I grinned. Not many people worried about me, and it was a nice feeling. "I'll be real careful, sugar. In fact, I'll call you back later so you'll know everything is all right. O.K.?"
"If you don't I'll never forgive you. I'll be waiting for you."
I put the phone back easy and patted it.
The evening was well on its way when I finished dressing. I had on the made-to-order suit with space built in for my armory, looking like something out of the prohibition era. I found my raincoat under the rest of the other stuff and climbed into it, stuffing a pack of butts in each pocket.
When I took one last look around the mess I went out the door and down to the garage for my car. It was raining harder than before, slanting down against the sidewalk, driving people into the welcome shelter of the buildings. Cars were going past, their windshield wipers moving like agitated bugs, the drivers crouched forward over the wheels, peering ahead intently.
I backed out of the garage, turned around and cut over to Broadway, following the main stem downtown. The Village should have been crammed with tourists and regulars, but the curbs were empty, and even the taxis were backed up behind their hack stands. Once in a while someone would make a dash for another saloon or run to the subway kiosk with a newspaper over his head, but if life was to be found in the Village this night, it would be found under a roof somewhere.
Down the corner from the address Lola had given me was a joint called Monica's. The red neon sign was a blur through the rain, and when I cruised past I could see a bar with a handful of people on stools, huddled over their drinks. It was as good a place to start as any.
I parked the car and pulled up my coat collar, then ducked out and stepped over puddles, my head bulling a path through the downpour. Before I got to the joint my legs were soaked and my feet squished in my shoes.
The heads at the bar came up and round like a chorus line, looking at me. Three belonged to guys trapped there on their way some place else. They went back to their drinks. Two were dames more interested in each other than men and they went back to low, sensual looks and leg holding. The other two were all smiles that exchanged nasty glances as if they were going to fight over the new arrival. Monica's catered to a well-assorted clientele.
Behind the bar was a big, beefy guy with a scar on his chin and one ear cauliflowered to look like a dumpling. If his name was Monica I'd eat my hat. He came down the bar and asked me what it would be. I said whisky and his top lip curled up into a grin.
"Annoder normal." His voice was a croak. "The place's gettin' reformed."
The two patsies made a moue at him and looked insulted.
He put the bottle on the bar in front of me. "Even th' dames is screwy. Odder place I woiked they kicked hell outa each other to get a guy. Here th' dames don't think of nuttin' but dames."
Yeah, there's nothing like a dame," I said.
"Inside's a coupla loose ones, bub. Go see if ya like 'em."
He gave me an outsized wink and I picked up my glass, threw a buck on the bar and walked inside. The two babes were there like he said, only they were already taken. Two women in man tailored suits were showing them a better time than I could have done.
So I sat down by myself at a table next to a piano and watched them. One of the boys from the bar came in and sat a drink in front of me, smirking a little as he pulled out the chair.
He said, "The bartender's too fresh, don't you think?"
I grunted at him and gulped the drink. These guys give me the pip.
"You're new around here, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"From uptown?"
"Yeah."
"Oh!" Then he frowned. "You... have a date already?"
The guy was asking for a punch in the mouth and he was just about to get it when I changed my mind and muttered, "I'm gonna see a guy named Murray Candid. He told me where he lived, then I forgot."
"Murray? He's a dear friend of mine. But he moved again only a week ago. Georgie told me he has a place over the grocery store two blocks south. How long have you known him? Why, only last week I... say, you're not leaving yet... we haven't..."
I didn't bother to look back. If the punk tried to follow me I'd wrap him around a pole. The bartender looked at me and chirped that the make-up crowd could spoil the business, and I agreed.
But the guy gave me the steer I wanted. I was lucky. Maybe I should have patted his behind to make him feel good.
I came down the street slowly, made a U-turn and came back. There were no lights on in the store and the shades in the apartment above were drawn and dark. A few cars were parked along one side and I wedged in between them, waiting there a minute until a couple of pedestrians lost themselves in the rain.
It was hard to keep from running. I crossed over, walked towards the store, then stepped into the doorway as if to light a butt, but more to look around. There wasn't anything to see, so I stepped back into the gloom of the hallway and tried the door, feeling it give under my hand. I dragged on the butt and looked at the mailboxes. One said "Byle" the name on the store. The other was for the top floor and was blank.
That would be it.
My eyes took a few minutes to become accustomed to the darkness, then I saw the stairs, worn and rickety, covered with sections of old carpet. I stayed on the wall side, trying to keep them from creaking, but even as careful as I was they groaned ominously, waiting to groan again when I lifted my foot.
The first-floor landing was a narrow box flanked by a door and a railing with "Byle" lettered on it in white paint. They should have used green to go with the name. I held on to the rail, using it for a guide, and felt my way to the next flight. These stairs were new. They didn't make a sound. When I reached the door my hand went out for the knob and I stiffened, my ears chasing an elusive sound.
Somebody was inside, somebody moving softly but fast.
I had the knob in my hand, turning it slowly without sound until the catch was drawn completely back. The hinges were well oiled and the door inched open soundlessly, bit by bit until I could see inside. There were no lights on and the shuffling sounds were coming from another room.
When the door was opened half-way I unpacked the .45 and stood there with it in my hand waiting to see what would happen. Something hit the floor and shattered and somebody whispered to somebody else to be quiet for the love of God. That made two of them.
Then the other one said, "Goddamn it, I cut my hand!"
A chair was pushed back and the glass that was lying on the floor went skittering into the wall.
The first voice said, "Didn't I tell you to be quiet?"
"Shut the hell up! You don't tell me anything."
There was the tearing sound of cloth, then it came again. The voice whispered, "I can't bandage this. I'm going inside."
He came in my direction, picking his way around the furniture. I was pressed back against the wall, hanging on to the rod. His hand felt the opening into the foyer and for a second he just stood there, black silhouetted against a deeper black, then his hand brushed my coat and he opened his mouth to yell.
I smashed the barrel of the gun across his forehead with a sickening dull sound and his knees went out from under him. He fell right in my arms, limp and heavy, his head lolling to one side, and I heard the blood drip onto the floor. It would have been all right if I could have laid him down, but his body rolled in my hands and a gun fell out of a holster and banged along the woodwork.
Inside there was a complete silence. Nothing, not even the sound of his breathing. I moved my feet around and swore under my breath, muttering like a guy who had just bumped into a wall.
In a voice barely audible the guy called out, "Ray... was that you, Ray?"
I had to answer. "Yeah, it was me."