by Robert Colby
If you like Katharine Hepburn and other such slender etchings in bone, forget her. She has a lot upstairs in the balcony and though her waist is narrow, her hips are artfully generous. She looks taller than she is because she stands proudly, not with one of those apologetic slumps. Perhaps it is an attitude, because she has plenty which compels, but the total effect of her is subdued. In a party room full of gushing butterflies, she would be noticed, not for her social acrobatics, but for her very stillness.
“So Mrs. Rumshaw wanted you to go over and club this Tarino character into bloody submission,” said Myra now. “And what did you tell her, Rod?”
“I said she could find half a dozen pugs for the job in one of those swing-and-sweat gyms around town. At twenty bucks a copy. I told her I don’t hire out by the punch, I sell what’s in my head.”
“And how did that digest with her?” Myra tapped a toothpick-impaled olive against the rim of her glass, caused the olive to disappear in a curl of pink tongue behind flashing teeth of an excellence despised by all dental plumbers.
“She was surprised,” I answered. “She said she had heard I was tougher than boarding-house steak. All because I smashed a few heads in those shiv-and-broken-bottle massacres when I was with homicide. So I said, ‘Look, Mrs. Rumshaw, that was all nice and legal and in the course of duty. Part of the job — and they can have it. Those days are gone. I can give protection. I can defend. If a guy tries to beat up, cut up or shoot up a client, I can chop him down and I can chop with the best of them. But that’s it. I have about as much license to assault and batter some Joe who seems to be minding his own business as any other citizen. And that’s no license at all.’
“My God, that woman is naïve in a lot of ways. But she finally agreed that I might be able to handle Tarino by out-thinking him just as well. She doesn’t care how we pull him him off her niece’s neck as long as we do it.”
“We?” said Myra, arching a brow.
“Sure,” I said, and I had to smile. “Mrs. Rumshaw had heard about your special talents. From Lieutenant Ulrich, bless his ever-lovin’. Because he goosed her gold-plated bottom in our direction. Anyway, she thought maybe you could sidle up to Tarino and muddle-sex him into such a trance that he would forget all about Kim and her comparatively amateur attractions.”
“Bro — ther!” said Myra. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” I said, “For five thousand bucks, who’s kidding?” I watched the long bend of one stockinged leg as it fell sleekly from beneath her skirt. And I thought how it had been a long time now. Better than three months. Even though my apartment was only a couple of stories straight up, thirty seconds removed. Myra would run from me and hide behind her strictly-business façade the minute something happened to her which she called “getting emotionally involved.”
“Not even for five thousand,” said Myra, “will I play call girl for Mrs. Rumshaw. She can go to — and she can muddle-sex Tarino herself.”
“You just ain’t seen Mrs. Rumshaw,” I said. “Of course I clued her right away. But don’t worry, you’ll earn your share.”
“How?”
“Well, you don’t have to sleep with the guy to get some information out of him. Just hypnotize him a little.” “What kind of information?”
I hiked away from the window and sat down, dragging deeply on my cigarette and pretending to look thoughtful while I studied Myra, enjoying the little nudge of desire she gave me, a nudge that would become a giant slam if I didn’t resist.
“Well, Rod,” she said. “Are you still there? Or have we been cut off?”
“I’m thinking,” I muttered.
Cool, I mused. That was the outward quality of her. Everywhere you looked she was cool on the surface. Cool after three sets of tennis. Cool in the furnace of midsummer when the only wind was like the breath from a blow torch. Cool running or sitting. Cool in the tight squeeze of a dangerous situation. And in that poised exterior, frosty as a highball glass new from the freezer, lay her value as a partner. And her magnetism as a female. Because on those rare occasions when the ice thawed, Jesus God, she was a dancing fire in bed. And in between, if you knew how to look for it, you could see the flame in her eyes.
But she was not one of those stone faces. Never. She had many sides and she played many parts. She was adaptable. She could be the lady with the soft face and smile, the genteel voice. Or tough and knowing with the hoods. She could play a raucous tramp in a gin mill. She had a face and a sound for any occasion, but even when she was angry she seemed always cool. That was Myra Bailey.
“I’ll tell you,” I said. “About this information we’ll need. About turning you loose on Tarino. I think we’ll let you sit out for the first round. Then we’ll see. Because first, I’m going over and talk with our boy Tarino myself. I’d like to look the bastard in the eye and see what makes him creep. Then, if he won’t scare, we’ll try something more subtle. We’ll sneak up on him. We’ll come in the back door. Let’s play it that way.”
Myra drew deeply on her cigarette and for moments said nothing. She had a way of looking directly at you during some of her little silences, her eyes so wide and unblinking that they seemed magnified, growing towards you from across the room. I have known people who found that stare uncomfortable, even unnerving. As if she were taking you apart mentally, inspecting the hidden garbage of your character with disdain. But I understood that she was not really seeing me, she was probing for answers with the clever scalpel of her mind.
“What’s this Tarino like?” she said.
“Well, he’s rather small and he’s — ”
“I don’t give a square tire about his figure. I want the shape of his mind.”
“Angular. It’s full of angles, crazy angles. He can look at a bowling ball and see an angle. But I can’t draw you a blueprint. Nothing much shows on the surface. The guy is smooth, a clam about nothing that would give you much of a hint. Hell, I only talked to him a couple of times. I got the impression he was a sneaky son-of-a-bitch.”
Myra nodded. “Sneaky and imaginative,” she said. “He’s got a thing for this Kim. She can’t be bought. He can’t hold a gun on her, or twist her arm, or carry her off to his jungle and stay out of jail. So what does he do? Nothing — in person. But he has his goons threaten the boy friend — and Mrs. R. Then he puts on his poker face and with clubs up his sleeve he calls Kim and says, ‘I’ll be over at seven, baby.’ And by God, she’s ready and waiting at five minutes to. He doesn’t even threaten her, personally. He’s too smart for that. So what’s the answer?”
“Ulrich has a recording on the phones,” I said. “But that’s as far as he can go for the time being.” “Whose phones?”
“The boy friend’s, Howard Massey. And Mrs. Rumshaw’s. Kim has her own nest. She insisted on being unchained from the old gal, to that extent.”
“Ahhh, sweet liberty,” said Myra. “At last I’ve found thee. No tape recorder on the girl’s phone?”
“No need. No threats.”
“Any strange voices recorded so far on the others?”
“Not word one,” I answered. “The big silence set in right after the gimmicks were fixed to the phones.”
Myra made a face of disgust, sighed. “What did Mr. Rumshaw do to pile up all that gold?”
“He was big in rum,” I said.
“That’s where he got his name?”
“You never heard of Shaw’s rum?”
“Idiot! No, really?”
“Well, I was only half kidding. He had a giant slice of a distillery. He hailed from old Kain-tuck and his daddy, no, his grand-daddy, was a moonshiner. Honest Indian, he was. That’s what aunty told me.”
“Well, I don’t care how he made it as long as we get a share,” said Myra. “I’ll give some thought to Tarino and company.” She held up the cocktail shaker. “One for the road?”
I brought my empty glass to where she sat on the couch and plopped down beside her. “What road?” I said.
“That cr
azy road to Tarino’s snake pit. I thought you were going over to see him.” She took my glass and poured.
“Oh hell, it’s early yet. He hangs upside down until dark and he’s just now getting ready to fly out of his cave.” I sneaked my arm around her and sipped my drink. “This stuff is almost warm,” I said.
“And I suppose you’re not.”
“Not what?”
“Warm.” She smiled her way-ahead-of-you smile. I put the glass on the table. My fingers walked down her shoulder and over the long hill of her breast. She pretended not to notice. She uncrossed her legs and silk stockings whispered of intimate secrets.
“It’s been a long time, Myra,” I said. And then I kissed her.
Her mouth opened and for one molten quarter of a minute there was the searching demand of her tongue, the taut cone of her breast thrust against my palm. And then she broke away and gave me a little-boy pat on the cheek before she stood, smoothing her skirt.
“I’m hungry,” she announced.
“Aw, now listen, I’m hungry too!”
“I know,” she said. “And it’s been a long time. And that’s good for you. Works up an appetite.”
“Oh yeah? You think I’ll go hungry? You think you set the only table in town?”
“Oh Rod,” she sighed, and seemed to sag a little. I knew she was jealous, though usually she concealed it with a bland face or smart crack. But now she wore a slightly pained expression, for once her eyes were indecisive. So I thrust an arm about her and pulled her gently but firmly down on top of me.
She moaned deeply and before the sound had died I had caught the zipper at the back of her dress and tracked it to the end of the line, where the firm round hills of her buttocks rose invitingly. Almost in the same swift motion, I parted the straps of her bra and began to massage the smooth runway of her back. For with women like Myra timing is everything and the first wave of desire must never be allowed to break up on the hard cool rock of reason.
“Don’t,” she said thickly. “Not now, darling.”
“I understand, baby,” I murmured. And pulled the dress off her shoulders. It came away with the bra and I kissed the taut pink blossom of one nipple.
“Oh God, God,” she whimpered, “why did you make me wait so long — all these months?”
I was laughing bitterly without sound all the way to the bedroom, carrying her while bending to kiss her, easing her onto the big bed, falling beside her. With deft, urgent fingers she helped me in the impatient release from clothes. And then I was looking down into hungry pleading eyes and the open petals of that moist demanding mouth.
Her warm thighs pressed against me and she groaned, “Now, darling, now! Make up for all the days and nights of wanting and needing you. Make it all up to me, darling.”
“I will, baby,” I soothed. “I will.”
And I did.
Three
Tarino’s house was on a quiet side-street in Miami Shores. The building was shaped like a boomerang, and was a low all-white stucco with a white cupola. It was a giant vanilla sundae, to which, at the last moment, a dash of whipped cream had been added.
There were two cars in the driveway, a Cadillac convertible and a Lincoln sedan. Two others were in the open three-car garage.
Tarino had company.
I jabbed the bell button and immediately the door was opened by a colored maid in a black uniform with a white apron. I gave her my card and told her to tell Mr. Tarino it was mighty damn important for him to see me, and I didn’t mean tomorrow. I had really wanted to talk to Kim Rumshaw first. But when I called I couldn’t reach her or the aunt, so I figured they might be out somewhere together and I’d try again later. Meanwhile, why waste time?
The maid left the door ajar so I stepped in. If there’s anything I hate it’s to be left standing outside as if you were some goddamn fund raiser for the garbage collectors’ annual wienie roast. And as I walked into the living room the maid was just then opening a door across it, giving me a glimpse of Tarino’s den (he probably called it his library) and the backs of four guys seated around his desk under a gray hover of tobacco smoke. For a second, even from the rear, I thought I recognized one of those characters. But then the door closed and the impression faded. The maid reappeared and when she saw me she pulled the door sharply behind her, a frown of disapproval on her face. She fluffed up to me, shaking her head.
“Mr. Tarino, he say for you to wait in the study. This way please, sir.”
I followed her to another wing of the house. She ushered me into a room and quickly departed, closing the door behind her.
It was really an office, a small room furnished in dark walnut. It contained heavy pieces with the ornate carving of Italian Renaissance, somber in the tropic setting. An enormous desk dominated one end of the room, an inset bar the other. I found the tiny refrigerator, the glasses and the bourbon. I poured generously over the rocks and sat down with a cigarette. I got right up again because I saw, behind a screen, a bank of green steel files. These were locked, however. Disappointed, I tried the desk. It was also locked and I was reaching in my pocket for something that would give all these locks a hard time when I heard the clunk of a car door. And then another.
I went to the window and parted the drape.
Obliquely I could see the Caddy and the Lincoln. Their lights flared, they moved out of the drive. And I knew that in seconds Tarino would be in the room. So I sat down again, crossed my legs, picked up the drink and waited. Sure enough, in less than a minute, Tarino was standing in the doorway.
His eyes flashed over me, paused at the glass in my hand, returned to my face. I knew he hated my guts for helping myself to his bourbon and it gave me a boot. But nothing showed in his eyes.
“Hey, Rod!” he said. “How goes it, boy? Long time, huh?” He came towards me with his mitt extended. You would think we had been college frat buddies.
“Quite awhile, Eddie,” I said. I got up and shook the paw. We both wore identical smiles, gleamingly false, the way dogs grin in the instant before they fang each other from ear to tail.
There was a perfectly comfortable chair opposite me. But Tarino had to go around and sit at the desk. I suppose desks were necessary props in his life which gave him a feeling of command, for he seemed to be always behind one.
I sat quietly in my chair, watching him produce a cigarette case and go through the lighting up routine, stalling while his mind clicked over the possible reasons for my visit.
Tarino wasn’t much to look at. He was of medium height with a gaunt triangular face, broad at the forehead, narrowing sharply to point of chin. His eyes were black in deep sockets, his cheeks hollow beneath knobby bones. His lips were contrastingly full and sensual. His arms were too long for his size, his hands too large. He had wide shoulders above a narrow chest. Altogether, about as incongruous an assembly as you could find. But he had a tautness to his body which hinted at scrappy power.
There was strut in all his movements, his manner was bold and cocky. His eyes were full of change, now bright with arrogance, now smoldering with deeply banked resentments.
He sucked on the cigarette, his cheeks collapsing, then exhaled with an insolent purse of his lips. “Yeah,” he said again, “it’s been a long time, eh, Striker?”
“Sure, Eddie. Not since that shoot-up at your cave on Biscayne. The Frolic. Remember?”
His eyes did a slow fade, his smile flickered like power failure in a storm. “Yeah, I remember. Is it my fault if some creep gets drunk and pulls a yard of iron on my boys?”
“Well, no, Eddie. Except that your boys were about to take three yards of padded check out of the guy’s wallet. Now if you ran traps that could make a buck without B-girls and sucker tabs for drunks, you wouldn’t need a goon squad to keep order.”
“All right, all right,” he snapped, “that play is over and forgotten. And you’re not a cop anymore, remember?”
“Of course, Eddie,” I said. “No hard feelings. I was just making convers
ation.”
The heat went out of his eyes and the smile returned. He watched me toy with my glass, jiggling ice.
“You want me to salt that drink up a bit?” he said.
I smiled. “No thanks. If I need a refill I know where to find the bottle.”
He swung away from me and put his feet up on a corner of the desk. His black shoes glistened in the light. His black hair had the same shine. He wore a gray flannel suit and a dark blue tie. Conservative. Like any prosperous Madison Avenue executive.
“You. didn’t come to discuss old times,” he said to the wall. “Did you, Striker?”
“Hell no,” I said. “There’s no profit in old times. I came to tell you just once to leave the Rumshaw girl alone.”
His head snapped around, his feet came down from the desk. “What? Say that again, Striker.”
“You know, Kim Rumshaw. She wants you to get lost, Tarino. For keeps. And Mrs. Rumshaw hired me to see that the little lady has her way. I told the aunt you and I would have a nice friendly talk and her troubles would be over.”
“Is that what you told her?”
“That’s what I told her.”
“And she believed you?”
“My clients always believe me. Sooner or later.”
Tarino smiled. “You make it sound simple. Like an order from the mayor. Well, I’ll tell you, Striker, you got guts. Because it isn’t simple at all. It’s just about as complicated as the law. And according to law, Kim Rumshaw is of age and she can go with anyone, anyone she wants to go out with.” He leaned back and gave me a frozen smile. A muscle in his jaw twitched. I read in his eyes that this Kim was no minor thing with him. He was ready to shove all his chips on the line. And he had a lot of chips.
“You’re right, Tarino,” I said. “According to law she can go out with anyone. If she wants to. And that’s a big if. But she can’t be forced.”
“No one’s forcing her.”
“Or intimidated. By threats to her aunt or her boy friend.”