by Philip Race
He struck the refrigerator, bounced toward me swinging the gun. I ducked, still on only one knee, took his body over my shoulder. He hit me on the back with the gun, but I squeezed and he came down with me on the linoleum.
Marti was shouting something. I was too busy to listen to her. The kid was strong as a bull. He kept trying to feed me that damn gun and finally I got his wrist in my hand, held it out wide.
Marti screamed, "Hold him, lover! Give them time to get out..."
And the kid heaved under me. He was like a bag full of muscles, all snapping. He was trying, but I had the gun hand and I wasn't about to let it go. He whacked me here and there. But he didn't shoot me and at the time that seemed to be the thing to avoid. Finally I got him turned, straddled him, slammed my right hand into his twisted face. If he hit me after that I didn't feel it. Maybe I went a little crazy. I grabbed with both hands, jacket and hair, and beat his head on the floor. The gun went flying. We heaved up together, me holding on like grim death. He tried to butt me and I ran my shoe sole down his shinbone, stepped back. He bent with pain and I hit him in the mouth. He started down and I swung my foot into his gut.
He fell like a sack of Jello.
There was a lot of yelling. My ears and eyes were working, but not together. Several girls in all stages of undress milled around the door.
Then I remembered what the Thayer woman had said. Give them time, she'd said. And now she was gone. I busted through the doorway, scattering screaming females.
Marti Thayer stood at the end of the hall peering out of one of the skinny windows that flanked the door. I got there at a dead run, jerked the fat madam aside.
She hollered, "Frank!"
But I had the window. I saw what it was that interested her in the alley below. Sheila, the long-stemmed redhead, was being forced into the yellow Cadillac across the alley. I had a clear shot of Mops Parisi, one arm in a sling, pushing the girl into the front seat. She was fully dressed in a green tailored suit and carried a large traveling bag. Her hair was a sullen flame in the morning sun.
I reached for the door handle and Marti Thayer landed in the middle of my back. Flailing arms stunned me before I could turn enough in the narrow hall to grab the raging woman. Christ, she was slippery in that silk wrapper!
As I struggled with her, over her shoulder I saw the leather-jacketed kid stumbling up the hall. He was bent and humped, but he had the gun clutched in one hand. My own Luger was gone.
Hooked fingers raked at my eyes. I got one wrist, twisted sharply. I didn't want to hit the broad, but I was going to have to do something. Then she dropped her head forward, smashed hard frontal bone against my nose.
Tears spurted. Technicolor. A silk-slimy leg slid between mine and she lifted her knee. I squeezed my thighs together to keep from getting split to my breastbone and got my hand under her chin. My hips braced against one wall, I surged and shoved hard. Marti popped out of my grasp, hit the other wall. Her robe fell open. I drove a fist short and hard into the soft flesh below her navel.
She hit the floor, sliding down the wall.
But it had taken too long. The kid came the last few feet like the Los Angeles Rams. This time when he clubbed his gun my head was right there. He hit me twice and only the fact that he still felt the effects of my boot in the belly kept him from tearing my head off. Still he almost put me out.
He did put me down. And I grabbed a leg, pulled. He came down swinging. I was spending a helluva lot of time on the floor with this guy. But here I could nullify the effect of that damn gun—if he didn't bury it in my head first.
We both grunted and busted each other almost silly. He gave out first; I didn't hit him extra hard or anything. He just got full first. He sagged. Then slumped. I got to my knees and it was like climbing Mount Everest.
I could see his face down there. I raised a fist that weighed twenty-seven pounds, dropped it onto the kid's jaw. It landed and I fell with the blow.
Couldn't just lay there. That would be real stupid. Get up, Berlin. Get up and scoot and go find Sheila.
I got up somehow. And I got the door open, ignoring the chatter of the hallway full of girls.
Then I was alone on the postage-stamp-sized porch in the uncompromising sunlight. My eyes burned. I turned carefully toward the stairs. I hurt here and there, but it didn't register, really. Later the tooth I could feel sticking into my lip would give me hell. Right now it was a single instrument in a symphony orchestra. I put a hand on the building, steadied myself. Better get to the God-damn car on the double.
I found the hand rail, gripped it. The steps seemed to lead downward interminably. I took the first step. There's always a first step and I took it. Boy, I took it!
And it was a dandy.
I hit once, halfway down and felt nothing at all after that. Not even the concrete at the bottom.
One step took me thirty-five miles. To a starched bed in a bare room, everything white and clean.
Chapter 17
I came awake slowly and I knew right away where I was. A hospital room. Detective, that's me. Everything was white including the blinds on the windows facing the bed I was lying on. And a stocky figure in starched white stood beside me. She said something. I didn't catch it. I was cataloguing hurts; trying to see if I was all there. "You have visitors, Mr. Berlin."
I turned my eyes and they both worked. Some. Still fuzzy and red, but they worked.
I cleared my throat. "Visitors? Me?"
She nodded. Now I could see her. She had a clear-skinned, ruddy face with ordinary features; not pretty, not plain. The cap perched on top of a growth of fine, dark hair.
"Sure. One of them's been here ever since you came." She smiled, eyes lighting. "The pretty blonde."
"Where is here?"
"Here is the McKaneville Medical Center. And I'm Miss Holmberg."
I grinned, felt stitches pulling. "Howdy. I'm King Farouk."
"Too skinny," she said.
"Skinny?" I raised up in outrage and almost left this world.
"Here, Mr. Berlin. You be good."
She caught me, helped me sit up. I couldn't lift my left arm. Mostly because it had about a ton of plaster wrapped around it. I had bruises everywhere. I ran my right hand over my face, feeling, probing, while Miss Holmberg cranked my bed up. Not too bad. Couple of stitches in the cheek, around the mouth. A fine mouse on one eye; a small patch, grainy with clotting powder, on my head.
"Anything else besides the arm?" I asked.
"No bones, if that's what you mean. But you have the most magnificent collection of bruises I've ever seen."
"Oh, you've been looking, huh?"
I ran my good arm under the covers; I was right. A shorty gown and nothing else.
Miss Holmberg blushed. She rustled to the table by the bedside, lit a cigarette for me.
"I'm a nurse," she said primly.
"I'm glad," I said.
Then she smiled, shook her head. "No wonder all the women."
I took a drag of the Camel, almost died with pleasure as the smoke found the long-denied passages. It made me giddy, though. Women, she'd said.
"Oh, boy, women," the nurse said, leering. "Not counting the blonde—" She ticked off fingers. "—one brunette with an absolutely illegal figure. Another wearing slacks."
"Who's here now?"
"The blonde."
"Her name's Fran."
"And a policeman. The others have been in and out."
I sighed. "Since when?"
"Since yesterday noon when you came in from Welles in the ambulance."
"Yesterday, huh? What time is it now?"
She glanced at a lapel watch. “Five-thirty."
"How long do I have to stay?"
"Doctor says a few days. For observation. You're all fixed up, but, boy, can you sleep!"
"Yeah." I moved. Felt all right. I pushed the cigarette into the ashtray, ran the fingers of my right hand through my hair. "Let 'em in." Better get it done. Because now I was remem
bering all the things I'd been unable to do and what might have happened during my blackout. And something else. Something I couldn't for the damnedest trying pull into the light of memory. Important, too. Something about Sheila. A little thing.
Fran came in and the room got lighter. Her face was drawn with strain, but she looked wonderful. A tight, hip-hugging dress, black and simply cut; a tiny box perching on the creamy hair.
"Hi," she said.
George French followed her in; both walked to the bed. I nodded. I couldn't say a word.
Fran's eyes misted and she broke finally.
"Oh, Johnny” she said, and fell on me, almost ruining me. "You crazy, crazy darling!"
"Hey," I squeaked. "Watch the grip, kid."
She pulled back, lips trembling. Then she kissed me very tenderly on my battered lips, got up and went to the window to repair her make-up and her composure.
"Hi, George."
"Hello, Johnny. You're lucky."
My face burned. I remembered that Fran had been his girl and, for the first time in my life, I cared about a thing like that. No reason, but it was there.
"You look beat," the lieutenant said, straddling the hard chair by the bed.
"Am beat. And you look tired, George. Real tired. What's the pitch?"
"We didn't get 'em, Johnny. Wait, before you flip. Mickey called me. We made time from here to Welles. I knew better than to call that vegetable that runs the police force there in Welles. He's in Marti's pocket. And her bed, too, the story goes. Anyway—"
"What you're trying to say is, they got away."
He nodded. "All right. So I'm a bum cop. But you tell me how I should know they shouldn't be allowed to leave? The girls didn't tell me. They don't like to talk to cops. All I knew for sure was you'd been there, made trouble and got bounced."
"Boy, I got bounced." I reached for a cigarette, couldn't make it across my body. "Light me one, huh?"
"Sure. So Frank and Marti scrammed. Here." He handed me the cigarette, lit one for himself. "Toni, that girl of Mickey's, finally told me a little of the pitch. Enough to put out an APB for Mops Parisi and Sheila and to pick up Coley O'Rourke."
"O'Rourke? Then it is cleaned up. He's got to be it. Parisi's his goon. He's—"
I stopped. French nodded, slab face relaxing a bit. "You came to it, too, huh? So did I. He's alibied but real stinking good for the Teacher bit. And as good as anybody for the other. We shook down his joint, found nothing. His house, too. I know only that he's scared. And I couldn't find out why."
"You run into Gilbertson yet?"
He nodded, mouth twisting sourly. "Yeah. We took a run out with the sheriff's investigator from the DA's office. The guy's clean. All around. Except for that mess he controls out there."
"If he finds out who did it, you'll never try the man, you know."
"I know." His knuckles cracked loudly. "Well, I've got to get back to work. Marti and that guy took off in the Cad with a boxful of money they got from a safety deposit vault. No trace so far. But they'll show somewhere."
"Sure," I said. "And when they do, you're home free. But what about Sheila?"
He got up slowly, face hardening. "Sheila. If she'd come to us in the first place..." He got his brown felt off the table, pushed it on the back of his head. "But she didn't. And I'm afraid for her, Johnny."
"So am I. Where's Ford Messner?"
"I ran him down yesterday. He's living on his boat around the Bay curve at a place called Bowldersville. A wide spot. Fishing village. He's still clean so far as we know. He wouldn't say a word about Sheila except that he was worried about her, hadn't seen her."
"I still like him as a suspect," I said. I threw my cigarette end to the immaculate floor. "I like him real good."
"So do I. But we can't shake Gina Donetti's alibi for the time the Teacher kid got it." He walked to the door. "If you remember anything, Johnny, let me know. I'm going to make a fast check on Marti Thayer and Frank."
"All right, George."
His eyes turned to Fran, still at the window waiting for us to be finished. His mouth tightened and he looked at me, eyes narrowing to a perfectly obvious threat.
"You be good," he growled. "You're lucky, but you ain't good."
"I'm trying, George."
Fran spun, saw the play. French pulled his hat down, stretched his heavy shoulders.
"Maybe you are, slicker. Maybe you are, at that."
He left. And Miss Holmberg came in, stuck me with another needle.
Fran smiled when we were alone again. "Hi, anyway," she said in a small voice. Her lips stayed curved and her breasts rose and fell very nicely with the unevenness of her breathing.
"Come here," I said, pulling her to me. "I'm tired of being beat up. I'd like to be kissed for a change."
"Wait," she said. "I have a couple of things I'm supposed to tell you. Dan isn't here because he's got to open and run the place tonight. Same with Bev. She really wanted to come. And Dan has a proposition for you." She looked away, pulled her hand free. "If you want to stay around here, that is."
I took her hand again. "Tell," I said. "Never mind the commercial. You'll oversell your product."
She smiled; her lips looked so much better curved. And there was no line between her eyes. All smooth. I could see a pulse moving under the creamy skin of her neck.
"A deal to run the Cherbourg," she said, in a rush. "Everything, the works. With a conditional payment and then alternate divisions to him and his wife and kids on a lease with option to buy."
I pulled her down, kissed her till the bruises sang out in protest. Then I let her go. I put my hand on her hip, looked up at her.
"I'll think about it, woman. Not jumping any more?"
She busied herself with the little hat. Her face flamed. Then her eyes narrowed; the violet turning to smoky blue. "You're lucky you're sick," she whispered and ran lightly to the door.
I kept thinking about Sheila. You don't learn many prayers around carnivals and gambling joints. But I figured this was a good time to make one up and I played it by ear.
The doctor came and went. While he was there changing bandages and telling me I couldn't leave for at least three days, Gilbertson came with Marc. I brought them up to date, suggested they get on finding Parisi before the big ape had time to get the redhead clear out of the country.
"I shall do that of course, Johnny," Gilbertson said. "Perhaps we can turn up something. Also the Thayer woman and her escort. The circles they run in are not unknown to me. And some of my associates."
"You better make it quick with Sheila," I said. "But I'm afraid it's too late."
"What do you think?"
"I think maybe we'll find her some cold, foggy morning drifting with the shavings and garbage off the end of that point out past the Kilgore Hills. That's what I think." My face tightened, I made a fist and looked at it steadily. "And it's my fault, probably. If I'd kept my nose out, she might have been all right."
"Perhaps," the banker said. He smoothed his gray lapels. "But not likely. She knew something damaging. I wish I knew what."
We left it there and he left with the big-nosed Marc, promising to return.
I got out of bed, found my clothes in the closet. They were a real mess. No underwear. I put the pants on, tucked in the hospital shorty. Shoes without socks. The shirt was stiff with blood so I passed it. My coat—second-best suit coat—was pretty bad. I brushed it clumsily, still not able to navigate too well. The cast bothered me, too. But I got the coat on finally, exhausted by the effort. I'd had to slit the left sleeve clear up to allow passage of the elbow-to-knuckles cast.
But I was dressed. The table drawer yielded a wadded and stiff bundle of money, keys for nothing and my wallet. I stuffed the junk in my pockets, picked up the cigarettes and made for the corridor.
Miss Holmberg, sitting alone at the street door, a tiny light shedding illumination for the racks of charts, looked up as I stumbled toward her.
"Mr. Berlin!" She rose
, hurried around the desk. "You can't. You should be in bed. Sit here while I get help."
I gritted my teeth. "You sit me there, you'll need help. Get out of my way."
"Mr. Berlin..."
"You want to help, Holmberg? Then get me a drink. A big belt. Something to start my motor running."
She looked at me for a long moment, eyes drawn in a frown. Then she nodded, took off through a door behind the desk. She was back in a minute with a beaker half-full of medicinal alcohol in an ounce of orange juice.
I got it down. And it almost knocked me down. But soon I could feel the warmth, the flowing strength. I winked my best eye at the nurse.
"Thanks, Holmberg."
Something glinted in her eyes; a silver drop of pity. Or maybe admiration.
"Go ahead," she said. "I hope you break your neck."
But I didn't. I got outside and it was a beautiful night. Soft-dark and warm with no chilling wind or fog from the treacherous sea. The clinic was on the south end of town between Main Street and Kilgore. I should have called a cab. Traffic flowing by a block away drew me and I started off in that direction.
Car lights swept around the corner, pinned me, then roared down in my direction. I felt fear for a moment, then saw that the car was stopping, slewing from side to side as brakes were applied. The heavy machine rocked to a halt beside me.
Mickey System piled out, leaving the door open. "Johnny," the little hustler cried. "I was coming to get you."
"Mickey. I'm glad to see you, man. Let's—"
"Get in," he said, taking my arm. "We got things to do." Mickey jumped in, threw the Buick in gear and raced past the hospital, turned onto Kilgore, scattering cars and leaving horns blowing in our wake. The car straightened and the little dice man looked out over the wheel, face tight with concentration.
"What's happening?" I asked, over the motor's howl. "Where we going?"
"Sheila's place. I found her."
"You found her." I sat up, tried to get oriented. "You mean Sheila's all right? She's—"
I stopped. His face told me. Mickey looked ahead, chin raised, apple cheeks pushed up.