Ray gave his tie one last, careful fingering, and picked up the briefcase of rich, dull rubbed pigskin that stood ready beside the desk.
“Here I go,” he said. “Stick by the telephone in case I have to call you. You got your script handy?”
“Right here,” Fancy touched his breast pocket.
“So long.” Ray went through the outer office, nodded pleasantly to Silvia, and walked purposefully to the shabby elevator. He moved alertly, a man on his toes—a comer—an intelligent, successful gentleman who knew the real inside. He was playing the part already.
* * *
He took the subway, since no one could see him arrive. The building was on Lexington Avenue, big, efficient, and expensive. Going up in the elevator he calmly surveyed the well dressed men and women, separating them from the office help who had been downstairs for coffee. If he had his way—the better class would have separate elevators.
He stepped from the car into the magnificent foyer, chuckling at his last thought. He was developing the right attitude!
The girl at the desk was blonde, with a face that needed only a bit more make-up, a touch or two on the hair, to be beautiful. He supposed they hired them just as lovely as they dared; models welcome, chorus girls need not apply.
He handed her one of the cards, engraved so richly that you could almost flick the ink off with a fingernail “I’d like to see Mister Russ, please.”
She glanced at the card. “I’ll see if he’s in.”
Her voice went with the rest of her, deep and correct. The residue from a speaking course or a bit of drama school gave it an unnecessary precise quality, like a woman on the radio reading a much practiced speech. “A Mister Raymond Hitchcock to see Mister Russ.”
There was a long pause, perhaps the name Hitchcock slowed them up a bit. He was glad he had selected it, felt let down when the girl lifted her head and purred: “Mister Russ is not in. Would you like to see Mister Burke, his assistant?”
“Yes, please,” Ray replied. He felt like grinding the words between his teeth and spitting them out. Easy, he cautioned himself, easy boy—this is it.
The girl told the telephone that he would see Mister Burke, listened to a reply, said to Ray: “Please be seated. Mister Burke will see you in a few minutes.”
Ray sat in one of the expensive chairs, staring at the water colors angled across the opposite wall in neat gray oak frames. This was hard to take, he always felt tension mount when he had to wait, and marking time on the threshold of the big deal! A neatly dressed, chubby man came out of the elevator and said to the girl: “Morning Miss Sanderson. I have an appointment with Mister Russ.”
The blonde gave him the nice stage smile, apparently unaware that Ray was now certain of her formal he, and asked the chubby man to wait.
The chubby man sat down near Ray and smiled with the unforced extroversion of the good salesman. “Nice day.”
Ray answered pleasantly, “Yes, it’s going to be a dandy.”
The polished maple door at the end of the corridor opened and a tall, black-haired young man strode somewhat majestically along the deep-piled carpeting. Ray cataloged him rapidly—about 35, some college, pugnacious jaw and good looking mouth and eyes which went with ruddy skin and the black hair in a combination which Ray always called Black Irish, and a forceful manner. He wouldn’t be too bright, but smart enough to make Louis think he was a perfect assistant, and he’d hang onto his job with grim tenacity because of occasional doubts as to his real ability in a big money spot.
Black Irish held out his hand and smiled. “Mister Hitchcock? I’m Burke, Mister Russ’s assistant. What can we do for you?”
Ray shook hands and turned on his deferential smile, the one most disarming and really most dangerous. “I’ve got to see Mister Russ on an important matter. I have a letter here from . . .”
He eased the letter smoothly out of his pocket and let Burke read the few lines, with the Big Man’s name at the bottom. Ray watched him read it, thinking, it ought to be inscribed in gold! How I worked on the Big Man for that one! Drinking—talking—golfing—whoring—wrestling, and letting the flabby bastard throw me—until the snow job crusted over and Big Tom Keenan wrote the letter.
Burke read the letter carefully, impressed but not sold, or determined to make himself as important as possible. He said: “A letter from Mister Keenan is the best introduction you could have. How is Tom?”
“Fine,” Ray answered. So the guy wanted to drop a few names! “I played golf with him last month, we beat Milo and Congressman Tiles for four hundred. Big Tom was tickled pink.” He chuckled as if at a pleasant recollection and refolded the letter and slipped it inside his coat. He had played with the foursome—sliding in like a knife-blade into a slot when Alfonse Carni failed to show up, pulling several fast ones to win because he had to have the money, although for his plans he would have preferred to let them win and feel expansive, and getting the boys loaded on the Nineteenth to be sure they remembered him as one of the regular lads.
Burke smiled. “Nice going. Big Tom certainly likes to win.” He became businesslike, attentive. “Now, Mister Hitchcock, if you’d like to tell me what your business is with Mister Russ, I’ll see what can be done. Mister Russ is very busy this morning, so if we can simplify matters . . .”
He paused expectantly. Ray replied: “He’ll see me. He’s probably jammed up with the same matter I’m here to see him about—the unpleasant events of last night.”
“Hm-m-m.” Burke was all ears. “And what about the events of last night?”
“I’ll talk to Louis about that.”
Burke frowned. “Mister Russ will be busy all morning.”
Ray let his smile fade, said thinly: “I want to see Louis. What kind of a set-up is this? I come in with a letter from Big Tom and some important news and you try to give me the brush-off. Take me in to Louis.”
“I’m sorry, that’s impossible. If you’ll just tell me . . .”
“I’ll tell him,” Ray interrupted. “I know he’s in.” Burke’s manner hardened in response to Ray’s gruffness.
“Mr. Russ is out this morning, as Miss Sanderson told you. If you want to sit here until this afternoon, why I’m sure that . . .”
Burke was big and hard, but unprepared for Ray’s next move. Ray said, “So I’m a liar, am I?” He thrust his palm up under Burke’s chin and heeled his head back sharply. Oh—not too sharply—you could break these big guys’ necks just as quickly as smaller ones. Burke’s feet caught on the carpet and he did half of a back-dive, striking his skull on the wall and landing on his shoulders in an arch that quickly collapsed. He swore and started to get up. Ray bent over and slammed the stiff edge of his palm against the black-haired man’s throat. Just a stiff chop, once—twice. He didn’t want to damage the lad’s esophagus. Burke curled up and started to retch, gasping for breath and clawing at his throat. The chubby man was on his feet. ‘Stop—you!” Ray picked up his briefcase. “Shut up, you, and sit down.” The stocky man sat. “—and stay there, fatty, or you’ll be on the floor with him.”
He paused at the desk and said to the blonde who had gone pale, holding one hand at her throat as if she could feel Burke’s pain. “Check with Mister Russ before you call the cops,” he said calmly, almost soothingly. “If you don’t—you’ll get fired.”
He marched up the corridor, feeling the texture of the plum carpet, soft and sand-like even through the cordovans. He went through the door from which Burke had come, closing it gently and firmly behind him.
Chapter 3
The door led into a large, modern business office, with desks, filing equipment, and business machines on either side of a broad aisle. Ray sauntered through the ranks of busy people, apparently a rather lazy young man on his way to keep an appointment, but although his body moved easily, his brain spun like a Diesel engine just after the drive shaft has snapped.
Where was the office of Louis G. Russ? Or Louis G. Russotto, if you wanted to go back far e
nough. He had imagined a corridor of some sort, with the man’s name handily lettered on a door. Evidently Russcorp, Inc.—he wondered where Louis ever dug up that one—had expanded so fast that they had to alter this section for business offices.
A gray haired, motherly woman seated at the aisle end of a bank of business machines where girls moved cards and pushed buttons and turned switches, smiled at him. He guessed that she was some sort of minor office manager and grinned back. The boyish, friendly grin. “Where is Mister Russ office,” he asked. “I’ve forgotten.”
She gestured toward the end of the big room, where a corridor branched off to the left, and partitions and glass half-walls began to create separate compartments.
“The last one,” she responded. “See Miss Tully.”
He smiled his gratitude and walked quickly down the aisle and into the last compartment. A trim, determined looking woman of the question-mark age between thirty-five and fifty was listening to a telephone. He saw the angry eyes fix on him and narrow, almost rugged mouth and jaw that looked selfish, now that she was not composing her features to please somebody, harden when she saw him and said something into the telephone and stood up.
Ray said: “Don’t get in my way, lady, or I’ll knock you on your fanny just as fast as I did your pal.”
She sank back into the chair behind the expensive desk as he went by her and through the door that she supposedly guarded. I’d better make this good, he thought, she’ll be hell on wheels as soon as the shock wears off.
He went through the door and saw Louis Russ—recognizable because he had carefully checked the banquet picture in Big Tom Keenan’s apartment—sitting behind a desk that appeared to be a quarter-of-a-mile away. The approach lay through a tunnel-like foyer, painted light rose with a dado of bright, semi-gloss green, and across a cream toned carpet on which period furniture was placed like the items in a window exhibit.
As Ray walked forward, smiling broadly, Louis picked up his desk telephone, listened for a moment, and with one sweep of his hand produced a big Colt Government Model .45 automatic pistol. He pointed the black snout carefully at Ray’s stomach and said, “Stop right there, buster.”
Ray stopped, moving only his lips as he said: “All right, Louis, drop the gun. Big Tom sent me, and I’m not armed.”
Louis G. Russ—nee Russotto—was a blocky, wide-built man who looked bull-like, even seated. His black hair had retreated, raising a forehead that had once been low and narrow, and good living had dropped his jowls and presented him with a definite double-chin. He had the objective, cynical look of a man who has come a long way through the crowd and doesn’t think much of it.
The two men with him, seated one on each side of the imported Italian—or imitation—desk, were standard types. Solid businessmen or successful big-time bookies, depending on how much you knew about them. They sat quietly, surprised, but willing to let Louis handle things.
Louis said, “Harry, frisk this young gentleman and see if he’s telling the truth.”
One of the men got up and checked Ray thoroughly, opening the briefcase and separating the papers in their folders. “Long time since I did that,” he commented with heavy humor as he sat down again. “He’s clean.”
The .45 disappeared. “O.K., buster,” Louis said. “What the hell did Big Tom send you in to see me for? Make it good, because I talked to him an hour ago and he didn’t mention you. Do I throw you out of here or call the police because you assaulted Jim Burke?”
Ray knew that the last remark was more or less rhetorical. Louis wouldn’t call the police unless he had to, although he wouldn’t mind having a couple of his boys throw Ray down the stairs if his anger was aroused, even that might cause embarrassment for a man who was now big-time and more than respectable.
He whipped the letter out of his pocket, advanced and placed it in front of Louis. “Here’s a note from Big Tom. I think the time has come for me to use it. You need me, and I can use some business.”
Russ picked up a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, suddenly asked Ray, “Did you take off those fancy cheaters when you dumped Burke?”
Ray grinned bashfully. “No. He was kind of blunt about not letting me in—called me a liar—so—”
Louis said, “I see.” He picked up the letter and read it aloud. “Dear Louis: This will introduce Raymond T. Hitchcock, a public relations and advertising man. He is a good friend of mine and I thought you might have a little business for him on the east end. Tom Keenan.”
Russ tossed the letter back on the desk and Ray picked it up. The burly man said: “Very nice. Now why the hell didn’t you just send that letter in or wait until you could get an appointment? You’re a hell of a public relations man. I wouldn’t trust you to talk to my private relations. And I got an advertising guy now.”
Ray withdrew a little, affected a sheepish, slightly sorry air. “And do you have an advertising agency?”
“Yeah.”
“I see.” He looked at Louis squarely, trying to appear sincere and intelligent—he had been sorry for five seconds, that was enough. “I think I can help you with the very problem you gentlemen are discussing. When I heard about it, I came right up.”
“What problem?”
“The damage last night at Hencher Clothing and Acme Produce.”
“It wasn’t last night, it was this morning. How did you find out about it so fast?”
Ray concentrated on the efficient look. “That’s my business, to know what goes on where I might find clients. A call from a friendly cop, another from a grateful fireman, a third from a newspaper reporter . . . you know how it works.”
Louis appeared more interested, but still truculent. Whatever he was going to say was broken off as Jim Burke burst into the room, holding his neck with one hand and a small automatic in the other. “Boss! I mean, Mister Russ. This guy jumped me. I’ll take him out . . .”
Russ was holding up his hand. “Outside, Jim. Maybe I’ll call you in later to—ah, see Mister Hitchcock—but wait outside.”
Burke scowled at Ray, muttering something that Ray could easily guess. He went out, holding the small gun like a child playing cowboy.
Louis Russ said cheerfully: “He don’t like you. Now what about these calls you got? Why should they mean anything to me?”
“Public relations means two approaches,” Ray said earnestly. “Convincing the public on the favorable side of your business or product, and not letting the world know about things that are better kept quiet. Loud pedal for the good—soft pedal for the bad. Now, I happen to know that you’re in for some very bad publicity.”
“Like what?’
“I don’t know anything about the inside operations of your enterprises,” Ray said modestly, failing to consider the three thick stacks of notes he had accumulated concerning the operations of Russcorp’s meat and produce houses, real estate holdings, hotels and restaurants, textile mills and wholesale and retail concerns, and the odd lot that included a soft drink firm, a candy manufacturing plant, and a chain of cleaning establishments. “But I’m sure that you’re taking steps to find out the cause and stop such activities as occurred last—excuse me, this morning. However, I don’t believe you understand the damage that has been done.”
Louis Russ looked at the two men seated in the conference chairs, and they stared moodily back at him. The man on his right, a confidant senator type with a great shock of wiry white hair, puffed reflectively on his cigar. “Just what kind of damage?” Louis asked.
“There hasn’t been too much of what one might call,” he paused, looked at each man respectfully, “might call business violence for some years. Now the papers smell something cooking and they’re going to take a swing at this with a couple of good feature men.”
Louis shrugged. “So what. One day wonder and then forgotten.”
“Yes?” Ray lifted his eyebrows with the question. “May I use your telephone to get you the headlines that have been written for editions coming up?”
> All three of the men looked puzzled. Ray thought, Louis, you ill-mannered bastard, when do you introduce your callers? Louis did not sense the thought. He said: “Go ahead and call him. What can we lose?”
Ray picked up the telephone, gave the office number. He heard Miss Sanderson gulp with surprise at his voice, then heard the number dialed. He held the receiver so that Louis could listen with him. Silvia’s voice came out of the black disk. “Hitchcock Agency.”
Ray said: “This is Mister Hitchcock. Let me talk to Francois Peller, please.”
Fancy’s voice replaced Silvia’s. Ray was pleased at the strong, cultured tones. The lad was coming through in the clinch.
“Hello, Francois,” Ray said. “What’s the latest from the papers on the damage cases?”
“The News and the Times are going to play it up, Mister Hitchcock. The others are just running straight copy. The Mirror headline is a bit drastic. I haven’t received a call from our men on the afternoon papers yet.”
Before Ray could reply Louis asked, “What’s that Mirror headline?”
Ray repeated the question to Fancy, and the answer came: “They’re heading it racket days are here again. But the write-up isn’t too bad. Gilman read me part of it. The Times treatment is much wider.”
“What’s their lead?” Ray asked, watching Louis’ eyes widen as he heard the label racket days are here again.
“New violence precedes old protection game,” Fancy reported. “That’s their lead. They’re doing a bit of history on the old rough and ready days, and speculating as to whether we are entering a new era of gang wars.”
“Thank you, Francois,” Bay said. “I’ll call you shortly.” He hung up as Louis tried to stop him with a gesture.
“Wait,” Russ ordered, too late. “Can’t he reach those guys again? We don’t want that stuff . . .”
“I know,” Ray interrupted gently. “That’s why I’m here. We can reach our contacts, but you can’t kill a story. It’s news.”
“Dammit.” Louis took a cigar and stripped the wrapper from it with a savage gesture. “Those damn papers can raise hell with those stories. Whadda they want to jump on us for?”
The Heel Page 3