.
Consuelo Ybarra laughed, a very pleasant sound. “Agreed. At eight-thirty. My first show's at ten.” She looked at him from beneath long lashes. “I like a man who can make up his mind.”
“You've met one,” Johnny told her, and turned to the door. “Eight-thirty.”
On the stairs he stopped once to reconstruct in his mind the girl's flashing facial beauty. It was a little hard to see how this dinner date tomorrow night could be a mistake.
CHAPTER III
Johnny's key admitted him noiselessly to the apartment, and he moved quietly through the small hallway to the bedroom entrance. Amy was sitting bolt upright in the big wing chair, but her head was down on her shoulder. As he came inside she straightened convulsively, her uniform rustling as she came halfway up out of the chair in the darkness.
“Mist' Johnny?” she asked in a tremulous whisper, and collapsed with a soft sigh at his affirmative grunt. “Hoo-ee! Don' you never sneak up on me like that!” She looked guiltily toward the bed. “She been sleepin' 'bout a hour, now.”
He nodded and, realizing that she couldn't see him in the darkness, walked out into the kitchen and turned on the light. Amy followed, stretching and yawning. “I held a cab for you downstairs,” Johnny told her. “Here.”
“Put you' hand right back in that pocket!” the softly slurred accents demanded indignantly. “This ain't no payin' favor!”
He got her out the door finally and toed off his shoes in the hallway. He loosened his tie and, returning to the bedroom, stood beside the bed and looked down at the small body beneath the covers.
He lit a cigarette, moved the ash tray around to the side of the wing chair and settled down in it to wait out the night.
He listened to his own breathing, the only sound he could hear in the room. At least if Sally wakened she wouldn't be alone....
He awoke suddenly with the gray light of dawn under the shades, a crick in his neck and his left leg disembodied from retarded circulation. He looked instantly to the bed—Sally's slight figure was sitting bolt upright in its center, her blanketed knees drawn up snugly and clasped in her arms. She was hunched forward with her chin resting on her knees, and she was staring straight ahead of her.
Johnny moistened dry lips; he didn't think he had made any movement upon rousing from his uncomfortable doze, but he could see Sally's head turn slightly to look in his direction. He couldn't see her features in the shadows extending out to the bed from the fingers of light at the windows, but he could see the suspicious quivering of the slim shoulders as his eyes focused.
He grunted harshly and hauled himself upright; he hobbled stiffly to the bed, pins and needles stabbing his awakening leg. He reached down and picked her up bodily, blankets and all, and sat down on the edge of the bed with her on his lap. He could feel the near rigidity of the small body in its state of semishock.
When she finally spoke her tone was flat and expressionless. “I don't th-think I really believed it, until I saw you s-sleeping in that chair.” Her voice roughened; a hand crept out of the blankets and closed tightly on his arm. “Charlie,” she whispered. “Oh, Johnny—why Ch-Charlie?”
“Nobody knows why, or when,” he said quietly. He waited a moment as she cried openly into his shirt front, then placed two fingers under her chin. “You gonna be all right now?” He could feel pressure against his fingers when she nodded affirmatively, and her exhaled breath was a long sigh.
“Stretch out here beside me for a little while,” she pleaded. “If I know you're here, I might be able to rest.”
He lifted her up and slid her back into the bed. Then he lay down alongside her, slipped an arm beneath her and pulled a corner of the blanket over himself. In the half darkness he listened to her ragged breathing ease until she was breathing quietly. His own eyes closed several times, but he doggedly forced them open.
When he was sure that she was asleep he removed his arm carefully and inched himself from the bed. He listened again for the gently regular exhalations and shuffled cautiously to the hallway in stockinged feet. He picked up his shoes and put them under his arm.
He eased open the apartment door and closed it quietly from the outside, listening for the click of the automatic lock. He was on one knee tying a shoelace when he heard the elevator doors opening at the end of the corridor. He rose to his feet and examined the two men who emerged and looked about them a little uncertainly. Then the squat, thickset man in the lead advanced upon him purposefully.
“Say, Jack,” he demanded briskly, “which is Miss Fontaine's apartment?”
“Who wants to know?” Johnny asked him. He recognized the squat man but did not actually know him. He'd seen the darkly lopsided features under the close-cropped black hair around the fringes of the fight crowd for years, but had never heard him called anything except Monk.
“Well, now—” Monk started to bristle, and evidently thought better of it. The uniform, Johnny thought; he thinks I work here. “This is Mr. Hartshaw, an attorney,” the squat man said quickly. “He has an appointment with Miss Fontaine.”
Johnny looked briefly at the tall, cadaverous-looking individual in heavy horn-rimmed glasses and a black Homburg that completed his funereal appearance. The tall man had a manila file folder under his right arm, and Johnny took a casual step forward and snaked the folder from beneath Mr. Hartshaw's arm. By the time Mr. Hartshaw was ready to react, Johnny had the folder open and was reading the single legal-looking document within.
“Hey, you!” Monk exclaimed. His tone was ugly.
Johnny transferred his attention from the folder to Monk. “I don't get it, man. A power of attorney? At six in the morning? With her brother dead maybe four hours?” He looked down at the document. “An' who the hell is Albert Munson ?”
“Who the hell are you?” Monk demanded angrily, and sidled closer. “Maybe you need a lesson in mindin' your own business?”
Johnny deliberately folded and creased the paper and slipped it into a pocket. He looked at the lawyer. “You know that the kid had a manager? Isn't he the one to see?”
“I'm tellin' you he's got an appointment with Miss Fontaine!” Monk cut in.
“An' I'm tellin' you... shut up!” Johnny told him grimly, and returned his attention to the lawyer. “Well?”
“Why, ah—I was—it was said—” His high-pitched voice hesitated. “I'm to represent Miss Fontaine.”
“Not today, Hartshaw.” The tall man looked incredulous, and Johnny raised his voice. “Rack it up and drag it outta here, man. You're not representin' anyone. Blow.”
Mr. Hartshaw closed his slightly gaping mouth and stalked off injuredly in the direction of the elevator, turning once to look back over his shoulder en route.
“Now just a minute, damn you!” Menace hung heavy in Monk's rasping tone; his hands were bunched massively as he advanced gloweringly upon Johnny.
“You come right ahead, Mo
nk,” Johnny invited him, moving away from the wall.
The mention of his name stopped the squat man. He licked his lips rapidly. “You know me, hah?” he mumbled. He stood stiffly, obviously reviewing his instructions; then he sullenly unbundled his fists and tramped to the elevator in the wake of the lawyer. Johnny followed him.
“These two are just leavin', Carlo,” he said to the slim, dark-haired operator when the doors opened. The boy looked surprised at the sight of Johnny; he looked hurriedly at his passengers as they entered, and the look changed to apprehension.
Johnny reached in and casually removed a folded bill from the small breast pocket of the operator's uniform. “A five spot,” he said musingly. “You buy cheap, Carlo.” He smiled into the cab at the boy; deliberately he tore the bill into confetti. “Easy come, easy go, huh, kid ?” Suddenly he leaned in again toward the good-looking boy, who backed away guiltily, and his voice hardened. “The next time you let someone con you into takin' 'em up here without goin' through the switchboard first, I'll hang you out to dry. Understand?”
The boy swallowed hard. “S-sure, Johnny. Sure.”
“Then run these rats outta here. Hose down the lobby afterward an' cut down on the smell.”
Above the faint hum of the descending elevator Johnny could hear Monk's furious bark. “What in the hell is his name?” Johnny doubted somehow that another five-dollar bill went with the answer. It looked like a poor day for Carlo.
Johnny glanced up at the lobby clock as he pushed his way in through the foyer doors, and his attention was distracted at once by the sight of Detective James Rogers standing, overcoat on arm, to the left of the newsstand. From behind a half-raised paper, he was unobtrusively studying the passengers entering and emerging from the elevators. The detective laid the newspaper down on the counter as Johnny approached him. “Been watching for you, Johnny.”
Johnny's grunt was pure skepticism. “Among others?”
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