The guy was pop-eyed with fear, his jaw hanging slack, and even at that moment he had started to draw back as he saw Feeney.
He should have been scared. The guy's name was Russ Bowen and he was found shot full of holes not long after the picture was taken.
I could feel the skin pulling tight around my temples and my lips drew back from my teeth. Lola said something, but I didn't hear her. She grabbed my hand, made me look at her. "What is it. What is it, Mike? Please... don't look that way!"
I shoved the picture in front of her and pointed to the little scene in the background. "This guy's dead, Lola. The other guy is Feeney Last."
Her eyes came up slowly, unbelievingly. She shook her head. "Not Feeney... it can't be, Mike."
"Don't tell me, kid. That's Feeney Last. It was taken when he worked for Mr. Berin. I couldn't miss that greaseball in a million years "
She stared at me hard. Her eyes drifted back to the picture and she shook her head again. "His name is Miller. Paul Miller. He--he's one of the men who supplies girls to... the houses."
"What?"
"That's right. One of the kids pointed him out to me some time ago. He used to work the West Coast, picking them up there and sending them East to the syndicate. I'm positive that's him!"
Nice going, Feeney, I thought, very nice going. Keep a respectable job as a cover-up for the other things. Good heavens, if Berin-Grotin in all his insufferable pride ever knew that, he would have had Feeney hanging by the thumbs! I looked at the snap again, saw my client unaware of the little scene behind him, completely the man-about-town bent on an afternoon of mild pleasure. It was a good shot, this one. I could see the lettering on the door there. BAR ENTRANCE, ALBINO CLUB, it read. Apparently Mr. Berin's favorite haunt. He'd have his cup of good cheer while five feet away a murder was in progress.
"Do you know the other guy?"
"Yes. He ran some houses. They found him shot, didn't they?"
"That's right. Murdered. This thing goes back a long way."
Lola closed her eyes and dropped her head forward. Her face was relaxed in sadness. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. "There's something on the back, Mike."
It was another symbol. This one said "See T-9-20." If that dash stood for "to," it meant eleven pages of something was connected with this. The details of the Russ Bowen murder maybe? Could there be a possibility that the redhead had come up with something covering that murder? Ye gods, if that were true, no wonder Feeney was on her neck. How many angles could there be to this thing?
I could not find anything else; I went through my pile twice and nothing showed for me, so I swapped with Lola and started all over again. I didn't find any more, either, but Lola did. When she was through she had half a dozen shots beside her and called my attention to the women. They were her former associates. She knew some of the men by sight, too, and they weren't just pickups. They dipped dough in the cut of their clothes and the sparkle of diamonds on their fingers.
And always there was that notation on the back referring to some other file. There was an envelope on the dish closet and I tucked the prints in it, stowing them in my pocket. The rest I threw back in the box and pushed aside. Lola followed me into the living room, watched me pace up and down the room. When she held out a cigarette I took it, had one deep drag and snuffed it out in a dish.
Feeney Last. Paul Miller. He came from the Coast. He saw a way to get back East without arousing suspicion. He was connected with the racket but good, and he could operate under the cover of old boy's respectability. Feeney was after Nancy and for good reason. If it was blackmail, the plot went pretty deep. She wasn't content to stick to strangers with herself as the catch... she used the tie-up with girls already in the racket.
I stopped in the middle of the floor, fought to let an idea battle its way into my consciousness, felt it blocked by a dozen other thoughts. I shook my head and began pacing again.
"I need a drink," I said.
"There's nothing in the house," Lola told me.
I reached for my hat. "Get your coat. We're going out."
"Aren't you supposed to be dead?"
"Not that dead. Come on."
She pulled a raincoat from the closet, stepped into frilly boots that did things for her legs. "All set, Mike. Where are we going?"
"I'll tell you better when we get there."
All the way downtown I put my mind to it. Lola had snuggled up against me and I could feel the warmth of her body soaking through her coat to mine. She knew I was trying to think and kept quiet, occasionally looking up at me with interest. She laid her head on my shoulder and squeezed my arm. It didn't help me think any.
The rain had laid a pall over the city, keeping the spectators indoors. Only the tigers were roaming the streets this night. The taxis were empty hearses going back and forth, the drivers alert for what few fares there were, jamming to a stop at the wave of a hand or a shrill whistle.
We went past the Zero Zero Club and Lola sat up to look. There wasn't much to see. The sign was out and the place in darkness. Somebody had tacked a "Closed" sign on the door. Pat was going whole hog on this thing. I pulled into a half-empty parking lot and we found a small bar with the windows steamed up. Lola had a Martini and I had a beer there, but the place had a rank odor to it and we left. The next bar was three stores down and we turned into it and climbed on the stools at the end.
Four guys at the other end with nothing much to talk about until we came in suddenly found a topic of conversation and eight eyes, started looking Lola up and down. One guy told the bartender to buy the lady a drink and she got another Martini and I got nothing.
She was hesitant about taking it at first and I was too deep in thought to argue the point. The redhead's face floated in front of me. She was sipping her coffee again, the ring on her finger half-turned to look like a wedding band. Then the vision would fade and I'd see her hands again, this time folded across her chest, and the ring was gone, leaving only a reddish bruise that went unnoticed among the other bruises. The greaseball would laugh at me. I could hear his voice sneering, daring, challenging me to get the answer.
I ordered another beer. Lola had two Martinis in front of her now and one empty pushed aside. The guys were laughing, talking just loud enough to be heard. The guy on the end shrugged as he threw his leg off the stool, said something dirty and came over to Lola with a cocky strut.
He had an arm around her waist and was pulling out the stool next to her when I rolled the cigarette down between my fingers and flipped it. The lit end caught him right in the eye and his sweet talk changed into a yelp of pain that dwindled off to a stream of curses.
The rest of the platoon came off the stools in a well-timed maneuver that was a second later than mine. I walked around and kicked the wise guy right in the belly, so hard that he was puking his guts out before he hit the floor doubled up like a pretzel. The platoon got back on their stools again without bothering to send a first-aid party out.
I bought Lola the next Martini myself.
The guy on the floor groaned, vomited again, and Lola said, "Let's leave, Mike. I'm shaking so hard I can't lift the glass."
I shoved my change toward the bartender, who was watching me with a grin on his face. The guy retched again and we left.
"When are you going to talk to me?" Lola asked. "My honor has been upheld and you haven't even bestowed the smile of victory on me."
I turned a smile on her, a real one. "Better?"
"You're so ugly you're beautiful, Mike. Some day I want you to tell me about those scars over your eyes... and the one on your chin."