I remained respectful. "Would you like to stop for coffee, first, Miss Franzini, or would you rather go directly home?"
"Home, please." Miss Franzini was being icy again. I shrugged and we set off. At Seventh Avenue and Barrow Street I was able to hail a cab.
It was only ten minutes to Philomina's apartment house — London Terrace — and we rode in regal silence to the awning marking the entrance.
I paid the cab and got out, then helped Philomina out. She pulled her arm away. "This will do," she said coldly. "Thank you very much."
I grabbed her elbow a little roughly, pivoted her and directed her toward the door. "I'm sorry, Miss Franzini. When Popeye Franzini tells me to take you home, I take you all the way home."
She could understand that, I guess, but felt she didn't have to reply. We went up the elevator in cold silence, while the elevator man tried to pretend to himself that we weren't there.
We got off on the seventeenth floor and I followed her down to her door, 17-E.
She took her key from her purse and looked at me coldly. "Good night, Mr. Canzoneri."
I smiled gently, and firmly took the key out of her hand. "Sorry, Miss Franzini. Not yet. I want to use your telephone."
"You can use the one in the bar down the street."
I smiled again as I put the key in the lock and opened the door. "I'd rather use yours." There wasn't much she could do about it. I was just about twice her size.
Philomina flicked on a light in the small foyer, then led the way into a neatly furnished living room and turned on one of the two floor lamps flanking a comfortable looking sofa. I perched on one end of the couch, picked up the phone and dialed a number.
Philomina gave me a dirty look, crossed her arms and leaned against the opposite wall. She wasn't even going to take that stole off until I got out of there.
It was after midnight, but I let the phone ring. The telephone at AXE's central information section is manned twenty-four hours a day. Finally, a girl's voice answered. "Six-nine-oh-oh."
"Thank you," I said. "Would you charge this call to my credit card number, please? H-281-766-5502." The last four numbers were the key of course, my serial number as AXE's No. 1 agent.
"Yes sir," said the voice on the other end.
"I need a red file check," I said. Philomina could hear everything I was saying, of course, but she couldn't possibly make much sense out of it. A red file check was a checkout on the highly secret list of confidential FBI agents. The white file was for CIA, blue for the National Security Agency, but I was playing a hunch it was red I wanted.
"Yes, sir," the girl on the telephone said.
"New York," I said. "Philomina Franzini. F-r-a-n-z-i-n-i." I looked over at her and gave a slight smile. She was standing with arms akimbo, balled fists pressed against her hips, her eyes snapping.
"Just a moment, sir."
It was more than a moment, but I waited patiently, Philomina watching.
The voice came back on. "Philomina Franzini, sir? F-r-a-n-z-i-n-i?"
"Yes."
"That is affirmative, sir. Red File. Status C-Seven. Four years. Class Twelve. The Franzini Olive Oil Company. Do you understand Status and Class, sir?"
She would have explained them, but I knew, all right. Philomina had been an FBI agent for four years. Status C-7 meant she was one of those thousands of FBI informers who are volunteers, and never are in contact with any other agents except the single man in charge of them. Class 12 meant she was never to be asked for action, nor was she to have access to any classified information about the Bureau.
Jack Gourlay once told me there were thousands of Status C-7 agents — informers would be a better word — working for legitimate companies around New York City, filing regular monthly reports on the business operation. Ninety-five percent, he said, never turned up anything of value, but the other five percent made all the drudgery of sifting through reports worthwhile.
I put the phone down and turned to Philomina.
"Well, what do you know," I said. "Aren't you the nice little girl, though?"
"What do you mean?"
"Spying on your own uncle. Now, that just isn't right, Philomina."
She turned white. One hand flew to her mouth and she nibbled at the back of a knuckle. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. Spying on your uncle for the FBI."
"That's crazy! I don't know what you're talking about!"
She looked terrified, and I couldn't blame her. As far as she knew, I was just another hood about to hook up with the Franzini family. What I was saying could destroy her. There was no point in tormenting her. I started to tell her, then stopped.
She had made one slight movement, as if holding back a sob, her hands fumbling beneath the flame red stole. Then suddenly there was a small, ugly gun in her hand, a Saturday Night Special. It was pointed directly at me. The muzzle looked enormous.
I threw up my hands in a hurry. "Hey, wait a minute! Wait a minute!"
The look of frightened panic that had made me feel sorry for her a moment before was now gone. There was a cold, almost vicious look to her black eyes and that soft, sensuous mouth was drawn into a taut line.
She gestured with the ugly little gun. "Sit down!"
"Now, wait…"
"I said, sit down."
I turned to sit on the sofa, bending slightly as most people when they start to sit on something as deeply settling as a couch. Then, with one swinging movement I grabbed the tight blue pillow decorating the back of the couch and slung it at her as I dove headlong over the end of the couch.
The Saturday Night Special roared in my ear and a bullet slammed into the wall just above my head.
On the floor now, I rolled into a fast crouch and sprung at where she must be standing, my head thrust forward like a battering ram, slamming into her stomach.
But she sidestepped neatly. I had a momentary glimpse of the gun, flashing up, and then down. Something crashed against the back of my ear and my head exploded in a great flash of red pain and black nothingness.
When I came to, I was flat on my back on the living room floor. Philomina Franzini sat astride my body. I was groggily aware that her skirt was pulled up high over her hips, but only groggily. I was much more acutely aware of the fact that the muzzle of the gun was jammed into my mouth. The cold metal was hard and tasteless against my teeth.
I blinked my eyes to clear the film from them.
Despite her unladylike position, Philomina's voice was coldly efficient.
"All right. Talk. T want to know who you called and why. Then I'm turning you over to the FBI. Understand? And if I have to, I'll kill you."
I looked up at her bleakly.
"Talk!" she gritted. She moved the gun back just enough so it wasn't gagging me, but the muzzle of it still brushed against my lips. Philomina seemed to prefer point-blank range.
"Talk!" she demanded.
I didn't have much choice. As Class 12, she wasn't supposed to get any classified information. And I was certainly classified. On the other hand, she had that damned pistol jammed in my face and to go through the charade of having her turn me into the FBI seemed sort of silly.
I began talking.
It's hard to be earnest when you're flat on your back with a well-packed and vibrant girl sitting on your chest and a gun barrel nudging your lips. But 1 tried. I tried very hard.
"Okay, honey. You win, but take it easy."
She glared at me.
I tried again. "Look, we're on the same side of this thing. Honest! Who do you think I just called? I was just calling the FBI to check on you."
"What made you do that?"
"Something you said. The way you hate everything here and still stick around. There had to be a reason."