He made a little grimace. “I suppose I should,” he admitted. “This is so out of my hands. I feel there is something so repugnant about it that I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”
She reached out and gathered up her bag. “Good-bye, Harry,” she said; “thank you for everything.”
“Don’t go,” he said quickly. “You can’t leave it like this. For God’s sake, think what you are doing.”
She slid off the stool. “There is really nothing more to be done; it is all settled. I just didn’t want to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”
He said very bitterly: “Then last year doesn’t mean anything? It is just so much dust… nothing.”
She bit her lip, then put her hand on his arm. “You see why I ought to go quickly? We shall be saying cruel things in a moment and we shall be sorry. Good-bye, Harry,” and she went out of the bar quickly, moving lightly and gracefully.
Mandell watched her go regretfully. The conversation had amused him. As she passed through the door, a girl came in and stood looking round the bar. Mandell’s lips tightened. He recognized the type immediately. That was one thing he wouldn’t stand for in his bar. He said to the big man, “You’ll excuse me if I come through the barrier, sir, there’s a dame blown in who looks very doubtful. I’m just goin’ to tell her to beat it.”
The big man looked over his shoulder at the girl. He got off the stool. “Doubtful, did you say?” he said. “Why, you big stiff, she’s a goddam certainty,” and he walked across to the girl who met him with a professional smile and they went away together.
THE PAINTED ANGEL
Slug Moynihan eased his weight against the lamp-post and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. The hard light from the lamp threw his face into dark shadows, hiding his eyes and lighting his square jaw. He was wearing a light sport’s coat over a white polo sweater, and his shabby flannel trousers were noticeably frayed at the turn-ups.
People who passed, glanced at him curiously, and then, as he turned his head, they looked away hurriedly. Slug was a tough bird and he didn’t like people looking at him. He belonged to a team of third-rate boxers who fought at Henklestien’s saloon twice a week. He made a little money and took a lot of punishment. He was still under twenty-five, so he found that the punishment didn’t affect him. All the same, it sometimes worried him when he watched the older fighters gradually going slug nutty. He could see that happening to him before long.
Right now he wasn’t worrying about that. He had other things to worry him. He had got Rose Hanson on his mind. Usually, Slug was particularly callous with women. When he wanted one, he’d find one, take her and then forget her. He generally got what he wanted without any trouble. Chiefly because he was careful whom he chose. There were still a lot of dumb blondes who fell for a fighter, but apart from their physical use, Slug just didn’t give them a second thought. Now Rose Hanson had blown along and things were different. Slug didn’t realize it, but he had got Rose in his system in a bad way. He had made his usual overture to her, saying: “Listen, honey, you and me could get places. How about settlin’ down in bed together?” which generally proved effective. Rose had looked through him and had given him the air. She didn’t even give him the pleasure of embarrassing her as some of the more prudent ones had done. She simply ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken, and that certainly had done things to Slug.
He had first met her at the Ciro Dance Hall, which stood at the corner of Forty-third and Western Avenue. She was dancing with a tall, thin guy who looked as if he’d got a lot of dough. Slug considered starting trouble, then decided that it would only get himself in bad with Rose. All the same, his fingers itched to get a grip on this thin guy’s neck, and the temptation had been so strong that he had left the hall and gone home.
He thought he could forget about Rose, but he found that she was continually coming into his daily existence. He saw her several times on the street and once in a snack-bar having lunch. The tall, thin guy was with her and Slug saw them come out together.
Every time he saw Rose, his desire for her mounted until he decided that something had got to be done about it. He found out with considerable difficulty where she worked. She was a manicurist at a smart little barber’s saloon run by a guy named Brownrigg. Slug decided that he’d go and have a manicure. It cost him a lot to get himself in the saloon. He was sweating visibly to think that his companions might see him undergoing sissy treatment to his broken fists. However, he walked in and nodded ferociously at Brownrigg, who was a little guy, with a lot of black wavy hair and a pencilled moustache.
“You gotta dame here who fixes nails, ain’t you?” Slug asked, taking off his cap and mopping his face.
Brownrigg opened his eyes. “Sure, Mr. Moynihan. Come right in and sit down.”
Slug looked at him suspiciously. “How the hell do you know I’m Moynihan?” he asked.
Brownrigg smiled. “I follow your fights,” he said. “You’re goin’ to get somewhere one of these days. I know a champ when I see one.”
Slug grunted and sat down. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, hustle this dame along. I ain’t got all day.”
Brownrigg went behind a curtain at the end of the saloon and then came back after a few minutes. “Miss Hanson’s just comin’,” he said. “Would you like a hair-cut or a shave as well?”
Slug scowled at him. “No,” he said, “get out in the front of the shop. I want to talk to this dame.”
Brownrigg hesitated, and then said: “That’s all right, Mr. Moynihan, you go ahead.”
Slug sneered at him. “Sure it’s all right,” he said. “Get movin’, Clippers, an’ don’t come back till I’ve gone.”
Brownrigg went into the shop meekly enough, but he left the saloon door open an inch or two. He didn’t like the look on Slug’s battered face.
Rose Hanson came from behind the curtain, wheeling a little table on which was set out all her manicure paraphernalia. When she saw Slug, her face hardened.
She was a swell-looking dame with curves in the right places and thick auburn hair. “Oh, it’s you,” she said disdainfully. “What do you want?”
Slug looked at her admiringly. “Just fix my nails, baby,” he said, “and I’ll tell you some bedtime stories.”
She shook her head. “You don’t want a manicure,” she said. “You want a pneumatic drill with hands like yours.”
Slug flexed his huge hands and grinned foolishly. “Listen, baby,” he said, “these mitts earn me a nice slice. I thought maybe they oughtta have a birthday present. Come on, give ’em a treat.”
She pulled a stool up close to him and sat down, then she crossed her leg, showing him a neat knee. Slug looked openly at her shapely legs. “That’s a grand pair of stems you got there,” he said. “You’re certainly a red-hot number.”
She took one of his hands. “Don’t tell me,” she said, “I know.”
Slugs pursed his mouth. This dame was hard-boiled all right, he thought. It was going to be mighty hard work to make her. “Like a ticket for one of my fights?” he said, trying the best trick of all his stock-in-trade. “There’ll be a grand show tomorrow an’ I can get you a ringside if you say the word.”
She was looking rather hopelessly at his hand. “What did you say?” she asked.
Slug heaved a heavy sigh and repeated his invitation.
“I don’t like fights,” she said, beginning to work on his nails. “But I could give the ticket to a friend of mine if you have one to spare.”
Slug blew out his cheeks. The crust of this dame, he thought. “Is that the long guy you float around with?” he asked.
Rose glanced up at him and then concentrated on his nails once more. “You seem to know a lot about me,” she said. “Harry is crazy about fights. He’ll be pleased to get the ticket.”