Edge of the Law

by Deming, Richard

  He doubted that she routinely changed clothes during her tour of duty. The change must have been in anticipation of their date.

  Smiling at her, he said, “Almost ready?”

  She had the grace not to pretend she hadn’t been expecting him. Glancing at a wall clock, she nodded.

  “Soon as George turns up,” she said. “He’s the janitor, and doubles as night clerk. He sleeps in there.” She pointed to an open door leading to a small room behind the desk.

  A moment later a gangling colored man in a tight blue serge suit shuffled through the front door. In a tired voice he said, “Evening, Miss Bridget,” went behind the desk and produced a small push bell from under the counter. He set it on the desk and disappeared through the open door.

  Bridget came out from behind the desk and looked at Sands expectantly.

  He said, “I’ll leave the choice of a spot to you. You know the town and I don’t.”

  “What sort of place did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Soft music, soft lights and hard drinks. Preferably no floor show.”

  She smiled. “We won’t even need a taxi for that. It’s on the next corner.”

  The place she took him to was called the Coal Hole. It was a small cellar lounge with checkered table cloths and candles set in empty wine bottles. A three-piece stringed group played subdued waltz music. The clientele was well dressed and quiet, the waiters soft footed and soft-voiced. They chose a dimly lighted corner table.

  Noticing mint juleps listed on the menu, Sands suggested them.

  “I’d like that,” Bridget said. “I’ve never had one.”

  The drinks were excellent. Long a connoisseur of mint juleps, Sands could tell at a sip whether the leaves had been mutilated with a mortar and pestle, or had been allowed to diffuse their natural flavor by soaking in bourbon with only an occasional stirring. These had been made properly and came in tall frosted glasses.

  They were also powerful, he noted. The insidious thing about mint juleps properly made is that they taste so mild. But the only ingredients are mint leaves, powdered sugar, ice and hundred-proof bourbon. Sands estimated that these contained two and a half ounces of whisky each.

  “I like it,” Bridget decided after her first sip. “I prefer drinks that aren’t too strong.”

  Over their first drink they began to get acquainted. Judd Sands was adept at drawing people out about themselves without divulging much of his own background. Before their glasses were half empty he had learned that Bridget owned the Centner, having inherited it from her father, and had been running it by herself since her parents’ deaths in an auto accident two years before. She lived right at the hotel, in a small apartment on the first floor, and apparently spent most of her life in the building. A trifle ruefully she admitted that this was the first time she had stepped outside in four days.

  He had the self-deflating thought that the boredom of her rigidly circumscribed life, rather than his charm, had induced her to accept his invitation out on such short acquaintance.

  “The only help I have is cleaning personnel,” she told him. “The full managerial duties fall on me. Of course it’s primarily a resident hotel, and I don’t have the problems of a kitchen and barroom, but still it takes a lot of time. I put in a twelve-to fourteen-hour day usually.”

  “Why don’t you sell it?” he asked.

  She moved her shoulders in a graceful shrug. “It’s un-mortgaged and brings in a good income. More than I could earn in some office job.”

  She had removed her jacket, baring smooth, perfectly rounded shoulders. Her shrug drew Sands’ gaze to them, and it lingered in aesthetic appreciation.

  Aware of his examination, she flushed. “You must be a student of anatomy,” she said. “You spend a lot of time in study.”

  “Just a student of beauty,” he said equably.

  “What is your field?” she asked. “I’ve been so busy pouring out my life story, you’ve hardly gotten in a word.”

  After a barely perceptible hesitation, he said, “I sell real estate.”

  “Oh? Then you’re not in town on business? I mean, that’s hardly the sort of thing you’d travel to sell.”

  “Well, yes, I am on business. I’ve had a job offer here.”

  She looked pleased. “You may settle in Ridgeford then? With what company?”

  “The Amatti Realty Company.”

  Bridget’s eyes widened in shocked disapproval. “That place! Don’t you know what it is?”

  “Just a real estate outfit, isn’t it?” he asked innocently.

  “It’s the front for the Renzo Amatti machine.” She looked distressed. “You must know who Renzo Amatti is.”

  “Only that he’s president of the company,” he lied.

  “He’s Ridgeford’s top racketeer,” Bridget informed him. “He runs the politics in this county almost single-handed. Most public officials, including the district attorney and the police, are just tools of his. He manipulates them like puppets.”

  Sands gave her a quizzical look. “Sounds like a good man to work for, if he’s that influential.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “He uses his influence to hurt Ridgeford instead of help it. His company is a front for such things as bookie shops, the numbers lottery, prostitution and extortion. Ridgeford is so corrupt, it makes the decent citizens sick, and Renzo Amatti is the reason it’s corrupt. You haven’t accepted the job yet, have you?”

  “I’m to see Amatti at nine in the morning.”

  “You’d better just phone and say you’ve changed your mind,” she counseled. “There are other realtors in town you could work for.”

  He said reasonably, “I’ll be selling real estate, not making book or running a cat house. The company itself must be legitimate.”

  She made an impatient gesture. “His salesman are all hoodlums. I suppose you could buy a house through Amatti if you insisted, but they don’t break their backs looking for business. Everybody knows it’s just a front.”

  “I’ll see how things stack up tomorrow,” he said noncommittally. “If I don’t like the setup, I can always walk out.”

  They were on their third mint julep before Bridget discovered they weren’t quite as mild as they tasted.

  Examining her glass suspiciously, she asked, “How much whisky do they put in these things?”

  Sands grinned at her. “I’d guess a couple of shots.”

  “How much is a shot?”

  “Ounce and a quarter.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Two and a half ounces?” She did some mental arithmetic. “You let me drink over seven ounces of whisky? I never drank that much in my life.” She pushed the third drink, three-quarters gone, away from her. “What time is it?”

  Sands glanced at his watch. “Eleven thirty. We’ve only been here a little over an hour.”

  “You’d better take me home,” she decided. “I feel a little tipsy.”

  The drinks hit her even harder when they reached the outside air. Grasping Sands’ arm for support, she looked at him reproachfully.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You should have told me you had a small capacity. Feel all right?”

  Suddenly she giggled. “Feel wonderful. I’m drunk, aren’t I?”

  “Just a little gay, I think. The walk home should wear it off.”

  This turned out to be an optimistic guess. When they reached the hotel, Bridget released his arm and started across the lobby with exaggerated steadiness. The door behind the desk was still open and they could hear the Negro janitor-night-clerk snoring. As they passed the desk, Bridget put a finger to her lips and began tiptoeing. This was a mistake, because she had been finding balance difficult enough when she planted her feet firmly. Sands caught her as she tilted forward, righted her and kept a firm grip about her waist.

  “Oops!” she said, laughing up into his face.

  “Steady as she goes,” he told her, and piloted her the rest of the way across the lobby with his arm a
round her.

  Her apartment door was at the end of the rear hall. Fumbling in her bag, she triumphantly produced a key. Cautiously releasing his supporting grip, he unlocked the door while she stood swaying slightly and grinning at him. He led her inside by the elbow, pushed shut the door and took her bag from her hand. Dropping the key into it, he lay the bag on an end table and examined her with a mixture of concern and amusement.

  Bridget kicked off her shoes, lost her balance as the second one left her foot and stumbled against him.

  “Oops!” she said again.

  Steadying her by the shoulders, he said, “What you need is coffee.”

  “And kill this beautiful glow?” she protested. She lay her head against his chest.

  He dropped his hands to her waist and tried to straighten her up. Misinterpreting the movement, she slid her arms about his neck and invitingly raised her lips.

  Instead of kissing her, he merely smiled down into her face. “I’ve got old-fashioned principles,” he said. “I never take advantage of drunken women.”

  “You’re silly. If I was you, I’d take advantage. ‘Cause I know how I am.”

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Inhibited when I’m sober. You may never have another chance.”

  Tightening her arms about his neck, she pulled down his head and forced her lips against his. For a moment he held her against him, feeling her lips open wide and conscious of the pressure of her body against his. Then he raised his head to break the kiss.

  “Touch me,” she whispered into his face.

  His hands slid upward, beneath the slip-on jacket, to just-below her armpits, his fingers pressed into her bare back and his palms cupping the sides of her full breasts. She waited, unresisting, her eyes half closed, for his hands to make more intimate exploration.

  Momentarily his fingers dug into her flesh. Then, regretfully, he pushed her away.

  “We’ll have a return match when you’re sober,” he said huskily.

  Her arms loosened their grip about his neck and her hands trailed down his chest as he pushed her away. She blinked when her right hand brushed the bulge beneath his left arm.

  Then she backed another step and gave her head a clearing shake, as though trying to sober herself.

  “You’re carrying a gun,” she said in a wondering voice.

  Frowning, he said nothing.

  She shook her head again, stared at him in puzzlement, then gradually enlightenment grew in her eyes.

  “That’s why Renzo Amatti offered you a job,” she-said accusingly. “I should have known. He calls all of his hoodlums real estate salesmen. You’re one of his imported gunmen!”

  “I’m a professional gambler,” he said quietly. “Not a gunman. I never heard of Amatti until today. I ran into him by accident this afternoon and he offered me a job. I’m to see him about it in the morning.”

  She continued to stare at him. Finally she said, “Gambler or gunman, if you work for Amatti you’re a racketeer. And I don’t associate with racketeers.”

  “All right,” he said agreeably. “Nevertheless I enjoyed the evening. Good night.”

  Walking to the door, he pulled it open, then paused to look back at her. Despite her indignant words, her expression was more forlorn than outraged.

  She said, “I didn’t mean to sound so rude. I enjoyed the evening too.”

  He smiled at her. Then he went out and gently pulled the door closed after him.

  CHAPTER V

  AT NINE the next morning Sands arrived at the Page Building in downtown Ridgeford. It was a sleek modern gray stone building of eight stories, bounded by a department store on one side and a bank on the other.

  According to the building directory, the Amatti Realty Company occupied the entire fifth floor.

  The elevator let him out into a hall containing a reception desk. A middle-aged gray-haired woman sat behind the desk. When Sands told her he was Sanford Judd, she said pleasantly, “Mr. Amatti is expecting you, sir. This way, please.”

  Rising, she led him through a door into a large office of busy clerks, both male and female. They passed through the office into another hallway where a number of open doors gave onto small rooms which seemed to be private offices. Some of these were empty, in others men sat behind desks working or dictating to stenographers.

  The general impression was one of busy, legitimate industry. The force was entirely too large for a mere realty company, though. Amatti would have to be buying and selling several hundred properties a day to keep so many people busy, Sands thought.

  At the end of the hall the middle-aged woman discreetly tapped on a door labeled: “Office of the President.”

  At a boomed “Yeah?” she opened the door, announced, “Mr. Judd, sir,” and stepped aside for Sands to enter. She pulled the door shut again from the outside.

  Renzo Amatti, as immaculately dressed as the day before, sat behind a kidney-shaped desk of glistening mahogany. The gray-faced Joey leaned against a gleaming mahogany bar in a corner of the room. He stared at Sands without expression, offering no greeting. Beyond flicking a glance at him, Sands ignored the bodyguard too.

  “Morning, Sands,” Amatti said in a genial tone. He waved toward a chair.

  Sands examined the swarthy man thoughtfully. “Sands?” he inquired.

  “You didn’t think I’d buy a pig in a poke, did you?” Amatti said with a grin. “I phoned a contact in Miami last night. Your real name is Judson Sands. Sit down.”

  Sands sank into the indicated chair. “So now I suppose everybody in Miami knows I’m in Ridgeford.”

  “My contact won’t talk. Even if he did, Mark Fallon’s guns would run into a wall if they tried for you here. I told you I take care of my boys.”

  “You’ve decided to take me on even after your talk with Miami, huh?”

  Amatti spread his hands in a dismissing gesture. “My contact thinks Fallon asked for it. He’s surprised somebody didn’t gun him long ago. And like you told me, your other former employers give you only top marks.”

  “Oh?” Sands said. “You checked somewhere other than Miami?”

  “Chicago, St. Louis, Detroit. I figured that was enough.”

  “You went to a lot of trouble,” Sands said in a dry tone.

  Amatti grinned. “I’ve got too big an operation to risk on snap judgment. Maybe you were a plant from the State’s Attorney’s office. I didn’t think so, but I cover all bets.”

  “Satisfied I’m not a plant?” Sands asked a little shortly.

  “Sure,” Amatti said expansively. “Casey in Chicago says he’d take you back tomorrow. Devers in St. Louis says you’re the best all-around man he ever had. Cas Svobdza in Detroit gives you straight A’s too. Even with your drawbacks.”

  “Drawbacks?”

  “They all say you’re a bullhead. Loyal, obey orders, but only to a point. There’s some things you won’t do for money.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sands said. “I meant to discuss that before we came to a final agreement.”

  “I know all your reservations,” Amatti said with a wave of his hand. “You’ll strong arm, but you won’t kill unless the other guy’s shooting at you. You won’t run a crooked game. You get restless and want the privilege of moving on when you please. I’ve got no objections to all that. A couple of your so-called drawbacks are advantages in my book.”

  “Yeah? Which ones?”

  “Cas Svobdza says you won’t cross a friend. Or sell out an employer.”

  “He should know,” Sands said dryly. “His competition tried to buy me out when I worked for him.”

  “Yeah. Whispering Jack Donahue. Wonder whatever happened to him?”

  Sands shrugged. “The Detroit police think Svobdza’s mob fitted him with concrete overshoes. Cas always claimed he knew nothing about it.” He switched the subject by asking, “How do you plan to use me?”

  “I told you yesterday,” Amatti said. “As muscle.” He rose from behind his desk. “Come along and
I’ll introduce you around.”

  Joey beat his employer to the door. Even in Amatti’s own headquarters, it seemed the bodyguard always went first. Sands was glad he wasn’t important enough to rate a bodyguard. It would give him the creeps always to have someone like the gray-faced Joey checking ahead of him.

  Joey preceded them down the hall to the first open doorway, paused and gave Amatti an inquiring look. Amatti gestured Sands through the doorway and followed him in. Joey leaned against the door frame and waited.

  A broad-shouldered, beetle-browed man sat behind the desk. He had the neat, well-scrubbed look of a junior executive, yet there was an air of subdued roughness about him. His spatulate fingers, beautifully manicured, looked as though they would be more at home manipulating a machine gun than the adding machine he was working when they came in. He was a type Sands had become familiar with in a dozen cities: the new-era racketeer who looked and talked and acted like a legitimate businessman most of the time, but who could shed his polished veneer and calmly commit murder if the machine he worked for ordered him to.

  The man deserted his adding machine and looked up inquiringly as they entered. Amatti introduced him as Stub Felton.

  As Felton and Sands exchanged handshakes, Amatti said, “Stub handles linens and kitchen supplies, Jud. Everything from coffee urns to dishes.”

  Sands looked at him without understanding.

  “I told you I run this town,” Amatti said with a grin. “The bars and restaurants in Ridgeford buy their supplies where we tell ‘em. You got any idea what a big operation it is just to furnish the bars in this town with aprons, bar cloths, roller towels and that kind of stuff?”

  Sands shook his head.

  “Well, in Ridgeford the Ready-Clean Linen Supply Company handles most of it. And they pay us a commission on every account for steering business their way. The United Restaurant and Hotel Supply Company kicks back to us too. They sell dishes, pots and pans and stuff like that. Then there’s a half dozen other companies we do business with which sell everything from paper napkins to floor mops. Stub coördinates all that.”