“Shut up!” Sally said.
“Okay, okay. Spoilsport.”
I arched my back, stretched my legs, and considered the ceiling. Start with the windmill; what does the windmill mean, what is it trying to tell you? It is a Dutch windmill and — wait, Dutch Krueger is Giani’s manager — No, start over. It is the trade-mark of a baker and I knew a promoter in Houston named Baker who — No.
Chimes sounded.
“That’s the door,” I told Sally. “Answer it, will you?” She glared at me.
“My hand hurts,” I said. “I’m afraid if I try to get up, I — ”
“I’ll get it,” Max said. “It’s probably that newspaper guy.” He came through from the patio as the chimes sounded again.
It was no newspaper guy. It was three men. One of them was Sam Wald, one of them was a dark, bald man over six feet high and looking almost that broad. The third man could have been related to Noodles; he had the same general build. Only he was tougher, or wanted you to think he was, at any rate. I’d have backed Noodles, with my money.
“What the hell is this?” Max asked. They’d come in without an invitation.
“We wanted to talk to you, Max,” Sam said. “Big-money talk, Max. We knew you’d be interested in that.” His insurance-salesman smile was working. “This is Paul D’Amico, Max. And Luke Pilgrim, Paul.”
Big man, out here, Paul D’Amico. Back East, pretty big, too. But out here, Mr. Big.
“Who’s the little guy?” I asked. I didn’t get up.
The little man’s fish eyes looked me over without emotion. Then he looked at D’Amico and shrugged.
“Haven’t I seen him in pictures? I see a lot of B pictures.”
The little man went over to stand near the door.
I looked over to find Sally staring at me with fright in her eyes. I winked at her, and shook my head.
Max said, “We got nothing to talk about, Sam. I told you that. You got a kick, go to the Commission. Pull any strings you want. But, for Christ’s sake, don’t try to muscle me. I got too many friends.”
The little guy leaned against the door, his hands behind him, his disinterested gaze going out straight at nothing. He fascinated me. He could have been John Doe, except for the eyes.
D’Amico said, “Don’t get riled, Max. You’re not that solvent. And you’re not getting half out of the title that a smart man would get. There could be millions in it.”
Sally said, “I’m going to my room, Luke. I’ll phone you later.”
She got up, looking sick, and took three steps to the door. The little man didn’t move anything but his head. His head was turned toward D’Amico, waiting for the word.
D’Amico wasn’t looking at him and it wasn’t intentional, I’m sure. But the redness grew in me, the unreasonable, wild redness. I got up, and swung my feet to the floor.
I said hoarsely, “Get that God-damned pimp away from the door or I’ll rip his spine out.”
Just a flicker in the fish eyes, but a startled turn of the head from D’Amico and he said, “Johnny — move!”
Johnny moved, and Sally went through.
D’Amico looked back at me. “It wasn’t intentional, Luke. What in the hell’s the matter with you guys?”
I was trembling. The throbbing was back in my hand and sweat ran down my forearms. The fish eyes regarded me gravely. Wald coughed.
Then Wald said, “What happened to your hand, Luke?”
I sat back on the davenport, my heart hammering. Cool, calm Luke Pilgrim, always under control. Oh, yes.
Max said, “What the hell have we got to talk about? You come in here without being asked, bringing your torpedo along and start throwing your weight around. The Champ’s had enough trouble the last couple days without this kind of crap. Where the hell do you think you are, Cicero?”
Wald said, “I apologize for coming in. I didn’t think our relationship was that formal, Max.”
“Since when are we related?” Max asked.
D’Amico laughed. Even I had to laugh. Wald smiled, and Johnny yawned.
D’Amico said, “Johnny’s no torpedo, Max. He’s just an old friend. If you want, I’ll have him wait in the lobby. Sam brought me here because I have the controlling interest in Patsy Giani, and can bring the kind of promotion to the fight that’ll make us all a barrel of money.”
“I’m not interested,” Max said.
“I am,” I said. “I like money. Sit down, gentlemen.”
Wald smiled. D’Amico asked, “Johnny, too?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “The type fascinates me. I like to watch him.”
The pint-sized killer went over to sit on the chair near the telephone, a straight, uncomfortable chair. Maybe, if Max didn’t have so many friends, Johnny would have scared me. But Max had friends at all the levels, from municipal to federal and Johnny, I’m sure, was a pro. Johnny was no trigger-happy punk; he’d know how many strings Max Freeman had out.
And without his gun, what was Johnny?
Max was watching me coldly, and I could guess he was thinking of walking out on the whole deal. But habit was strong, with Max, and I was still his boy. He sat down near me on the davenport.
Wald took the chair Sally had occupied; D’Amico sat in its twin on the other side of the tier table.
“All right,” I said. “Start talking about money.”
Light glistened off Paul D’Amico’s bald head, a reflection from the diamond on Max’s little finger. D’Amico looked at Wald.
Wald said, “The kind of money we could talk about might seem ridiculous. It would depend, of course, on how well the fight was built up, and how much money was wagered. In a town where wrestling gets sports-page space, ink should be cheap. On the betting, of course, we could build it to five to six and take your choice. It would shape up, in the public’s mind, to that even a match, I’m sure. With the money spread right, five to six makes the handler a certain and predetermined profit, no matter who wins.” He took a breath. “That’s honest enough, isn’t it?”
He’d said “of course” twice, “I’m sure” once and “certain” once. Nothing doubtful in Sam’s careful mind.
Wald smiled, Max glowered, D’Amico watched me shrewdly, and Johnny considered the air in the middle of the room.
“Sounds very interesting,” I said. “I don’t know about this hand, though. It might not be ready for some time.”
“There’s no hurry,” D’Amico said easily. “It might never be ready,” I said.
Silence, while they studied me, all but Johnny. All but Johnny looked puzzled, too.
I said, “But the public wouldn’t need to know how bad the hand was. It might affect the odds.”
Wald smiled. D’Amico smiled. Max said, “What the hell are you saying, Luke?”
“I’m not getting any younger, Max. Or richer.”
Max said quietly, “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, this is the end of us, Luke. And I’ll go to the Association with it.”
Johnny’s gaze came back from the middle of nowhere to fasten on Max. Wald and D’Amico looked at Max.
“Sure you could, Max,” I said. “And I might wind up in the gas chamber. Is that right, gentlemen?”
Wald said nothing. D’Amico’s big shoulders shrugged. “Who knows? I didn’t say it.”
“No. Nobody said it. But it’s been in the room. You didn’t really need Johnny, not for this trip, did you?”
D’Amico shrugged again. “I don’t like rough talk. That’s mug stuff. We don’t need it at this level.”
“That’s right. And I don’t like to do anything without Max. I never have. We can talk again, can’t we?”
Both of them glanced at Max, and back at me. “Sure,” D’Amico said, and stood up. “You call us, or we’ll drop in. Whatever you want.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, and smiled.
Wald stood up. Johnny stood up. Max still sat. I walked to the door with them.
I asked, “How about
Johnny? Doesn’t he ever talk?”
D’Amico smiled at him. “Great little guy. One of the very best. Hell, yes, he can talk loud when he wants to. Got a great big voice when he needs it. Just doesn’t use words.”
Silence in the room when they left. Max sat on the davenport, staring into space, when I turned from the door.
I went over to the phone and called Sally’s room. I said, “They’re gone. Let’s go out and eat. It’s about that time.”
“I’ll be over,” she said.
I put the phone back into the cradle and turned to face Max. He still wouldn’t look at me.
“They don’t scare me,” I said. “Giani doesn’t scare me.”
“Who said they did? You gave them the idea you’d sell out. You weren’t planning to cross them, were you?”
“Sure. That’s what I meant when I said they don’t scare me. I’d cross them, tomorrow, and spit in their eyes when they came to moan about it.”
“Came to moan? You lard-head, you mean come to mourn, don’t you? You wouldn’t live long enough to spit.”
“Nuts,” I said. “I know the type.”
“You know the type? From where? From the choir? From high school? Look, Luke, I grew up with the type. I’ve seen them operate, from twelve on. Don’t get any nice ideas about what they’d do. Don’t ever get the idea you could cross them and get away with it.” His face softened. “Though I’d rather see you dead, at that, than what I thought you were, for a while, there.”
I said, “I’m sorry, Max. You could be right, but I just can’t get scared about those — freaks.”
Again the chimes sounded. Grand Central Station.
Max said, “It’s about time that reporter showed.” He went to the door.
Sergeant Sands — and Sally. The sergeant said, “Nolan told me you phoned.”
“Come in, Sergeant,” I said. “There’s more, now.”
Max and Sally turned to look at me questioningly. I said, “I’ve just had a talk with Paul D’Amico.”
The sergeant didn’t blink an eye. He came over to sit in one of the twin chairs. “I know it. What did he want?”
“A title fight for Patsy Giani. D’Amico’s got the idea he knows more about the murder than you do, and he was using the threat as a lever to get me to sign.”
“Threat?”
“He seems to think I went home with Brenda Vane.”
“So does the room clerk. What happened to your hand?”
“I don’t know. You could ask the doctor that treated it. It was a little sore, right after the fight, but nothing like this.”
“What’s the doctor’s name?”
Max gave it to him, and Sands wrote it down. Then he sat there quietly a moment, looking at his thumbnail. “The fight was all D’Amico wanted?”
“He wasn’t too clear, but I think he wanted a dive to go with it.”
“Giani — diving?”
“No. Me.”
The sergeant was frowning. “You? It doesn’t add.”
“Why not?”
He looked at the thumbnail again. “I hope you’re not sensitive, but I told you I was a fight fan. Honestly, now, you wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance with Giani in a straight fight, would you?”
“That’s right,” Max said. “He wouldn’t.”
The redness. The image of Sands wavered, then came into focus.
Sally said, “Easy, Luke, baby.”
“I guess,” I said, “I’m the only guy in the world who thinks I can lick Giani. Maybe my judgment’s off. I meant to give D’Amico the idea I would bet on Giani. I meant to give Giani his licking, and D’Amico one hell of a financial licking. I had it all figured out, real cute.”
“You were going to cross Paul D’Amico?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“God,” Sands said. “Good Lord.” It wasn’t blasphemy. It was a prayer.
Max said, “That ain’t all, Sergeant. He was going to pop that little torpedo of D’Amico’s. He called him a pimp and offered to rip his spine out.”
“Johnny?”
“That’s right. The wordless wonder. The guy who never talks.”
“He can’t talk,” Sands said. “He’s a mute. If D’Amico told Johnny to cut off his hand above the wrist with an old tin can, Johnny would do it. Florida cops made Johnny a mute, ruined his vocal cords. All the cops involved died, eventually, one way or another. Johnny is a part of D’Amico.”
Max said, “And Golden Boy, here, thinks he understands people like that. He’s seen a lot of gangster pictures, so he knows all about them.”
Sands shook his head, studying me.
Max said, “No offense, Sergeant, but would you cross Paul D’Amico?”
Sands’s head turned slowly, as he looked at Max. “No,” he said.
Sally said, “What difference does it make? Luke would. There aren’t many people in the world like Luke. You should know that by now, Max.”
“The world’s full of them,” Max said. “Some of ‘em are even dumber.”
The sergeant almost smiled. He looked at me wearily. “You’ve been champ a long time. Certain attitudes that title gives you have hardened your conceit to a point where you think you’re invulnerable. No man is. No nation is, no idea is, no form of matter is. You’re a little better in your trade than the average, but D’Amico isn’t in your trade. You say he doesn’t scare you? You don’t even register on him, not as a threat. He could have you destroyed tomorrow and not even use people he knew. The price would be a little higher, because of your prominence, but it wouldn’t be much higher than he earns in say, oh — less than a week. What difference does it make if he scares you or not? You’d be just as dead.”
Silence. Nobody said anything for seconds. Then the sergeant said, “I’ll be getting along. Still got a lot of hours ahead of me. We’ll get the statements about the clerk when we need them. Might never need them. I’ll drop in and throw the fear of God into him tonight. No record, and we don’t want to start him with one unless we have to.” He stood up. “Stick to things you understand, Pilgrim, and let me know about any and all of the things that happen to you.”
He stared at me, looking tired and puzzled. “Isn’t there something psychologists call ‘the death wish’? Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Sally said, “except he’s not afraid of a physical threat. And he’s not too bright.”
Another of the near smiles came to the sergeant’s face. “He doesn’t need to be bright, with a girl like you. Keep him out of trouble. We might need him one of these days.”
He left, and Max went in to shave. I sat near the window, watching the solid stream of home-bound traffic. Sally turned on the radio.
Again, the chimes sounded.
From the bathroom, Max called, “Whoever it is, tell them to go to hell. I’ve had enough visitors today.”
Sally went to the door, and opened it. The man there showed her something he held in his hand and said something to her too low for me to hear.
Then Sally called, “It’s a reporter, Max, and he claims you promised him an interview this afternoon.”
Chapter VII
MAX STAYED IN THE BATHROOM while I talked to the reporter. He wanted to know, first, about Giani.
I gave it some thought, and said, “I think he’s earned his chance at the title. There’s a definite possibility we’ll meet this year. Maybe this spring.”
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“Why should I be kidding?”
“I mean — well, everyone’s had the feeling you were never going to fight him.”
“That’s silly,” I said. “He just hasn’t been a match until now. He hasn’t been enough to make the fight profitable.”
Skepticism was plain on the reporter’s face. He smiled at me, saying nothing.
I said, “Look at the trouble Patsy had with Charley Retzer. And look what I did to Charley the other night.”
“Retzer
was younger when Giani fought him. Younger and a hell of a lot better. Or am I wrong?”
“Retzer was younger,” I agreed. “Next question?”
“Champ, you’ve given me a beat. Now, this makes a story, this Giani bout. It’s solid, it’s for the record?”
“Nothing’s been signed,” I said, “but I’m willing, if we can make the right terms. That you can print.”
“That we will,” he said. “To hell with the feature story; this I’ve got to write.” He stood up. “Thanks a lot.”
“It will probably be out here,” I said, “opening that new sport bowl in the Valley.”
“Oh,” he said, “a Sam Wald promotion.”
“I guess.”
“Well, he won’t need to beg for publicity on this one. It’s a natural.”
“That’s what we figured,” I said, “and this is a sports town.”
When he left, Max came out of the bathroom. “Big boy, aren’t you?” he asked. “You don’t need me.”
“I wouldn’t fight without you in the corner, Max.” No answer from him.
Sally said, “We’re going to eat together, aren’t we? Don’t sulk, Max.”
“I’ve got to see some people,” he said. “Can’t make it tonight.” He looked at me meaningfully. “If you intend to fight this wop, you’d better start training, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” Sally said. “I’ll help you on that, Max.”
He went into the bedroom and Sally smirked at me. “It’s a good thing I’m not sensitive. I know a place to eat.”
“What kind of place?” I asked suspiciously. “Not Harry’s Hoot Owl Club?”
“Of course not. A refined place. Let’s go.”
Refined was a good word for the spot; it was overrefined, a swish-mecca, a pansy bed.
Near the ocean, in Santa Monica, a place of pastel colors and soft music, of some long-haired boys and a few crew cuts who might be there only for the ride.
The food was good, and the place was restful but I’m the kind of roughneck who’s annoyed by the sight of the unmanly.
“Looking for somebody special?” I asked Sally. “Mmmm-hmmm. I phoned him this afternoon. He’s going to meet us here.”
“One of the-boys?”
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