“Sure,” I said. “Sure.”
It was 3:35 and the day hadn’t changed yet. I waited in the doorway until a cab showed with his toplight on and I flagged him down. I rode up to where the Peter J. Haynes III Co., Inc. was out of sight 16 floors up and gave the business to the elevator boy. He looked at me, shrugged and sent the car up.
The place was quiet. From some distant room came the soft clack of a typewriter and from another angle there was the muted monotone of someone on the telephone. An unmarked door beside the reception desk opened and the redhead came out, saw me and grinned all over. She was in tight green and knew what it was doing for her. “I could hope you came to see me but I know you didn’t.”
“How come you work on Saturdays?”
“Only some Saturdays. It’s quiet then and on busy seasons you can catch up.”
“I get the kick. Carmen here?”
“Miss Smith?”
I shook my head. “Carmen. We’re buddies.”
Her eyes flicked away, then came back annoyed a moment before the smile touched them again. “Second best. That’s how I always come out. No, she’s not here. She was shopping and was in and out a couple of times. Did you call her home?”
“Uh-uh.”
She reached for the phone and dialed a number. I heard it ring about half a dozen times then the redhead said, “Nobody’s there, but do you want to leave a message?”
I didn’t get it and she caught my look. She reached behind her head and slid a wall picture to one side. There, built in, was a tape recorder with half-filled spools. “Cuts in after the tenth ring,” she said. “Canned voice asks for a message and you’re free to talk for three minutes. Besides, they record all outgoing calls. Shall I leave a message?”
“Clever,” I said. “So tell her I’ll be there for supper at six.” I heard the flat enunciation of the canned secretary, then the message was passed on.
When she hung up the redhead said, “Tell me, Mr. ...”
“Ryan.”
“...Mr. Ryan... you’re not going to hurt... Miss Smith, are you?”
“I don’t get it.”
“She has lights in her eyes.”
I waited for the rest of it.
She said, “I know who you are, Mr. Ryan. Although the pictures in the papers hardly flatter you.”
I could feel myself go warm with a flash that only fear can start. Like a jerk I left myself wide open and this kid could put a damper on the whole thing. Maybe she saw what I was thinking. It should have been plain enough.
She smiled again. There was no malice, no guile in it at all. “I’m concerned about Miss Smith. Does she know?”
“She knows. She’s helping out.”
“You didn’t do those things?”
“Some of them,” I told her without hesitating. “They were justified. I think in the end it’ll all come out clean.”
“Think?”
“If I get knocked there’ll be no washday, sugar. I’ll be all dirty socks and bad memories, no wash, just a burial like skunk-sprayed clothes.”
For a short space the laughter left her eyes and she said seriously, “Don’t let that happen, Mr. Ryan.”
“I’ll try not to,” I grinned.
There were some packages Carmen had left there and I took them with me. In their own way they provided a good cover on the street. A guy with packages has a normal look about him.
By the time I reached Carmen’s apartment it was a quarter to six and I took the back way in. I got off the service elevator and used the key she had given me. When the door opened some crazy low-beat jazz flowed out at me and I saw her dancing to it in the middle of the room.
I put the packages down, walked in and watched her. She was great. To that jangled sound she danced a sensuous dance that didn’t match the beat, but fitted the mood perfectly. Her sweater was tight and black and her breasts were free beneath it. Under their lovely swelling the mesh stretched and the flesh tints made startling contrasts against the black. The skirt was a full thing, deeply maroon, and when she spun it mushroomed out, giving a brief glimpse of long legs, beautifully rounded. Very deliberately, almost professionally, she twisted fast, and the mushroom flattened for a single moment and you knew that like with the sweater, there was nothing else at all. She laughed at me across the room and I caught at the studded belt she wore and drew her convexly against me and tasted her mouth.
Her breathing was deep and fast and there was a bloom in her face. Her eyes were lit up like stars and she touched my cheeks with her fingers. “I’ve never felt like this before, Irish.”
“I haven’t, either.”
“I wish this were... for real. That we weren’t... looking for anyone.”
“We’ll do it again. Another time.”
“All right. Shall we eat? I have steak.”
“I want you.”
“Later,” she said.
You got to see these places to believe them. It was what somebody had done to an old building to get floor space in one room and at the far end built a platform for the band. The Johns were on either side, but you could smell them when you came in. Later, with sweat, gin and cheap perfume you wouldn’t notice it, but early, they stank.
The guy at the door took the ticket and gave Carmen a double take. She went all the way with the act even to a mouthful of gum and a shoulder strap bag that was nothing more than a weapon. The robbers inside hadn’t started up-pricing the soft drinks yet, waiting for the whiskey crowd to come in. All five pieces of the band were there, real gone already in a cloud of smoke. They were doing a soft cha-cha with closed eyes, not playing for anybody but themselves as yet.
I took Carmen into the dance, playing it snug right in front of the sax man. He winked down at us and let it moan low. In back of us, at the door, they were coming in fast, about three stags to every couple. It was a trouble night.
Saturday, rain, not enough dames.
I said, “You need any prompting?”
Her hair swirled to the tempo of the music. “I know what to say.”
“Tell me.”
“Alfredo Lias. Off the Gastry. I gave him money to buy me a watch overseas. He said he’d meet me here.”
“And watch out for the wolves.”
“I like wolves,” she said.
At 10 the place was crowded. Only stragglers were still coming in. All sides of the room were lined with the stags, eyeing the women, cutting in on those they picked out. Roaming around like restless dogs were a half dozen big ones, stopping the fights that started and getting rid of the troublemakers.
I took Carmen to the soft drink concession and bought two ginger ales for a buck. Before she finished hers, a sleek-looking gook in sharp duds came over and without looking at me, asked her to dance. She glanced at me for confirmation and I said, “Go ahead, it’ll be a rare experience.”
The gook’s face pulled tight, but he took her arm without speaking and melted into the crowd on the floor. The little guy tapped my arm and said, “Señor, be careful of that one. He did not come here just to listen to the music.”
I waited until they came around again and when the gook protested, I poked my finger in his eyeball and we walked away. In back the guy screamed into his hands.
We asked around and neither of us found the one we were looking for. At midnight they drew for the door prize and some dame won a bottle of Scotch.
At one the band was looking at their watches and two good-sized fights had broken out across the room. The bouncers took care of them in a hurry and a few were hustled out lengthwise. Couples had started to leave and even the ranks of the stags were thinning out. If Lias knew his friend was dead it wasn’t likely that he’d be in a gay mood. If he were anywhere he’d be on the fringe of the crowd, taking advantage of numbers.