He rolled over twice and struck the curb with his shoulder. A flickering blackness deeper than the after-midnight street darkness hovered for an instant and then cleared. Ellen knelt beside him in the gutter, and her voice was an urgent contralto litany. “Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!”
He sat up dizzily. “All right, kid. Save it for when you need it.” He tried to look up at her and found himself at eye level with the solemn, unblinking gaze of the white kitten still in the crook of Ellen's arm. He nodded approvingly. “You got the right idea, Whitey. Let's not get too shook over this little corrida.” He heaved himself to his knees. “Come on, Ellen. No barricades out here if there should be a rebuttal.” She took his arm anxiously.
On the sidewalk beside them a high-pitched voice spoke in the accents of age. “Craziest thing I ever seen, Jack. You tryin' to tip him over in the street?” He was a thin, elderly man with wispy gray hair, and he looked at Johnny as at some strange animal.
Johnny eased himself erect; it took an effort. Something seemed to be the matter with his right hand, and he looked down at it. He was still holding the door handle of the sedan; it took a little prying with his left hand to loosen it from his right palm, and it clattered into the gutter. He removed the jacket of his uniform, with a reminding twinge from his arm, and swung it over Ellen's bare shoulders; the white glow of her must be visible clear to Broadway, he thought.
“Holy Maria!” the high-pitched voice said in awed accents. “Tore the handle right offa the door. Right offa the damn-”
“Okay, Pop.” Johnny looked hard at him. “Stop racin' your motor. Blow. Deal 'em somewheres else. Fly away home.”
The elderly man backed off precipitately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sure.” He kept looking back over his shoulder.
They did not seem to have attracted too much other attention, Johnny reflected, which considering the neighborhood and the hour was not too surprising. That couldn't reasonably be expected to endure indefinitely, though; as he again started Ellen toward the hotel he strained mentally to get a reaction from his one quick glimpse of the dark, shapeless figure that had been huddled over the steering wheel of the sedan. He shook his head; he didn't even know if it had been man, woman, or child.
Ellen's pumps scuffed along beside him in the night mist on the alley cobblestones. He led her through the big iron door that led into the hotel's subbasement and along the narrow fifteen-foot passageway to the elevator. In its light he got his first good look at her; Ellen's lipstick grimaced at him like a clown's mouth in the pallor of her face as she tried to smile at him. “Same old Johnny.”
“Same old Ellen.” Not really, though, he thought. The body that had been so youthfully promising had now spectacularly matured. Her dress did not hint at it; it stated it firmly. The eyes were the same-level, intelligent. Blue eyes that contrasted well with the dark hair and the duskily Indianized complexion. Her brows were black wings. He could see the indistinct tiny scar on the short upper lip, souvenir of a childhood accident. The tiny scar that appeared only when she was extremely fatigued or emotionally aroused. He remembered with a wrench the hours and the nights he had spent in provoking the appearance of the little scar; Ellen had always been a very generous person. Something seemed to ache dully behind his eyeballs. On Ellen's arm the kitten tongued a paw and transferred the paw to its small, serious face.
She spoke tiredly from the depths of her exhaustion. “You didn't have to do that, Johnny. Or this, either. I realize it now. I shouldn't have asked you. I have no right. I just panicked-”
He stopped her with a finger on her lips. “Some things don't change much, kid. Let's go upstairs.”
Her voice was choked. “Johnny?”
“Skip it, Ellen.” He extended a finger toward the kitten, and the white ruff around the small neck swelled angrily. “This kid is right on the muscle, isn't he? What's his name?”
“He's a she. A Persian. I'm delivering-I call her Sassy.”
“Suits her.” He tried to pin her eyes with his own, but she evaded him. “You gonna tell me now about this skirmish?”
He could see the flesh tighten over her cheekbones as her features set rigidly. She shook her head. “Not now. Please.”
“Right now, lady. You think this is something to fool around with after what just happened outside?”
Her hand came up slowly in an effort to conceal the trembling of her lips. “Please, Johnny. I saw… I think I saw something-” She hesitated. “I'm not sure what I saw. I've got to think. I've-” Her body began to shake uncontrollably, and she moistened dry lips. “Let me rest a little, Johnny. Let me think. Then-then I'll talk to you… please.”
He gave up. He would have to get her quieted down first; then he would get the whole story. He slid the shining bronze doors shut in a crash of metal, and the elevator ascended quietly.
CHAPTER 2
The customer entered briskly through the wide glass doors of Stone's and walked directly to the watch trays. The stout young clerk in the white linen jacket paused in his early morning task of removing the lightweight linen dustcloths from the showcases and moved in behind the counter. The subdued indirect fluorescent lighting, the lush, heavy carpeting, the elaborately simple individual displays and the ornate marble staircase winding away to the offices on the second floor all contributed to the cathedral-like serenity which was the hallmark of Stone's, Jewelers.
“Yes, sir?”
“You Manny Kessler? Tom Jenkins told me to look you up. Said you might have the Medallion in the Donada line.”
Warmth came into the clerk's voice. “I'm Kessler, and we do have the Medallion, sir.” Jenkins? Tom Jenkins? Manny Kessler couldn't remember a Tom Jenkins, but he had not the slightest trouble at all in remembering that the Medallion was the most expensive ladies' number in the line. He opened a drawer beneath the counter and removed a glistening minuscule watch which he displayed on the black velvet pad of the showcase. “An exceptional value, sir.”
The customer picked up the watch and turned it over in his hands appraisingly.
“The very finest twenty-one jeweled movement, sir. And look at the styling. The very-”
“I'll take it.”
Manny nodded, and turned immediately to pick up a gift box from the back counter. A bit disconcerting to have the animals walk in off the street and jerk the merchandise right out of your hand, but a sale is a sale. Never offer to show them anything after they've pronounced the fatal words. Procrastination is the thief of commissions. “Charge, sir?”
“Cash.” The customer fingered out four crisp new bills from a slim billfold. He picked up his wrapped package and a very small amount of change and left as rapidly as he had entered. Manny shrugged as he closed the register drawer. Not a bad start.
He moved back in the direction of the still jacketed showcases, then detoured to the front of the shop. Behind the front window he paused; he was concealed from the eyes of passers-by by the heavy, dove-gray drapery which served as a window backdrop. He moved a fold slightly to one side and looked across the street.
Sam was there.
Sam was standing just behind the front window of his store across the street. Watching. Just standing and watching, as he had yesterday, last week and last month. Standing and staring across the street. You didn't really even need to see him, Manny thought to himself. You can feel him.
He forced himself to move away from the window. Stop thinking about it, he told himself. You're getting as bad as he is. Forget about Sam. An ulcer you need? Sam would like that. Sam would like that fine, but ulcers are too good for what Sam would wish for Richard Harrison Stone, Jr.