"She stayed with us for nearly two weeks. In spite of everything, she was Helene's only living relative, and Helene was worried about her. Then we read that Nick Brozsa, the man who owned the Dreamland, had been run over by a car and killed. Olla was pretty much upset, and said that now she could never go back there again. And of course, as usual, was out of a job, and broke. It always runs through her fingers.
"Well, I had to do something. I couldn't have her lying around here, hiding when people came. So I spoke to Caesar about her. He put her to work at Cipriano's and you know the rest."
"Yes," said Roy. "Thanks, Spencer. Thanks very much." He got up and they shook hands. "I don't think it will ever come out that she was your wife's sister. No reason for it to."
"Thank God," said Spencer; then: "Look, Captain. Things are a little rough for me right now. But if I can ever do anything for you…"
"If you can, I'll ask you. I'm not bashful. Goodnight, Mr. Spencer."
A new maid let Roy out. She was as awkward, untidy, and inefficient as Clarice, and Roy wondered how it was that the Spencers were so unlucky as to have two like that in succession.
Thinking it over on his way to the car, he decided that probably Spencer, always out on a limb, was poor pay, and had got in bad with the better employment agencies.
20
Roy was undressing for bed when the phone rang. Weary and irritated, he answered it. To his surprise it was Chad and his voice was agitated.
"Roy-you're going to have visitors. I'm calling you from my apartment, understand? What time have you got, Roy?"
"Almost eleven."
"Meet me at the usual place as near one as possible."
"All right, Chad."
"You've got a conference on your hands. Goodbye, Roy."
Lost in thought, Roy put his shirt back on, then picked up a newspaper and sat down to read the sports page while he waited. The business puzzled him. A conference? Who with? And why all the hush-hush? He found it very difficult to concentrate on the baseball news in spite of the fact that there were hot pennant races going in both leagues and the time was running out. In his teens, Roy had played semi-pro ball and had about decided to make a career of it. But one day he'd consulted a Big League scout who had been looking over the semi-pro teams in Roy's area. The scout told him to forget it and pick out another occupation. "All you've got," the scout said, "is determination. You look pretty good in among these humpties because you try so hard. But if you go into Organized Ball you'll never get higher than Class C. So why beat your brains out?" Roy took the scout's advice.
Soon after a clock somewhere in the hotel struck eleven-thirty, Roy heard footsteps in the hallway, then a tap at his door.
He was on the second floor. Apparently the night clerk had told whoever it was just to come up.
Roy opened the door. Two men were outside. The nightlight was on in the hallway and Roy couldn't make them out very well. They were both short and rather young.
"Hargis?" asked one in a somewhat hoarse voice.
"Yeah. Come on in."
He opened the door wider. They came in, one behind the other. They were very well dressed in expensive, conservative clothes, but to Roy "hoodlum" was written all over them. They were hardfaced, arrogant, sure of themselves. Obviously not local boys. Roy knew all the important local boys, and on the rare occasions when he saw any of them, they were excessively deferential.
The shorter of the two was wearing a dark-blue serge suit and a light-gray Homburg with white piping. "I'm Stan," he said. "This is Tommy."
Tommy nodded curtly. He was dressed in a double-breasted gray flannel suit and a gray snap-brim hat. He had a short, turned-up nose, and a long upper lip. He looked like an Irishman. With a glance of mild amazement, he ran his eyes over Roy's room.
"What's this, Hargis? A hideaway?"
They both laughed.
"You might call it that," said Roy, irritated.
"The way you guys do in this town, you should be living at the Stoneham or the Terrace. Why don't we sit down?"
They selected chairs. Tommy took out a handkerchief and dusted off the chair-seat before he sat down. Roy sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring Tommy's insolent rib.
Stan pushed his hat back, took out a cigar, put it in his mouth and began to chew on it. He was very dark. His face was narrow and sharp-featured and his heavy, black eyebrows went straight across without a break.
Both men studied Roy for a long time. He ignored them.
"Round town here," said Stan at last, "they tell me you're a pretty tough boy, Hargis."
"Oh, I don't know," said Roy. He raised his eyes and looked from one to the other. "A guy can get quite a reputation just acting tough."
Neither of the men missed the implication, nor the insolence. They studied Roy again for a long time.
"You know who we are?" asked Stan.
"Yes. I think so," said Roy, mildly.
"You want maybe to climb down and be more friendly… maybe?"
"I'm neither friendly nor unfriendly," said Roy. "Let's just talk."
Stan looked over at Tommy. "Maybe he's got a point?"
"Maybe," said Tommy.
"Okay," said Stan. "All right, Hargis. You think maybe two-three million dollars a year is a lot of money?"
"Quite a lot."
"Yeah. Nobody gets two-three million dollars handed to them they don't do something for it? Am I right?"
"Naturally."
Stan spoke with sudden and extreme harshness now. "All right. Then you guys got to do something for it. Goddamn it. What you think we are, Santy Claus?"
"Such as?"
"You know 'such as,' copper," shouted Stan. "You got to burn that broad and get the heat off. Hoodlum guns, all that crap. Nobody shot Hobart but that broad. I ain't saying he shouldn't be shot, pushing us around and not letting us know how high up he went. Get me?"
There was a pause. Roy rose to find a cigarette. Tommy produced a gold lighter and lit it for him. Roy sat down again on the bed.
"You've already talked to somebody else?"
"Naturally, you bum. You think we come to see you first, for Christ's sake!"
"Well, then-why did you come to me at all… Stan? Stan? I believe your name's something like that."
Stan looked over at Tommy. "This guy-he frazzles me, like. You care for him, Tommy?"
"Oh, he's all right. You know how it is in these whistle-stops."
"I guess you mean your boss talked to somebody," said Roy. "Is that right? Then the big boys left the details to us-the stooges. Well…?"
Tommy laughed heartily when he saw the look on Stan's face. Stan choked on his cigar. He turned a little pale, then he flung the cigar on the floor.
"He talks stooges," he shouted. "Listen, copper. I can buy and sell your big guy. I can buy the building he lives in. I can buy the biggest building you got in town. Stooges!"
"Well, it was only a manner of speaking," said Roy, mildly. "Everybody's got a boss."
Tommy looked over at Stan. "I see what they mean-he's tough. You care for him, Stan?"
"I don't care for him. I think he's a… you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, and a big one. All the same…"
"Yeah, all the same." He turned to Roy. "Look. It's all in your lap. You deliver or no deal, and it's going to be rough in this town. No matter what happens, we operate here. If it's going to be friendly, okay. If not, okay, too. We just don't care. Only… the smoother it is, the better for everybody. They told us you was the man. We thought-me and Tommy-you'd give us the glad hand. You know, glad-to-see-you pal routine. What do we get? We get opposition. Am I right, Tommy?"
There was a long silence. Roy walked over to the window and tossed his cigarette out. He was all tensed up and tried to calm himself. The unabashed arrogance of these dressed up hoodlums infuriated him, and he could just barely restrain himself from tangling with them-an insane thing just to consider. But that wasn't the worst of it. He was like a man wandering in a
dense fog-and without a destination even if he found his way through. He literally did not know, at this moment, what he wanted or intended to do. He had his back to the two hoodlums, who kept glancing at each other, and shrugging. Little by little, Roy calmed himself, and turned.
"Don't you guys read our papers?"
"Only the comics," said Stan.
Roy waited before he spoke again and tried to keep his returning rage from showing. "The story about the weapon being a hoodlum gun appeared in only one paper, the Sun. Our least important paper. In fact, the other papers carried stories I gave them that there was no conclusive proof that the gun found was the murder weapon…
"All right. All right," Stan cut in, impatiently. "But we know it was. We get around, copper. We got friends. We know who gave that heater to the broad. We know the broad killed Hobart. So we want her burned, you understand? That's all there is to it. It's simple. Then when the case is closed we all sit down palsy and make ourselves a nice deal. We ain't hungry. We believe in live and let live, up to a certain point. What's the beef, copper? Burn the girl and everybody's happy."
"So far the evidence won't stand up in court. It depends too much on the word of a stinking rat by the name of Whitey Vickers. A defense lawyer would make hash out of him. As a witness, he'd hurt the case in spite of his testimony. You understand?"
Stan studied Roy for a moment, then nodded. "So you know about Nick Brozsa?"
"I know everything there is to know," said Roy. "But proving it, making it stand up, is something else."
Stan rose. Tommy followed suit. They both stood looking at Roy in silence. Finally Stan spoke. "Let me tell you something, copper. You're in the sack. You produce-and fast, or you're out. We got the hand on that. You're a nothing-for all your toughness. You think anybody's going to let you stand in the way of a two-three million dollar deal? There are ways of railroading. You should know all about that, copper. Get busy."
Stan opened the door and went out. Tommy stood looking at Roy for a moment, then he turned to go, laughing. "Stooges!" he exclaimed. "Stan'll never be the same after that crack."
He went out shaking with quiet laughter.
Roy had dressed completely now and was getting ready to go to meet Chad when there was a light scratching at his door.
There was an old dog around the hotel with the odd name of Franklin. He was owned by somebody on the third floor, and was a real bum, who wandered from room to room, scratching at doors, trying to get a handout. He was big, black and of uncertain lineage. Roy liked him, and often brought him in and fed him and let him lie on the bed for a while.
"It's late for that old bastard," Roy mumbled as he went over to open the door.
Roy gave a start. Wesson was standing in the doorway with his hat on the side of his head. He smelled strongly of alcohol.
"I thought it was another dog," said Roy. "Well?"
Wesson began to sing the song he had composed about Roy:
"The 'Angman 'as no friends.
A melancholy bloke is 'e,
Pursuing unfathomable ends-
A strynger to 'umanity."
Roy turned and walked back into the middle of the room. Wesson shut the door behind him, and followed.
"You have some of the strangest acquaintances, Captain," he said. There was a pause. "Roy, do you remember that night in the garage at the Stoneham?"
Roy kept his back turned. "Yeah."
"Do you remember a slightly pertinent remark I made?"
"Yeah," said Roy.
Wesson walked slowly over to one of the windows and stood looking out. Finally he spoke. "Roy, are you acquainted with the Bible?"
"Distantly," said Roy.
Wesson chuckled and went on: "It's full of very prophetic things like: '… except the Lord keep the City, the Watchman waketh but in vain.' Well, Roy, I very much doubt that the Lord is keeping this city, and we all know that the Watchman is fast asleep. So?"
"So?"
"We do what we can in the situation in which we find ourselves."
Roy hesitated for a moment, then he said: "I've got to go talk to Chad. I think maybe that old 'public relations counsel' business can be worked out, Wesson."
Wesson turned. "Oh?"
"Let you know tomorrow. I've already talked to Chad about it once."
"There's a pal," said Wesson. "A real pal."
***
As before, Chad and Roy paced up and down beside the dark, arcaded porch of the 'Drome. It was a warm night. There wasn't a breath of wind, and yet they could smell the river which was some distance away. Roy had his taxi-cab wait-the fare went on the expense account. Mrs. Bayliss was sitting in the back seat of Chad's big limousine, all bundled up, waiting.
"She got up out of a sick-bed to come along," Chad explained, shaking his head wearily. "It's getting rougher all the time."
They paced for a while. "Well," asked Chad, finally, "what did you think of our friends?"
"Nice boys. I almost chose the one called Stan. I'd like to meet him alone some night and no holds barred, and nothing at stake except pleasure."
Chad laughed briefly. "Roy-I'm surprised at you."
"I'd not only change the direction of his nose, but his tune, too."
"And then some morning you'd wake up dead. Stan's the boss."
Roy stopped, turned, and stared at Chad in amazement. "That guy! He's the boss?"
"New crop coming up. Funny thing, Roy-but they're dead certain the girl killed Hobart. Seems to me more behind it than just an alibi. But whether she did or not, the deal hangs on sending her up. Either that, or war. And war is something we don't want. We got the big election to win in '52. We've got enemies. Yesterday the D.A. found his phone was tapped. Shortly we've all got to knuckle down and play for keeps."
"I've got plenty on the girl, Chad. But I haven't got an air-tight case. How would you like an acquittal?"
"That would be worse than not bringing her to trial."
"That's what I think."
"But that's beside the point, Roy. You've got to bring her to trial and you've got to convict her. It's your baby. It's what we're paying you for."
"I'll need a little time, Chad."
"Take all the time you want, as long as you don't miss when the chips are down."
"Okay."
"We've got great faith in you, Roy. We're counting on you. Don't make bums out of us."
They paced in silence for a little while then Roy told Chad about Wesson.
"Why, that fat bastard!" Chad cried, then he laughed. "But plenty smart, all right. The very kind of guy we want on our side. I'll take care of him, Roy. You have my word."
"You have to take care of him now. He could blow us right out of the water, and nobody knows it better than he does."
"Chad," called Mrs. Bayliss. "It's getting late. Let's go home. I'm cold."
"She's cold," said Chad in a low voice. "I'm sweating." After a pause, he asked: "Anything else?"
"No."
"All right then. Hit it! The sooner the better. This town's a gambling gold mine, always has been. Biggest gambling town in the country on a per capita basis. The big outside boys would just love to gobble it. But they've been playing along for years, for one reason or another. Let's keep 'em playing along. Goodnight, Roy."
They shook hands briefly, then Chad got into his limousine and drove off.
Roy's taxi-driver was holding the door for him. "You like a little fun tonight, mister?" he inquired. "Two new joints just opened on North Baxter. New girls-some from the West Coast. Hollywood poon-tang."
"Not tonight, pal," said Roy, as he got into the cab, sighing with weariness.
21
Boley drove Roy into the office about ten the next morning. Ed Reynolds was sitting at Lackey's desk, chewing a cigar for a change.
"Did you see Gert on the way in?" he asked.
"No," said Roy. "She must be in the john."
"Well, you're wanted at Boardroom A on the seventh floor at 10:15."
"I got it wrote down right here," said Ed. "And Gert, she's got it wrote down outside."
"Where's Emmett?"
"Don't know. Didn't come in this morning. Didn't call either."
"That's damn funny. Old Johnny-on-the-job. Maybe the poor slob's sick. Give him a ring."
Ed got no answer on Lackey's home phone. Roy began to pace the floor. Something was definitely up! In a moment, Gert put her head in the door.
"Oh, there you are, Captain. Did Ed tell you about your appointment upstairs?"
"Yeah. Is that straight?"
Gert nodded. "Boardroom A. 10:15. My, you're getting important."
"Who set it up?"
"A floor secretary called. Word came through the D.A.'s office."
"I see."
He glanced up at the clock. It was twelve after. "Well," he said to nobody in particular, "I guess I better go see what this is all about."
***
A smart-looking young secretary in the wood-panelled ante-room looked up at him and smiled. "Go right in, Captain Hargis. You're expected."
Roy went in through the swinging-door. He'd never been in one of these boardrooms before. It was long and rather narrow, and in the middle of it was a massive, polished boardmeeting table with a double rank of chairs. There were only two men at the big table. At the moment the room reminded Roy of a ball-park with a poor crowd.
Chad Bayliss was sitting at the head of the table with a few papers in front of him. On his left sat a young man Roy did not know. He was wearing a crew cut, shell-rimmed glasses, and a bow tie. He had blond hair, long lantern jaws, and cold, observant blue eyes.
"Sit down," said Chad, abruptly. His manner was very unfriendly. He did not look at Roy.
Roy sat down, wondering.
Coming to himself, Chad said: "This is Grant Perrin of the D.A.'s office."
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