by Frank Kane
“Got it lined up for you.” The blind man nodded. “Only it ain't going to be easy to get at it.”
“Where is he?”
“Across the street. The Hotel Sert. He's got an office there.”
Liddell made concentric circles on the table top with the wet bottom of the glass, nodded. “That shouldn't be too tough.”
“Think again. It ain't an ordinary hotel.” The old man looked around, dropped his voice. “Most of these girls are syndicate girls. The Sert is where the syndicate has its headquarters. That's where Capolla is.”
“What room?”
“You still want to go up against him? On his own home grounds?” There was a note of respect in the beggar's voice.
“What room?”
“Third floor front.” He put a hand on Liddell's arm, kept him from getting up. “He's got a lookout staked in the lobby and another on the third floor. You'd never make it.”
“I can make a damn good try at it.”
The old man shook his head. “You wouldn't get past the lobby. You got to use your head on this one. There's ways of doing it and shooting your way in ain't one of them.”
Liddell grunted, settled back. “You've got an idea?”
“I'll get you past the gun in the lobby. Getting past the one on the third floor's your problem. Okay?”
Liddell nodded. “How you going to do it?”
The old man grinned obscenely, looked past Liddell, signaled one of the girls. She pasted a wide-mouthed grin on her face, sauntered down to the booth, slid in across from Liddell.
She couldn't have been over twenty-five, but already there was a fine network of lines under her eyes. Her make-up was losing the first skirmishes of what would soon develop into a battle with the crow's feet around her eyes and at the sides of her mouth. Her hair was raven-black, parted in the center, allowed to cascade down over her shoulders onto the white satin blouse that made a halfhearted attempt to disguise the shapeliness of her breasts.
She looked Liddell over approvingly, fluffed her hair over her shoulder with flame-shellacked fingers. “Who's your friend, pop?” Her voice was throaty, husky, not unpleasant. “I'm Lorraine,” she told Liddell.
“He's in from the Coast, Lorry. Doesn't know anybody here. Come over to buy an old man a drink.” The old man lowered his voice. “He couldn't keep his eyes off you so I'm returning the favor by introducing him.”
The girl regarded Liddell from under lowered lids. “He doesn't look like a guy who'd have to wait to be introduced.” Her eyes approved the gray-tinged hair, the bulky shoulders.
“Maybe it's too public here, eh Lorry?” The old man winked obscenely. “Maybe he don't like an audience.”
“Why don't we go across to my place?” the girl's voice fell automatically into a commercial singsong. She smiled mechanically at Liddell. “We can be alone over there. I could pick up a bottle here and we could have a drink or two if you like.”
“Sounds good to me.” Liddell pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, separated a ten, passed it to the girl. “You handle the bottle part, will you?”
The hard, ready smile was back. She slid out of the booth, started for the rear. Liddell noticed that the weary lines in her face had no counterpart in her body. She stood about 5'6", weighed about 128 and not an ounce of it was misplaced or unaccounted for.
After she'd disappeared through the door in the rear, Liddell growled, “What's the idea? You know what I'm after.”
“Why not mix business with pleasure?” the old man cackled. “You have to get past the gun in the lobby, don't you? Well, what's the better way than to have one of the syndicate gals pass you through as a John? Then all you got to do is get past the guard on the third floor.”
Liddell considered it, nodded. “Not bad, pop. Got any ideas about how I get past the one on the third floor?”
“Well, one of the reasons I picked Lorry for you is because she's got fourth floor front. The guy you want is third floor front. From here on in, the rest is up to you.”
* * *
There was no mistaking the guard in the lobby of the Hotel Sert. He was thin-shouldered, sunken-cheeked. An immaculate pearl-gray fedora sat on top of his head, its rolled brim parallel to the cold button eyes, the bloodless slit of his lips. The collar of his camel's-hair coat was up, there was no tie on the gray silk sport shirt he wore with his blue flannel suit. The black eyes flicked contemptuously over Liddell as the girl led him to the registration desk.
A pudgy little man with wet, pouting lips stood behind the desk. His bulging eyes had a disconcerting habit of appearing to roll from side to side as he talked. His skin was blotchy, his hair obviously marcelled. He favored Liddell with what he obviously intended to be a provocative glance. The girl laughed right in his face, bringing patches of color.
“If I knew you cared I would have gotten another and we could have a double date,” she taunted.
The pudgy man's eyes rolled, his pouting lips trembled, a bubble formed between them as he spoke. “I don't have to stand for any of that from you,” he spat out indignantly.
The girl winked at Liddell, placed the bottle on the desk. “We'll want some ice and soda. And don't bother bringing it yourself.”
The pudgy man wrote a slip with a hand that shook, threw it across the bar. “The room is ten dollars. In advance,” he told Liddell between murderous glances at the girl.
Liddell peeled a ten from his roll, dropped it on the desk. The girl winked again at the pudgy man, caught Liddell by the arm, led him toward an old open-grillwork elevator.
A pimply-faced operator grinned vacuously at her as they got in, started the ancient contraption wheezing upward. As they passed the third floor, Liddell had a momentary glimpse of the twin to the guard in the lobby—the same camel's-hair coat, the same gray fedora at the same angle, the same blue flannel suit and gray sport shirt. He sat in a wooden armchair that commanded a view of the staircase and elevator well. He paid no attention to the elevator as it wheezed past him.
On the fourth floor the elevator creaked to a shuddering stop. The operator slid the grillwork door back with a shrill creak, watched hungrily as the girl led Liddell down a long, bare, semidark corridor of closed doors. There was the occasional mutter of low conversation, a shrill drunken laugh. Liddell wrinkled his nose at the strong odor compounded half of cheap perfume and half of perspiration. The girl stopped in front of the end door on the left side of the long hallway, opened it, led the way in.
She indicated the rickety old iron bed, the stand, and two chairs with a sweep of her hand. “It ain't much, but it's home.” She pulled the door closed behind her, came close to him, looked up into his face. “Going to be in town long, honey?”
“Long enough,” Liddell grunted.
The girl looked piqued by his failure to draw her any closer. “The ice will be right up, honey.” The profes sional term of endearment failed to wipe away the pique. “Make yourself at home.”
Liddell wandered around the room, stopped at the window. He raised the shade, looked down into the darkness of an alley. Four stories below he caught a red pin point of light that glowed brightly for a moment, faded only to glow again. Liddell scowled. A guard in the alley made that means of exit impossible. To the left the gaunt skeleton of an iron fire escape loomed.
Liddell swung suddenly at the sound of a knock on the door. The girl stood in front of a mirror, completely naked, admiring the full blown lines of her figure. “Come in,” she called.
The door opened, and the pimply-faced elevator operator sidled in, pitcher of ice and two glasses on a tray. His watery eyes fastened on the girl as he walked across the room, his tongue licked wetly at his slack lips.
“Give him a tip, will you, honey?” the girl called over to Liddell. “He's saving his pennies to come see me, aren't you, buster?”
The elevator boy nodded, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, deftly caught the coin Liddell flipped. “It'll be sooner than you think, Lorry.”
He shuffled to the door, turned for a last look, went through it to the hall beyond.
“Why don't you give the kid a break?” Liddell grinned.
“That drip?” the girl wrinkled her nose. “He gives me the willies.” She caught a robe from the closet, slipped into it. “How about a drink?”
Liddell nodded, walked over, started to open the bottle they had brought.
“Not that stuff. That's for the suckers. I've got some real stuff stashed away.” She reached into the closet, came out with a half-filled bottle.
Liddell sniffed at the bottle he had in his hand, wrinkled his nose. “What's this stuff?”
“Slops. We get half of everything we sell and what's left over is used to refill bottles from the bar.” She dropped some ice into each of the glasses, poured liquor over it, handed Liddell a glass. “I save this for special people.”
“What makes you think I'm special?”
The girl grinned, tasted her drink. “In my business you meet a lot of people. You get so's you can pick out the regulars and the grifters. You're not an ordinary John out after a girl.”
“What am I?”
“You tell me.” The young-old eyes looked him over. “In the first place, a guy like you would never have to pay for a girl. What are you? A cop?”
Liddell shook his head. “What makes you think that?”
“Big Lil ain't wrong very often. She tagged you as a cop. You talked her out of it, but I'm not so sure.” She swirled the liquor over her ice. “There going to be a raid?”
Liddell dropped into a chair, caught her by the arm, pulled her down into his lap. “I'm no cop and there's not going to be any raid.” His eyes dropped to the open housecoat. “I am here on business but you're making it awfully tough to keep my mind on it.”
The girl grinned impishly, made no effort to pull the housecoat closed. “You mean you just came here to talk.”
“That's right.”
Lorry reached up, ran her fingers through his hair. “What'll we talk about?”
“Frankie Capolla.”
The girl's eyes widened, she got up from his lap, finished her drink. “Uh uh. Not me. When I go swimming I like to know about it.”
Liddell pulled himself out of his chair, walked over, freshened his drink, poured a stiff slug into the girl's glass. “This isn't charity, Lorry. I pay my way.” He pulled the roll of bills from his pocket.
“Who are you?” Her eyes refused to leave the roll of bills.
“A private eye. Johnny Liddell's the name.”
“I'll tell you something about Frankie. And for free. Stay away from him. He plays for keeps.” She took a drink from her glass, put it down on the dresser, walked over to Liddell, slid her arms around his neck. “Be smart, Johnny.” She laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Why not stay here with me instead of going out looking for trouble?”
Liddell sighed, debated the urgency of seeing Capolla, lost the decision. “Don't make it any tougher on me than it is, baby.” He groaned. “I've got to see Capolla tonight.”
The girl looked up at him, grinned ruefully. “I must be slipping. I thought I could at least hold my own against that fat slob.” She brushed the thick black hair back over her shoulder with a sweeping motion of her hand. “You might get in to him, baby, but you wouldn't be in any condition to see.” She picked up her drink, stared at him morosely. “That gorilla on the third floor isn't some interior decorator's idea. He's there to discourage curious people like you.”
Liddell nodded. “How about the one in the lobby?”
“A lookout, mostly. Let's Frankie know if anyone comes in Frankie might not like to see. Like the cops, for instance.”
“And what does Frankie do?”
“Blows. You don't think the only way out of this trap is through the lobby, do you?”
“Go on. You're getting interesting.”
The girl grinned. “Don't get your hopes up, buster. The escape hatch is at the far end of the hall. You'd still have to pass the gunsel to reach it.” She looked meaningly at the bills in Liddell's hand. He peeled off three tens, folded them, watched glumly while she stuck them in the housecoat pocket. “There's another one staked out in the alley. This place is about as easy to get out of as Alcatraz—if they don't want you to leave.”
Liddell nodded, scowled. “Where is the escape hatch on the third floor, Lorry?”
“It's a back staircase that runs through the third door from the back. We use it to empty the joint in case of a raid. It comes out in an alley opening on Forty-Sixth Street.”
Liddell peeled five tens off his roll, laid them on the table. “I need ten minutes, Lorry.”
The girl looked hungrily at the money, up at Liddell. “For what?”
“To get to Capolla.” He nodded his head to the window. “Down the fire escape.”
“What happens to me when they find out? I wouldn't live long enough to spend it.”
Liddell added more bills to the pile. “How could you stop me? I tied you up and gagged you.”
Lorry considered it, bit her lip. “They wouldn't buy that. But if you knocked me cold, I couldn't do anything about it.” She looked up. “That'd cost extra.”
Liddell counted out twenty dollars, added it to the money on the dresser. “It's your idea.” He watched while the girl scooped up the bills, added the money from her pocket, pulled out a drawer on the stand, stuck the money in the recess, closed the drawer.
She held up her glass, drained it. “As long as I'm going to wake up with a headache, I might as well have a reason for it.” She replaced the glass on the stand, slipped out of the housecoat, stood before him naked, her eyes bright, her color high. “I'm ready any time you are.
You call the turn, buster.” She straightened up, closed her eyes.
“There must be an easier way,” Liddell growled.
“If you insist on going through with it, get it over with,” the girl urged. “I'd rather get slugged by you than stop a couple of their slugs.” She opened her eyes, looked from her nakedness to him. “Unless you've changed your mind.”
The punch traveled less than twelve inches, exploded on the side of her jaw. The girl's eyes glazed, rolled backward in her head, her knees buckled, her body fell toward him. Liddell caught her under the arms, dragged her to the bed. He arranged a pillow under her head, threw the sheet over her body. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, a large welt was already discoloring on the side of her jaw.
“Sorry, baby,” he whispered. “It had to look good for your sake.”
Chapter Eight
Liddell Doused the light in the room, walked over to the window, slid it up. The fire-escape landing was about four feet from the window, opening into the adjoining room. He slid one leg over the sill, found a tiny cornice, leaned his weight on it experimentally. Then, carefully hooking the toe of his left foot inside the window jamb, he leaned slowly toward the fire escape. After what seemed an eternity, he felt the cold metal touch his finger tips, wiggled farther forward until he could grab the landing with both hands. Then, releasing his foot from the window, his body swung dizzily toward the fire escape.
A minute later he sat panting on the landing. He dried the palms of his hands along the side of his thighs, looked down into the alley below. As he watched he saw the guard's cigarette redden to a bright dot, then fade. He strained his eyes against the darkness, failed to make out the shape of the man below, hoped he was equally invisible.
Keeping as close to the wall as possible, Liddell felt his way down the stairs to the third-floor landing. The window was dark. Carefully he tried it, breathed a sigh of relief as it slid quietly up. He threw a leg over the sill, followed it into the room, closed the window behind him.
The room was apparently used as an office of sorts. A large desk took up most of the room, the walls were lined with what appeared to be filing-cabinets. Liddell felt his way carefully around the desk toward the door, opened it a crack, applied his eye to it. The hal
lway was empty, but at the far end, commanding a view of it, he could see the guard sitting, his chair tilted back against the wall.
Liddell swore under his breath, closed the door noiselessly. He felt through his pockets, came up with a paper package of matches, scratched one, looked around. On the far side of the desk was a door. He held the match, walked to the door, burned his finger, dropped the match. At the door, he placed his ear against it, listened. There was no sound from the room beyond. He caught the doorknob, turned it carefully, pulled the door open a crack.
A man was sitting in a large overstuffed chair, facing away from him. He held a phone against his ear; a cigar clenched between his teeth waggled when he talked. Liddell had a clear view of the pouting lips, the fat neck that bulged over the tight collar. He pulled the .45 from its holster, waited until the fat man had nodded into the phone, dropped it back on its hook with a grunt.
Capolla was holding a match to the cigar when Liddell stepped into the room, his .45 pointed at the fat man's stomach.
“Hello, Frankie,” Liddell greeted him.
The fat man turned his head laboriously. The cigar that had been standing at right angles to his pouting lips suddenly drooped, the rolls of fat around his neck billowed as his jaw dropped, his piglike little eyes receded behind their discolored pouches, flashed a combination of hate and fear.
“What is this?” he growled. His voice was heavy, blubbery, as though choked by the fat around his neck.
“Is that a nice way to talk to a guy who went through all the trouble I've gone through to see you, Frankie?”
The fat man started a sneer. “You don't even know what trouble is—yet.”
Liddell kept the muzzle of the .45 pointed at the fat man's belt, circled in front of him, took up a position with his back to the wall near the hall door. “You're scaring me to death.”
The fat man squinted at him, scowled. “Who are you and what's the idea?”
“My name's Liddell. Mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
Liddell grinned tightly. “It must have the other night. You tried to part my hair with a tommy gun. I kept Scoda as a souvenir. Remember?”