He released her, and she smoothed down the rumpled front of her dress; as always, her clothes looked too large for the doll-like body. She looked at him speculatively. “This means you're not coming by the apartment this afternoon?”
“Few errands to run, Ma.” He returned to the bed, and in seconds she slithered in beside him, the boyish slimness cool to his hands. She stretched lazily along his length, and the little hammers started to pound behind his eyes. Over her shoulder he could see the added light in the room as the golden reflection moved farther down the windows across the street.
He counterbalanced Sally's leaning figure with his arm as she stretched for cigarettes and lighter on the night table. She leaned over him as she flipped on the lighter for the cigarette she popped between his lips. “You know, man-”
“Mmmm?” He blew cigarette smoke up at her.
“You're something better than a vacuum.” She grinned down at him. “To accentuate the positive, sir, you're adequate.” She punched him in the ribs with a sharp-knuckled little fist and slid from the bed before he could grab her.
“I've got to make like a lady again and get out of here.”
He could hear the rustle of her clothing as she dressed. He ducked as ash from his cigarette dropped on his bare chest; he brushed at it hastily, rolled sideways and stubbed out the butt. On his back again he locked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Sally?”
“Yes?”
“You know the big blonde down on the mezzanine works for Ed Russo?”
She appeared beside the bed to look down at him, her hands busy with the belt of her dress. “Mavis? A bleached iceberg. She's no more a blonde than I am. A hard ticket. A twenty-minute egg.” She smiled wryly. “So I'd like to have her figure. All I know about her is that if you follow the panting tongues there's Mavis. What's on your mind, besides lechery?”
“Information.”
“I'd guess that if you didn't run out of money too fast you might get a little.”
“From the sound, she better not ask you to hold her coat.
She footie-footie with anyone around here?”
“I hear Marty Seiden makes a pass every once in a while.” Johnny's head came off the pillow. “Marty? The kid's over-matchin' himself puttin' on the gloves with that trumpet.”
Sally laughed. “Is that my cue to ask you how you know? Maybe he's just apprenticing; a boy has to start somewhere, doesn't he? If you're serious about wanting information why don't you talk to Mike Larsen? He knows everyone. Everyone's business, too.”
“Mike?” Johnny nodded slowly. “I should have thought of Mike. Score one for your side, Ma; remind me to put you on the pay roll. That might be-” He trailed off, lost in thought.
“Let me get out of here,” Sally said firmly. She bent swiftly and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Don't get up. I'll scout the corridor.” She blew him a kiss from the door as she closed it softly behind her.
After staring at the closed door a moment Johnny considered the ceiling again. This Russo, now; he was beginning to have a rather strong smell. There were a few things he'd like to know about Russo. Russo had a distinction: he tied in to both Ellen Saxon and Robert Sanders. No one else with his nose above water did. Except Lorraine Barnes, Johnny reminded himself wearily. He wished he could make up his mind about Lorraine Barnes. She certainly had plenty to cover up cross-town if she'd just come off a date with Sanders before he caught the four in the head. And why else would she have been there? Unless to pour a little lead herself? Maybe Sanders had given her the checkered flag, and she wasn't the type to take it without a rebuttal?
He half rolled over to reach for a cigarette. This Lorraine He winced as the phone on the table went off practically in his ear. He grabbed at it before it could ring again. “Yeah?”
“This is Sally, Johnny. I'm calling from the booth in the lobby downstairs.” He could hear the bubbling excitement in her voice. “I didn't use the elevator coming down just now, of course, and when I crossed the mezzanine I saw Mavis in her office. This early, mind you.” She paused dramatically. “This'll kill you; you know who's with her? What's the name of that cute-looking detective who was here the other night? The one that was around with Dameron when we had the trouble before?”
“Rogers?”
“That's the one. I couldn't think of his name. What do you suppose-”
“He still up there?”
“He hasn't come down the stairs. I can't see the elevators.”
“Hang up, Ma. I want to talk to him. I'll call you.” He broke the connection on his end and jiggled for the operator. “Public stenographer's office,” he told her when she came on the line.
“I doubt there's anyone there yet-” He could hear her ringing. About the fourth ring the phone was picked up; the strident female voice sounded annoyed.
“We're not open yet. Who is this?”
Johnny made his voice neutral. “Let me speak to Detective James Rogers.”
“You've got the wr-” The line hummed emptily for an instant. “Detective?” It was almost a gasp. The voice was fainter; she must be staring at Rogers over the lowered phone, Johnny thought. “You're a detective? Why, you no-good-”
Johnny replaced the phone quietly. He sat and looked down at it, then shook his head and grinned unwillingly. No place to hide on this one. Jimmy Rogers only had to get to the switchboard to find out where the call had originated. And after having a brick like that dropped on him there was a fat chance of his not checking.
Johnny shook with silent laughter; he could picture Rogers in the middle of the stairs, too mad to wait for the elevator. He got up and went to the closet and shrugged into a robe; from the refrigerator he removed a can of orange juice, punched it open and poured two glasses. He carried a glass to the door and listened. It was not a long wait.
When the footsteps he could hear in the corridor halted outside Johnny opened the door left-handed and pushed the glass of orange juice into the hand upraised to knock. The hand closed around it automatically. “Good morning, Jimmy. Join me?”
Detective Rogers snorted. He was hatless, and the sandy hair stood up in spiked tufts; his smattering of freckles was nearly lost in his high color, and his breath came rapidly. He looked down unbelievingly at the glass in his hand; he half raised it as if to throw it, then changed his mind. He pushed inside, and his voice was throaty. “What in the star-spangled damn hell were-”
He foundered on Johnny's upraised palm. “Easy, boy. Easy. Whyn't you let me know you'd come socializin'?”
“Socializing!”
“Why, sure.” Johnny looked surprised. “If you weren't there as Detective Rogers? You go for those big blondes? I ought to tell your wife.”
“Blondes? Wife?” The sandy-haired man breathed deeply; his voice geared itself up from sputtering inquiry to authoritarian roar. “Now listen, Killain-”
“Okay, okay,” Johnny broke in. “I dropped a shoe. Sue me.”
And he started to laugh. He stood in the middle of the floor and laughed until he doubled up helplessly; he shook until he hung helplessly over the back of the armchair, holding his sides. He straightened finally, wiping his eyes, ribs hurting. Across the room Jimmy Rogers, though still red in the face, was fighting to prevent the upturn at the corners of his mouth. He gave up finally and let the meager smile crack through; he looked down again at the orange juice in his hand, lifted the glass and drained it. He rubbed his chin unbelievingly. “Boy! Talk about being struck by lightning! That woman knocked my hat off and jumped on it.”
Johnny's internal trembles threatened him again. “Cut it out. I'm sore now. What were you doing down there?”