The reception clerk caught sight of him and motioned him over. From under the counter he pulled a folded telephone message, slipped it to Novak and went back to explaining something to an irritated lady.
Novak moved away and unfolded the message. Four words only: No strain. Pike Hammond.
Novak balled the message and dropped it in an ash stand. Nice of him to remember me, he thought, and straightened his lapels. That meant Hammond had picked up Barada’s trail. But he still had to squeeze sixty-five grand out of him. Novak tried to think of the many ways a man like Pike Hammond could press juice out of a dry stone.
Andy the bell captain came up to him. “Nothing yet, Pete. You staying around a while?”
“Yeah. I’ll gobble the coffee shop special before I go home.”
He went over to the newsstand, bought an evening paper and carried it into the coffee shop. The cashier girl nodded to him as he mounted a stool at the counter. A waitress with an ivory smile took his order and asked if he wanted cream in his coffee.
Novak folded his paper, propped it against the sugar shaker and began reading baseball news. Not much action yet, too early in the season. Trades and deals and practice games in southern training camps. A game called for hail in Sarasota. Options, a sensational new southpaw from East Texas State. The waitress brought his dinner and Novak put the paper aside.
There was nothing wrong with the food. It was standard hotel coffee shop food with the usual decorative sprigs of defrosted parsley, but he hadn’t much appetite. He toyed with the pork tenderloin, the frozen peas and string potatoes and began drinking his coffee. Like Julia Boyd, he had too many things on his mind. Plus a date at eight. Sylvia Riordan. She would have a pelt like wet sable and skin like waxed marble. Oh, yes, a fifth of bonded bourbon. Something to get at the corner store on his way home.
He was stirring his coffee moodily when a bellhop came up to him. “Phone call, Mr. Novak. Operator Three.”
Novak nodded, glanced down at his hardly touched plate, signed the check, left a quarter for the waitress and went out to the ledge that held the house phones.
When the operator had switched his call he heard a voice crackle through the receiver. A voice as thin as a knife. “Novak?”
“Yeah.”
“No names, understand? We met the other night in a certain lady’s room.”
“Get specific. I’m forever running into guys in dames’ rooms. Part of the business.”
“Save it for a sister act,” the voice sneered. “The lady checked out today. Only she didn’t get very far. She’s here right now. She wants to see you, Novak. She can barely stand the pain. Get it?”
His flesh was clammy with sweat. Chilled fingers gripped the black rubber handle. “Let me talk to her,” he said unsteadily.
“Sure. I’m taking the phone to her.”
A moment of silence, then Paula’s voice, strained and breathy. “Pete...don’t—” then the hard crack of a slap and a scream, fading as the phone was jerked away.
The voice was cold and vicious. “She’s not herself tonight, Novak. A great little kidder. She meant to say she wants you to come and straighten a few things out. Any objections?”
“No,” Novak said in a cracked voice.
A snotty chuckle. “The sooner you get here the sooner she can relax. And stash the heater home. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“You got ten minutes to get to the corner of Vermont and Fourteenth. South side. Any cops and the lady gets hurt.” The line clicked off, and Novak lowered the receiver. Stiffly his fingers released it on the cradle. His eyes traveled to his wristwatch and marked the time. He could make it in five minutes if he hurried.
Novak spun around, jogged to his office. He flipped on the lights and spun the safe dial. He missed it the first time, swore and forced unsteady fingers to retrace the combination. This time the drawer opened, and he pulled out Paula’s chrome-plated automatic. He jacked a shell into the chamber, clicked off the safety and bent over. Pulling up his right trouser leg he lowered his garter, tightened it and slid the automatic down against the back of his leg below the bulge of the calf. The garter would hold it in place until he needed it.
Jerking off his coat he shed the shoulder holster and jammed the .38 in his inside pocket. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out a bone-handled folding knife. The knife he dropped in his right coat pocket. Then he snatched his hat from the rack and raced out of the office.
On K Street he dodged through ebbing sidewalk crowds, pulse throbbing in his temples, throat tight and raw. It was cool enough for gloves and a topcoat but there was sweat around his neck and his palms were damp, fingers stiff.
Past the Investment Building, then only a short block to Vermont. Traffic swarmed past, tires snicking like knives in green wood. A blur of neon signs, the lighted window of a drugstore jammed with cheap toys and plastic skeleton models. Straining he peered through the darkness and saw the lighted statue at Thomas Circle. Below it a steady whirl of cars rounding the circle, cutting off, converging within the close-packed maze. His lips were dry. He moistened them, glanced at his watch. Two minutes to go. They had planned it neatly.
Past the Burlington Hotel. Now he could see the point where Fourteenth cut across Vermont. The spot where he was supposed to wait. Inside his coat the revolver banged loosely against his ribs. His hip sockets ached. He sucked cold air into his lungs, coughed and kept going. Dimmed headlights of circling cars stared like unseeing eyes. Novak reached the point and rested against the lamppost. Breathing deeply, he saw that there was a minute to go.
Slowly the pounding in his temples eased and his pulse slowed. His hatband was clammy. He took it off, wiped it on his sleeve, fitted it on his head again.
His eyes searched each car that followed the outside lane. Beige, blue, dandelion yellow; new, old, dented fenders, paint spots on the doors. All anonymous. No way to tell which was the contact car. Glancing down he saw hands clenched into hard fists. He straightened the fingers, flexed the stiff joints and rubbed the palms against his legs. His left foot toed the back of his right leg. The pistol was still in place. Paula’s garter gun.
Squinting at the traveling wheel of cars he saw one cross to the outside lane and head for the lamppost. The driver stuck out his hand, slowed and stopped beside Novak. A dark blue Chevy sedan.
From the rear seat a voice barked, “We ain’t got a world of time.”
Blocked cars honked their horns. Novak stepped off the curb, yanked the door open and got in. The car jerked forward, slamming him against the seat. A voice rumbled, “You’re covered, Novak. Lift the arms.”
Novak raised his arms, felt a hand patting his pockets, his chest. It prodded the revolver, dipped into his coat and pulled it out.
“Naughty boy,” the voice chided. “You was told not to bring the iron.”
Novak grunted, lowered his arms, fitted himself into the seat corner.
The man who had taken his revolver stowed it in a coat pocket and leered at him. “That gives me two. And none for you. Like it?”
“Not much,” Novak croaked and saw the man’s head turn.
“Okay, Tags. We ain’t followed. Feed it some gas. Ben’s waiting.”
The car had made a half circle and come onto Vermont Avenue again. It headed north, picking up speed.
16
Novak’s hands gripped his knees. His face looked dejected, defeated. His eyes studied the other man. Hatless and hair too long. The eyes were narrow and his forehead was too thin. One of the guys who had played soccer with him in the alley.