Burke grinned at Ray and stepped back, a sardonic, triumphant expression, full of anticipation, as if he were satisfied that Ray would be taken care of to his liking.
Harry moved slower. “Louis,” he began, “dis bird sapped me down. He’s da guy troo acid all over da suits an’ set fire t’ da joint.”
“We know, Harry,” Louis said. “You’ve put the finger on him. Go back and get on the job, now. Business has to go on.”
The porter turned slowly. “O.K. So long, Louis.” He went out. Ray wondered if they stole fruit off wagons or held up street-cars together at the ends of the lines in the Bronx.
He didn’t have long to wonder. Abbott’s snarling curses filled the room, hard, efficient, sense-rocking descriptive adjectives that were more jarring than oaths. Louis Russ interrupted him. “Shut up, Stiles. You’re not on a fishing boat. We’re in business, and we’ve run into a bad deal.”
Herman Botsch’s deep, marbles-in-a-pail chuckle picked up the echo when Abbott stopped mouthing. “Sure got mouse-trapped, didn’t we, Louis?”
He sounded matter-of-fact, but only a fool would think there was humor in his laugh or words. He looked at Ray with the malevolent, cold-blooded tolerance of a farmer about to crush a cut-worm under his boot.
Ray’s hangover had been momentarily shocked away by events. Now it returned, the dull, deep, nauseating ache grinding at the rear of his skull. He drifted toward the door, talking to all of them as he walked. “You’re upset, gentlemen. I’ll drop in tomorrow when we can take a better look at things.”
Russ murmured, “Yeah.” A sibilant threat.
Charlotte was talking to a big man in a brown suit when Ray reached her desk. “Mister Russ says to do what he told you.”
The big man was one of the characters Ray’s eyes had passed over when he arrived. He had a coarse, somewhat moronic, dark face, and Ray’s nerves tingled as the low-lidded brown eyes flicked at him, were turned away too obviously, and the man rejoined his companion on the settee. The other man was smaller, young, with an intelligent, hard, polished-looking Nordic face. Ray’s mind raced—could it be—? Would Russ dare?
He bent over Charlotte. “Honey, put me through to my office. Fast. On this phone.”
“All right,” she almost whispered as she dialed. “Don’t get me mixed up in this.”
So the news had spread! He murmured, “What’s the matter, afraid?”
“Maybe. I don’t want to make Herman mad.”
He could have taken a slap in the face more easily. He wanted to shout at her, curse and tell her off, but she was handing him the telephone, impatiently, anxious to be rid of him.
Silvia said, “Hello. Hitchcock Company.”
“Listen,” Ray said rapidly. “Go to the bank. Draw out all the money I’ve got. Meet me at Wilner’s.”
“What?” There was a pause. “Ray—are you in trouble?”
“No,” he grated. “Do you understand what I just told you?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Then do it, and no buts. Put Fancy on.”
Fancy must have responded quickly to Silvia’s urgent request. He began, “Ray. Where are yuh, boy? What’s up?”
“Don’t talk,” Ray ordered, “listen. Go with Silvia and meet me.”
“Yeah—yeah. But why?”
“You understand English, don’t you?” Oh God, why did he surround himself with incompetents? “You go to the bank and see that she—”
“Hey!” The shout came from behind him, feet pounded down the corridor. Ray dropped the telephone and whirled. Jim Burke was flying at him, followed by Sullivan. Behind them, Miss Tully appeared in the doorway, drinking in the scene like Madame DeFarge on a big day before the guillotine.
Ray stepped away from the desk and set himself. Jim Burke pulled up short, Sullivan at his shoulder. “Get out.” Ray watched them cautiously. “O.K. I was just leaving.”
“Then leave,” Sullivan growled.
They watched him like a pair of war prisoners confronting a harsh guard on liberation day. He circled them slightly, giving himself room to act, and walked to the elevators. The car was a long time coming. When the red light came on, he stepped close to the door, darted into the car as soon as it opened.
“Hold it!” Jim Burke called.
“Get going,” Ray snapped at the startled operator. It was too late. Burke and Sullivan did not appear, but the big, primitive-faced man in the brown suit and his alert, wiry, blonde partner crowded into the car. They very pointedly did not look at Ray. The car went down quickly, the slight motion whirling the butterflies in Ray’s stomach. He felt quite sick. Down! Maybe for the third and last time.
More people entered the car on its way to the street floor, and Ray pressed against the rear wall, keeping others between himself and the two men. Was he imagining things?
Maybe they were just going out. He thought of the big man’s eyes, Burke’s call, and told himself to stop wishing.
At the ground floor the two men got out and walked slowly toward the street. Ray passed them, went out and turned left, entered the bar which occupied one of the stores in the same building. He ordered a scotch and ginger ale and felt a moment’s relief. Then the smaller man came in, went to the rear end of the bar, and stood there. Ray drank the scotch straight and ordered another.
So this was it! Louis had a couple of the boys, probably hired hoods on call through some of his associates in the old days, on his trail. What would they do? Follow him? Keep an eye on him? He saw the dim picture in the mirror before him. Ray Hitchcock! Smart operator. The clean-cut reflection looked pretty worried. He drank the second scotch, watched the attentive bartender pour another.
All right, they were asking for it! They weren’t monkeying with Ray Hitchcock—they were up against Ray Heine, who could play pretty rough himself. He wished he had the .38 Police Positive that now reposed in the locked drawer of his Police Positive.
Later! How long did he have? What would he do in Russ’s place? The answer was clear. Pick him up, or blast him, but away from the building. Pick him up, if possible, and make sure he was never found. Yes, it would have to be neat. Too many people knew of their differences, but the fuss is not too great when a man without too many influential friends just drops from sight.
He paid for his drinks and went out, back to the entrance of the Russcorp building. It represented temporary protection. They couldn’t afford trouble here. He hailed a cab, entered it quickly, and said, “Drive south.”
Ray leaned forward. “Say, mate—”
“Yeah.” The bored driver answered without turning.
“I’m a textile salesman. Got two of my competitors following me, trying to see where I’ve got an appointment. How can we shake em?”
“Might lose ‘em in traffic, but I doubt it.”
“How about a one-way dodge? Maybe into Grand Central where they can’t go?”
“C’n try it. Or look, Mac, if we get ahead of ‘em in traffic up around midtown, why don’t you pay me and run for it?”
“O.K. You say the word. There’s a fin in it for you.”
The hack driver turned west on a cross street, north again on an avenue. The Buick stayed right on their tail. At 28th Street the driver turned, gunning the cab joyfully between parked trucks, cutting off a line of three cars that were rolling on the left.
“They’re four cars behind us, now,” the driver said happily from the side of his mouth. “Why doncha pay me and get set?”
Ray passed a five-dollar bill through the opening. They beat the light at Eighth Avenue, and the cab whipped in a tight turn, stopped for the fight on 29th Street. “If we get a green quick, the hackie said, “I’ll go as far as I can before they get out of that one-way and on our tail. You beat it east. Duck into the Statler Hotel or an arcade. You know your way around down below?”
He had gunned the cab as he spoke, twisted it toward the curb at 32nd Street and double-parked. “O.K., Mac. Take off.”
Ray hit
the concrete and trotted for a side entrance of the Statler. He ran down the stairs to the subway and through the underground passage toward Pennsylvania Station. When he made the angle where the tiled corridor turned into the Long Island Railroad waiting room he hugged the wall, stopped and looked back. There were a lot of people in the passage, but his pursuers were not in sight. He hurried up the stairs to the station cab rank, found a taxi, and gave the address of Wilner’s Bar.
Silvia and Fancy were not in sight when he arrived at Wilner’s. Ray sat in a booth where he could watch the door, but not be easily seen from the street, and ordered scotch and water. He could feel the three he had had in the bar near Russcorp, and decided to take it easy. He had four before Silvia and Fancy hurried in, their expressions a mixture of worry and fear.
“Hi, kids,” Ray greeted them breezily. He felt much better. “Sit down and have one.”
“What happened?” Fancy asked. “A call came through to Maynard from Louis Russ. He went tearing out talking to himself.”
Ray ignored him, looked at Silvia. She was really worried about him! The concern in her dark eyes was genuine, almost tender, like a mother looking at a child who has fallen and hurt himself badly. “How much money did you bring?” he asked her.
“Just over three-thousand dollars,” she answered, and gave him a brown envelope.
Ray separated ten twenties from the thick bundle in the envelope and handed them to Fancy. “Here you are, Fancy. Hit the road. Meet me in Seattle.”
Fancy’s mouth opened. “W—what!”
“Yeah, I mean it. Louis Russ found out about how we got our start in business.”
“You mean—he knows about—New Jersey, and—”
“Yeah.” Ray cut him off irritably. “Our name is mud. He had a couple of hoods on my tail.”
Fancy toyed with the money. “I’ll stick with you. Maybe we can bluff it through.”
“Stick with me and we both will wind up at the bottom of the bay inside a tank with holes punched in it, so no big pieces of us will ever come up.”
Silvia gasped. Fancy turned pale. “O.K.—O.K. How will I reach you in Seattle?”
Ray blinked. He had forgotten he had suggested Seattle. He didn’t want anything more to do with Fancy, maybe the guy was to blame for his bad luck. He did not stop to reason that with Fancy out of the way, he would always have someone else to blame for the disaster. “Write me general delivery. But wherever you go, don’t mention me. Russcorp has long ears.”
Fancy sipped his drink when the waiter brought them, his face a mass of tangled emotions. Ray said smoothly: “If I were you, Fancy, I’d get out of here and grab a train west. Don’t even go back to the apartment. And I wouldn’t use the Penn Station. Go downtown to the ferries and catch a B. & O. or a D. L. & W. or the Erie or something.”
The younger man got up. “O.K. Thanks, Ray.” He shook hands awkwardly and left.
Silvia asked, “Is it really this bad?”
Ray grinned wryly and signaled the waiter. He had drained his glass. “All smashed to pieces.”
She shuddered. “And you didn’t have to do it.”
“Huh?”
“Remember what I told you? You have the talent and ability to make a success without cheating.”
He could remember nothing of the kind. He said: “That was nice of you. I guess you just don’t realize how hard it is to get started. It’s like cutting ice—you’ve got to use dynamite or a chisel to make the first break-through.”
“No,” she insisted, “you’re wrong. Somewhere you’ve picked up a wrong view of things. All businessmen aren’t crooks. All people aren’t hard and selfish.”
For some reason he thought of Big Heine and the eighteen dollars. Sure, he had said he’d give Ray the bicycle money back, but had he? Maybe he had meant to, but was it the same? On the other hand, what the hell was eighteen dollars to him now?
“O.K., honey,” Ray said, “Everyone is lovely.”
He looked at her dark hair, the fascinating, warm and sharp outlines of her features. He was feeling the scotch a lot, now, and it stimulated him. He wanted her.
She returned his glance. “Some day you’ll understand,” she said softly.
“I hope so, but right now we’ve got to decide something important.”
“Decide? What?”
“Are you coming with me?”
For an instant it seemed that she would smile, and he wondered why. She said simply: “I can’t. One just doesn’t do things like that. Even if—” She was going to add even if one wants to.
“Why not? You’re not a child. We’ll do all right. I’ve got a guy in San Antonio wants me to go in with him. Ten thousand a year as an account exec.” The scotch helped him. He did not know anyone in Texas.
“No,” she answered firmly. “And you told poor Fancy to contact you in Seattle.”
“He’ll be all right. Maybe I will pick up the letters at Seattle.”
He drank another scotch, waved at the waiter with irritation. Just who the hell did she think she was, anyway? Some of these young ones just knew too much. Then he looked at her again and felt the tug of his longing for her. It had never been quite like this before. He lit a cigarette with hands that trembled slightly.
Silvia sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
He started to tell her what to do—but the words wouldn’t come out. He changed them. “Sell out the office. Get what you can for everything. Mel Raport will help you if you need him. Keep what’s left for a bonus on top of your salary.”
“Let me know where you are. I’ll send it to you.”
“No—no.” Wouldn’t they ever learn? “You’ll have to forget about contacting me. Russcorp will be interested in me, and anyone connected with me, for a long time. If you’re smart, play dumb. Don’t mention me.”
She just stared at him, and he felt humiliated. What the hell did she want, a cash bonus? He should have just kicked her out when she turned him down. No—he couldn’t have done it.
A girl walked through the dark cave of Wilner’s, a nice looking girl if you didn’t look too closely at her eyes, well dressed, slightly drunk. Ray stood up suddenly. “Hello, Agnes!”
She paused and looked at him. He turned on the sincere smile, pleasant even against his flushed face. “Hello,” she said uncertainly.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he enthused. “Did you get my note?”
She hesitated, then said, “Yes.” She was watching Silvia.
Ray followed her glance. Here was a chance to leave them laughing! Make them realize Ray Heine never quit when he was behind. He said: “Silvia, this is Agnes. We have something to talk about. Would you mind—?”
Silvia stood up. “I have to get back to the office.” She stopped, looking at him, knowing the subterfuge was not necessary. “Good-by, Ray.”
“Good-by, Silvia. Sit down, Agnes.”
Agnes sat down. When Silvia had gone she said, “That girl seemed to be saying good-by forever.”
“She was. What are you drinking?”
“Bourbon.”
Ray signaled the waiter. The alcohol was strong and vibrant behind his senses, he felt fine. To hell with them all. He said: “You’re slightly drunk, too. How come?”
She shrugged, turning the tired eyes upon him Like a hound that has run a good hunt but been whipped anyway. “Just fed up. In a rut. I got your note. Why all the words?”
He sighed, thinking of the past. “It’s too late now, Agnes. I needed you for an alibi. If I’d found you sooner, maybe a million bucks or so wouldn’t have gone out the window.”
“What!” She was startled.
“Yeah, a million more or less in the business I’d have done in the next few years. Shot to hell now. Drink up.”
They drank, and she said awkwardly, “I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. Not your fault. I’ll get more.” He was powerful, omnipotent again. They couldn’t stop little Ray Heine for long. He looked at the girl. Pretty�
�or would be with a rest and a tan. Why not? He didn’t think of it clearly, but loneliness, now, for him, would be more unbearable than a quick end. “Are you fed up enough to blow this town? Right now. We’ll go down and lie on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico for awhile and let this damn world straighten out.”
“But—I don’t know.”
The waiter came again. Ray had ordered doubles. He lifted his glass. “Drink up and decide.”
He got up and strutted to the juke box, selected six tunes. When he looked up from the scrambled rainbow of a machine, he saw the smaller man who had been following him. He was at the bar, watching Ray.
Chapter 16
The world shook a little, then steadied as Ray gathered himself to face this new threat. Charlotte? She must have mentioned that he was meeting someone at a Wilner’s. Great girl. He turned and walked back to the booth, his shoulder blades itching as he thought of the slugs that might slam into him. No—they’d want it to be neat. Neat and final.
Agnes smiled at him, rather softly. “All right,” she said. “I’m game.”
It surprised him. “Game—for what?”
She straightened angrily. “Were you kidding me?”
His mind began working better. “No,” he said, laughing. “Good girl. We’ll have fun. I’ve got to take care of something first, though. Wait for me.”
He got up and walked swiftly toward the kitchen at the back, palming a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. The thick envelope Silvia had given him bulged in his breast pocket. Rico, the Puerto Rican kitchen man and short order cook grinned at him.
“Hi, Ric,” Ray greeted him. “Take this ten-spot out and get me six Bering cigars.”
“Sure,” Ric answered.
“Get ‘em quick.”
He darted past Ray, taking the money. Ray had sent him on errands in the past, tipped him well.
Watching him depart, Ray saw the small man coming swiftly toward the back, moving gracefully, like a fighter or a dancer. Ray whirled and entered the kitchen, studied his ground. The range was on one side, and past it the door out to the alley. An unused steam table flanked the door entering the kitchen from the bar and lounge. Ray picked up a heavy frypan from the pile of greasy ones on the range, ran back and kicked open the alley door, letting it bang and shiver on its spring, and then returned with a rush and climbed up on the steam table.
The Heel Page 17