The short Cuban searched the office quickly. He didn’t make any mess and he acted as if he’d done that sort of job before many times. Then he went into the outer office and searched that too.
Fenner heard him moving about, but he couldn’t get his muscles working. He tried to get up, but nothing moved at his frantic efforts. A red mist of rage and pain hung like a curtain before his eyes.
It was only when they had gone, slamming the office door behind them, that he managed to drag himself up from the floor. He put his hand on the desk to support himself, and looked round the office wildly.
Paula was sitting in a huddle on the lounge. She’d got her head free from her dress, and she was crying with rage. “Don’t look at me, damn you!” she said. “Don’t look at me!”
Fenner lurched into the outer office and into the small washroom on the left. He ran the cold water into the hand basin and bathed his face carefully. The water was very red when he had finished. He walked a little more steadily to the wall cupboard and found a half bottle of Scotch and two glasses. He took a long drink. His head ached like hell. The Scotch burnt him, but it knitted him together. He poured another two ounces into the other glass and wandered back into the office.
Paula had got herself straightened out. She had bundled her torn underclothes into a corner of the lounge. She was still crying quietly.
Fenner put the Scotch on the edge of the desk, near her. “Put it down, baby,” he said. “It’s what you want.”
She looked at him and then at the Scotch. Then she reached forward and snatched up the glass. Her eyes blazed in her white face. She threw the whiskey in Fenner’s face.
Fenner stood very still, then he took out his bloodstained handkerchief and wiped his face. Paula put her face in her hands and began to cry properly. Fenner sat down behind his desk. He unpeeled his whiskey-soaked collar and dropped it into the trash basket, then he wiped his neck carefully with the handkerchief.
They sat there for several minutes, the silence only broken by the harsh sound of Paula’s sobs. Fenner felt like hell. The back of his head threatened to split open. The side of his face ached with a deadly throb, and the grazed, livid bruise on his neck smarted from the whiskey. He selected a cigarette from his case with fingers that trembled a little.
Paula stopped crying. “So you think you’re tough,” she said, without taking her head from her hands. “You think you’re good, do you? You let two cheap gunmen walk in here and do this to us? My God, Dave! You’re slipping. You’ve got soft and you’ve got yellow. Did you see what they did to me, while you were lying about on the floor, you sleeping beauty? I teamed up with you because I thought you could look after yourself and you could look after me, but I was wrong. You sat around and got soft . . . do you hear? You’re yellow and you’re soft! Then what do you do? You let them walk out of here and you crawl round to the bottle. Okay, Dave Fenner, I’m through. When I want a guy to rip my clothes off, I’ll ring you up. You can hold the lamp for him.” She beat the cushions with her clenched fists and began sobbing again. Then she said, “Oh, Dave . . . Dave . . . how could you let them do that to me?”
While she had been talking Fenner just sat there, his face wooden. His eyes were half shut, and they looked like chips of ice. He said, when she had finished, “You’re right, honey. I’ve been sittin’ around too long.” He got to his feet. “Don’t run out on me now. Just take things easy for a day or so. Shut up the office. I’m goin’ to be busy.” He jerked open his desk drawer, snatched up the .38, shoved it down the front of his trouser band, and adjusted the points of his vest to cover the butt. Then he walked quickly out of the office, shutting the door behind him.
An hour later, changed and neat again, Fenner thumbed a cab and gave a downtown address. As he was rushed through the heavy evening traffic he sat staring woodenly before him. Only his tightly clenched fists, that lay on each knee, indicated his suppressed feelings.
The cab swerved off Seventh Avenue and plunged into a noisy back street. A moment later it stopped, and Fenner climbed out. He tossed a dollar to the driver and picked his way across the pavement, avoiding the group of fighting kids milling around his feet.
He ran up a long flight of worn steps and rang the bell. The door opened after a while, and an old, disreputable woman squinted at him.
“Ike in?” he said shortly.
“Who wants him?”
“Tell him Fenner.”
The old woman slid the chain on the door and pulled it open. “Careful how you go up, mister,” she said. “Ike’s restless tonight.”
Fenner pushed past her and mounted the dark stairs.
The stench of stale cooking and dirt made him wrinkle his nose. On the first landing he rapped at a door. He heard a murmur of voices, and then a sudden hush. The door opened slowly and a slim, muscular lad with a pointed chin like a hog’s looked him over.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Tell Ike I want him. Fenner’s the name.”
The lad shut the door. Fenner heard him say something, then he pulled the door back and jerked his head. “Come on in,” he said.
Ike Bush was sitting at a table with four men; they were playing poker.
Fenner wandered in and stood just behind Bush. The other men looked at him suspiciously, but went on playing. Bush studied his cards thoughtfully. He was a big, fat man with a red rubbery face and ingrowing eyebrows. His thick fingers made the playing cards look like a set of dominoes.
Fenner watched him play for a few minutes. Then he leaned over and whispered in Bush’s ear: “You’re goin’ to take an’ awful hidin’.”
Bush studied the cards again, cleared his throat and spat on the floor. He threw down the cards in disgust. Pushing back his chair, he climbed to his feet and led Fenner to the other end of the room. “What you want?” he growled.
“Two Cubans,” Fenner said quietly. “Both dressed in black. Black slouch hats, white shirts and flashy ties. Black square shoes. Both little punks. Both wear rods.”
Ike shook his head. “Don’t know ’em,” he said; “they don’t belong here.”
Fenner regarded him coldly. “Then find out quick who they are. I want to get after those two fast.”
Ike shrugged. “What’ve they done to you?” he said. “I wantta get back to my game—”
Fenner turned his head slightly and showed the gash on his cheek-bone. “Those two punks came into my joint, gave me this . . . stripped Paula . . . and got away.”
Ike’s eyes bulged. “Wait,” he said. He went over to the telephone that stood on a small table across the room. After a long whispered conversation he hung up and jerked his head at Fenner.
Fenner went over to him. “Find them?”
“Yeah.” Ike rubbed his sweaty face with the back of his hand. “They’ve been in town five days. No one knows who the hell they are. They’ve got a joint out Brooklyn way. I got the address here. Seems they’ve taken a furnished house. Got dough, an’ no one knows what their racket is.”
Fenner reached out and took the paper on which Ike had written the address. He got to his feet.
Ike looked at him. “You goin’ into action?” he asked curiously. “Want one or two of the boys?”
Fenner showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. “I can manage,” he said shortly.
Ike reached out and picked up a dark bottle without any label. He looked inquiringly at Fenner. “One before you go?” he said.