by 12 Chinamen
She said, “I'm tellin' you this because you're cute. I hate seein' a big guy like you headin' for trouble.”
Fenner grinned, and, swinging his hand, he gave her a gentle smack on her fanny. “Don't you worry your brains about me,” he said.
She leaned towards him, raising her face; so, because he thought she was pretty good, he kissed her. She wound her arms round his neck and held him, her body close to his. They stood like that for several minutes, then Fenner pushed her away gently.
She stood looking at him, breathing hard. “I guess I'm crazy,” she said, color suddenly flooding her face.
Fenner ran his finger round the inside of his collar. “I'm a bit of a bug myself,” he said. “Scram, baby, before we really get to work. Beat it, an' I'll see you in church.”
She went out quietly and shut the door. Fenner took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands thoughtfully. “I think I'm goin' to like this job,” he said aloud. “Yeah, it might develop into somethin',” and he went back and sat down by the open window again.
Nightingale led him through the crowded lobby of the Flagler Hotel. Fenner said, “This guy does himself well.”
Nightingale stopped before the elevator doors and thumbed the automatic button. “Sure,” he said; “what did I tell you? Pio's the boy to be in with.”
Fenner studied the elaborate wrought ironwork of the gates. “You're tellin' me,” he said.
The cage came to rest and they stepped in. Nightingale pressed the button for the fifth, and the cage shot them up. “Now I'll do the talkin',” Nightingale said, as the lift stopped. “Maybe you won't get anythin', but I'll try.”
Fenner grunted and followed the little man down the corridor. He stopped outside No. 47 and rapped three times fast and twice slowly on the door.
“Secret signs as well,” Fenner said admiringly.
The door opened and a short Cuban, dressed in a black suit, looked them over. Fenner shaped his lips for a whistle, but he didn't make any sound.
Nightingale said in his soft voice: “It's all right.”
The Cuban let them in. As he shut the door after them, Fenner saw a bulge in his hip-pocket. The hall they found themselves in was big, and three doors faced them.
“The boys in yet?” Nightingale asked.
The Cuban nodded. He sat down in an arm-chair by the front door and picked up a newspaper again. As far as he was concerned they weren't there.
Nightingale went into the centre room. There were four men lounging about the room. They were all in shirt-sleeves and they all were smoking. Two of them were reading newspapers, one of them was listening to the radio, and the fourth was cleaning a rod. They all glanced at Nightingale, and then fixed wooden looks on Fenner.
The man with the rod got up slowly. “Who is it?” he said. He'd got a way of speaking with his teeth shut. He wore a white suit and a black shirt with a white tie. His wiry black hair was cropped close, and his yellow-green eyes were cold and suspicious.
Nightingale said, “This is Ross. From New York. Crotti knows him. He's all right.” Then he turned to Fenner. “Meet Reiger.”
Fenner gave Reiger a wintry smile. He didn't like the look of him.
Reiger nodded. “How do,” he said. “Stayin' long?”
Fenner waved his hand. “These other guys friends of yours, or are they just decoration?”
Reiger's eyes snapped. “I said, stayin' long?” he said.
Fenner eyed him. “I heard you. It ain't no goddamn business of yours, is it?”
Nightingale put his hand on Fenner's cuff. He didn't say anything, but it was a little warning gesture. Reiger tried a staring match with Fenner, lost it and shrugged. He said, “Pug Kane by the radio. Borg on the right. Miller on the left.”
The three other men nodded at Fenner. None of them seemed friendly.
Fenner was quite at ease. “Glad to know you,” he said. “I won't ask you guys for a drink. Maybe you don't use the stuff.”
Reiger turned on Nightingale. “What's this?” he snarled. “Who's this loud-mouthed punk?”
Miller, a fat, greasy-looking man with a prematurely bald head said, “Somethin' he's dug outa an ash-can.”
Fenner walked over to him very quickly and slapped him twice across his mouth. A gun jumped into Nightingale's hand and he said, “Don't start anythin'—Don't start anythin', please.”
Fenner was surprised they took any notice of Nightingale, but they did. They all froze solid. Even Reiger looked a little sick.
Nightingale said to Fenner, “Come away from him.” His voice had enough menace in it to chill Fenner a trifle. Curly was right. This guy was a killer.
Fenner stepped away from Miller and put his hands in his pockets.
Nightingale said, “I won't have it. When I bring a friend of mine up here, you treat him right. I'd like to measure some of you heels for a box.”
Fenner laughed. “Ain't that against etiquette?” he said. “Or do you take it both ways? Bump 'em an' bury 'em?”
Nightingale put his rod away, and the others relaxed. Reiger said with a little forced smile, “This heat plays hell.” He went over to a cupboard and set up drinks.
Fenner sat down close to Reiger. He thought this one was the meanest of the bunch and he was the one to work on. He said quietly, “This heat even makes me hate myself.”
Reiger looked at him still suspiciously. “Forget it,” he said. “Now you're here, make yourself at home,”
Fenner rested his nose on the rim of his glass. “Carlos in?” he said.
Reiger's eyes opened. “Carlos ain't got time for visitors,” he said. “I'll tell him you've been in.”
Fenner drained his glass and stood up. Nightingale made a move, but Fenner stopped him with a gesture. He stood looking round at each man in turn. He said, “Well, I'm glad. I looked in. I thought this was a live outfit, an' I find I'm wrong. You guys are no use to me. You think you've got this town by the shorts an' you're fat an' lazy. You think you're the big-shots, but that's not the way I spell it. I think I'll go an' see Noolen, That guy's supposed to be the south end of a horse. All right, then I'll make him the north end. It'll be more amusing than playin' around with guys like you.”
Reiger slid his hand inside his coat, but Nightingale already had his rod out. “Hold it,” he said.
The four men sat still; their faces made Fenner want to laugh.
Nightingale said, “I asked him to come along. If he don't like us, then let him go. A friend of Crotti's 's a friend of mine.”
Fenner said, “I'll drop round some time an' see you again.”
He walked out of the room, past the Cuban, who ignored him, and took the elevator down to the street level.
The commissionaire at the door looked as if he had some brains. Fenner asked him if he knew where he could find Noolen. The commissionaire said he'd got an office off Duval Street, and beckoned a cab. Fenner gave him a fin.
The commissionaire helped him into the cab as though he were made of china.
Noolen's office was over a shop. Fenner had to go up a long flight of stairs before he located the frosted glass-panelled door. When he got inside, a flat-chested woman whose thirties were crowding up on her, regarded him suspiciously from behind a typewriter.
“Noolen in?” he asked, smiling at her, because he felt she could do with a few male smiles.
“He's busy right now,” she said. “Who is it?” .
“Me? Tell him Ross. Dave Ross. Tell him I ain't sellin' anythin', and I want to see him fast.”
She got up and walked over to a door behind her. Fenner gave her a start, then he took two strides and walked into the room with her.
Noolen was a dark, middle-aged man, growing a paunch. He'd a double chin and a hooked nose. His eyes were hooded and mean. He looked at Fenner and then at the woman. “Who's this?” he snapped.
The woman jerked round, her eyes popping. “Wait outside,” she said.
Fenner pushed past her and wandered over to the big de
sk. He noticed a lot of spots on Noolen's vest. He noticed the dirty nails and the grubby hands. Nightingale was right. Noolen was the south-end of a horse.
Fenner said, “Ross is the name. How do?”
Noolen jerked his head at the woman, who went out, shutting the door with a sharp click. “What do you want?” he asked, scowling.
Fenner put his hands on the desk and leant forward. “I want a hook-up in this burg. I've seen Carlos. He won't play. You're next on my list, so here I am.
Noolen said, “Where you from?”
“Crotti.”
Noolen studied his dirty finger-nails. “So Carlos couldn't use you. What's the matter with him?” There was a sneer in his voice.
“Carlos didn't see me. I saw his flock of hoods an' that was enough for me. They made me puke, so I scrammed.”
“Why come to me?”
Fenner grinned. “They told me you were the south-end of a horse. I thought maybe we could do something about it.”
A faint red crept into Noolen's face. “So they said that, did they?”
“Sure. With me, you might have a lotta fun with that gang.”
“Meanin'?”
Fenner hooked a chair towards him with his foot and sat down. He leant forward and helped himself to a thin greenish cigar from a cigar-box on the desk. He took his time lighting it. Noolen sat watching him. His eyes intent and bright.
“Look at it this way,” Fenner said, stretching in the chair; “my way. I've come from Crotti. I want a chance like the rest of you for some easy dough an' not much excitement. Crotti said either Carlos or Noolen. Carlos's mob is too busy big-shotting to worry about me. I can't even get in to see Carlos. You—I walk in an' find you sittin' on your can, with a flat-chested, bird outside as your muscle guard. Why did Crotti tip you? Maybe you've been someone an' Crotti's getting behind in the news. Maybe you are someone, an' this is a front. Take it all round, I think you an' me might get places.”
Noolen gave a little shrug. He shook his head. “Not just now,” he said. “I don't know Crotti. I've never heard of him, an' I don't believe you've come from him. I think you're a punk gunman bluffing himself a job. I don't want you an' I hope I'll never want you.”
Fenner got up and yawned. “That's swell,” he said. “I can now grab myself a little rest. When you've looked into things, you'll find me at the Haworth Hotel. If you know Nightingale, have a word with him—he thinks I'm quite a boy.”
He nodded to Noolen and walked out of the office. He went down the stairs, called a cab and drove to his hotel. He went into the restaurant and ordered a turtle steak. While he was eating, Nightingale came in and sat down opposite him. .
Fenner said, with his mouth full, “Ain't you got any boxes to make, or is business bad?”
Nightingale looked worried. “That was a hell of a thing to do—walking out like that.”
“Yeah? I always walk out when I get a Bronx cheer. Why not?”
“Listen, Reiger ain't soft. That ain't the way to handle Reiger.”
“No? You tell me.”
Nightingale ordered some brown bread, cheese and a glass of milk. He kept his eyes on the white tablecloth until the waitress brought the order, and when she had gone away he said, “This makes it difficult for me.”
Fenner put his knife and fork down. He smiled at the little man. “I like you,” he said. “You're the one guy who's given me a hand up to now. Suppose you stick around, I might do you some good.”
Nightingale peered at Fenner from under his hat. The sun, coming in through the slotted blinds, reflected on his glasses. “You might do me some harm, too,” he said drily.
Fenner resumed his eating. “Hell!” he said. “This is a hell of a burg, ain't it?”
When they had finished their meal, Fenner pushed his chair away and stood up. “Okay, pal,” he said. “I'll see you some time.”
Nightingale said, “We might talk some time.” He said it hopefully.
Fenner took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don't know,” he said vaguely, “I don't know.”
He nodded to the little man and went out to the office. The hotel manager was busy at the desk. He looked up as Fenner passed and gave an oily smile.
Fenner said, “I'm goin' to sleep. This place's killin' me.”
Before the manager could say anything, he went on up the stairs to his bedroom. He shut the door and turned the key. Then he took off his coat and hat and lay on the bed. He went to sleep almost immediately, a pleased smile on his mouth.
The phone woke him. He sat up with a jerk, glanced at the clock, saw he had slept for two hours, and reached out for the phone.
A voice said, “Come over to the Flagler Hotel right away. The boss wants you.”
Fenner screwed up his eyes. “Tell the boss I came this mornin'. I don't visit the same place twice,” and hung up.
He lay back on the bed and shut his eyes. He only lay there a minute or so before the phone went again.
The same voice said, “You'd better come. Carlos don't like bein' kept waitin'.
Fenner said, “Tell Carlos to come out here, or tell him to go roll a hoop.” He put the receiver on the prong with exaggerated care.
He didn't bother to answer the phone when it rang again. He went into the little bathroom, bathed his face, gave himself a short shot from the Scotch, put on his hat and coat and went downstairs.
The heat of the afternoon sun was blistering. The hotel lobby was deserted, and he went over and sat down near the entrance. He put his hat on the floor beside him and stared out into the street. He knew that he wasn't going to get very far with this business unless he turned up Marian Daley's sister. He wondered whether the cops had found the two Cubans and the remains of Marian. He wondered what Paula was doing. From where he sat he could look into the hot, deserted street. A big touring car suddenly swept into the street, roared down to the hotel, and skidded to a standstill.
Fenner relaxed into the long cane chair and, reaching down, picked up his hat and put it on.
There were four men in the car. Three of them got out, leaving the driver sitting behind the wheel.
Fenner recognized Reiger and Miller, but the other guy he didn't know. They came up the few steps quickly and blinked round in the semi-gloom. Reiger saw Fenner almost at once. He came over.
Fenner looked up at him and nodded. “Want to see anyone?” he said casually. “The clerk's gone bye-bye.”
Reiger said, “Carlos wants you. Come on.”
Fenner shook his head. “It's too hot. Tell him some other time.”
The other two came and stood round. They looked mean. Reiger said softly, “Comin' on your dogs, or do we carry you?”
Fenner got up slowly. “If it's like that,” he said, and went with them to the car. He knew Reiger was itching to slug him and he knew it wouldn't do any good to make too much fuss. He wanted to see Carlos, but he wanted them to think he wasn't too interested.
They drove fast to the Flagler Hotel in silence. Fenner sat between Reiger and Miller, and the other man, whom they called Bugsey, sat with the driver.
They all went up in the small elevator and along to No. 47. As they entered, Fenner said, “You could have saved yourself a trip by playin' ball this mornin'.”
Reiger didn't say anything. He crossed the room and rapped on another door and went in. Bugsey followed behind Fenner.
Carlos lay on a couch before a big open window. He was dressed in a cream silk dressing-gown, patterned with large red flowers. A white silk handkerchief was folded carefully in a stock at his throat, and his bare feet were encased in red Turkish slippers.
He was smoking a marihuana cigarette, and round his brown, hairy wrist hung a gold-linked bracelet.
Carlos was young. Maybe he was twenty or maybe he was twenty-four. His face was the color of old parchment and he had very red lips. Thin lips, paper-thin lips, and red, just like someone had slit his throat with a razor and moved the wound above his chin. His nose was s
mall, with very wide nostrils, and his ears lay tightly against his head. His eyes were large and fringed with dark curly eyelashes. He had no expression in them. They were like dull pieces of black glass. His hair grew away from his forehead on either side of his temples. It was black, glistening and inclined to wave. Take a quick look at Carlos and you'd think he was a pretty handsome guy, but when you looked again you got an eyeful of his mouth and his lobeless ears, and you weren't sure. When you got to his eyes you were dead certain that he was bad.
Reiger said, “This is Ross,” then he went out with Bugsey.
Fenner nodded to Carlos and sat down. He sat a little way from the sickening smoke of the marihuana cigarette.
Carlos looked at him with his blank eyes. “What is it?” he said. His voice was hoarse and unmusical.
“This mornin' I came round to see you, but your hoods told me you were busy or somethin'. I ain't used to bein' handled that way, so I went back to my dump. I ain't sure I wantta talk to you now.”
Carlos let his leg slide off the couch on to the floor. “I'm a cautious man,” he said; “I have to be. When I heard you'd been in, I got on long-distance to Crotti. I wanted to know more about you first—that's reasonable, I think?”
Fenner's eyelids narrowed. “Sure,” he said.
“Crotti says you're all right.”
Fenner shrugged. “So what?”
“I can use you. But you gotta show me you're my type of guy.”
“Let me hang around for a bit. Maybe, you ain't my type of guy either.”
Carlos smiled. There was no mirth in it. “You've got a lot of confidence. That's all right in its way.”
Fenner stood up. “I get along,” he said abruptly. “Where do we go from here?”
Carlos got off the couch. “Go out an' talk to the boys,” he said. “Then we'll go down to the waterfront. I've got a little job to do. It'll interest you.
Fenner said, “Do I come on your pay-roll?”
“Suppose we say a hundred bucks until we get used to each other?”
“We've got to get used to each other pretty quick,” Fenner said without humor. “That's chicken-feed to me.”