The Smiler gleamed his teeth, shook his narrow head. «Can’t do it, pal. Got me a date and I need the kale.»
Pete Anglich took a loose step forward and stopped, grinning sheepishly. The muzzle of his own gun had jerked at him.
The Smiler sidled over to the bottle of rye and lifted it.
«I can use this, too. My baby’s got a throat for liquor. Sure has. What’s in your pants is yours, pal. Fair enough?»
Pete Anglich jumped sideways, about four feet. The Smiler’s face convulsed. The gun jerked around and the bottle of rye slid out of his left hand, slammed down on his foot. He yelped, kicked out savagely, and his toe caught in the torn place in the carpet.
Pete Anglich flipped the wet end of the bathtowel straight at the Smiler’s eyes.
The Smiler reeled and yelled with pain. Then Pete Anglich held the Smiler’s gun wrist in his hard left hand. He twisted up, around. His hand started to slide down over the Smiler’s hand, over the gun. The gun turned inward and touched the Smiler’s side.
A hard knee kicked viciously at Pete Anglich’s abdomen. He gagged, and his finger tightened convulsively on the Smiler’s trigger finger.
The shot was dull, muffled against the purple cloth of the suit. The Smiler’s eyes rolled whitely and his narrow jaw fell slack.
Pete Anglich let him down on the floor and stood panting, bent over, his face greenish. He groped for the fallen bottle of rye, got the cork out, got some of the fiery liquid down his throat.
The greenish look went away from his face. His breathing slowed. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
He felt the Smiler’s pulse. The Smiler didn’t have any pulse. He was dead. Pete Anglich loosened the gun from his hand, went over to the door and glanced out into the hallway. Empty. There was a passkey in the outside of the lock. He removed it, locked the door from the inside.
He put his underclothes and socks and shoes on, his worn blue serge suit, knotted a black tie around the crumpled shirt collar, went back to the dead man and took a roll of bills from his pocket. He packed a few odds and ends of clothes and toilet articles in a cheap fiber suitcase, stood it by the door.
He pushed a torn scrap of sheet through his revolver barrel with a pencil, replaced the used cartridge, crushed the empty shell with his heel on the bathroom floor and then flushed it down the toilet.
He locked the door from the outside and walked down the stairs to the lobby.
The bald-headed clerk’s eyes jumped at him, then dropped. The skin of his face turned gray. Pete Anglich leaned on the counter and opened his hand to let two keys tinkle on the scarred wood. The clerk stared at the keys, shuddered.
Pete Anglich said in his slow, husky voice: «Hear any funny noises?»
The clerk shook his head, gulped.
«Creep joint, eh?» Pete Anglich said.
The clerk moved his head painfully, twisted his neck in his collar. His bald head winked darkly under the ceiling light.
«Too bad,» Pete Anglich said. «What name did I register under last night?»
«You ain’t registered,» the clerk whispered.
«Maybe I wasn’t here even,» Pete Anglich said softly.
«Never saw you before, mister.»
«You’re not seeing me now. You never will see me — to know me — will you, Doe?»
The clerk moved his neck and tried to smile.
Pete Anglich drew his wallet out and shook three dollar bills from it.
«I’m a guy that likes to pay his way,» he said slowly. «This pays for Room 349 — till way in the morning, kind of late. The lad you gave the passkey to looks like a heavy sleeper.» He paused, steadied his cool eyes on the clerk’s face, added thoughtfully: «Unless, of course, he’s got friends who would like to move him out.»
Bubbles showed on the clerk’s lips. He stuttered: «He ain’t — ain’t —»
«Yeah,» Pete Anglich said. «What would you expect?»
He went across to the street door, carrying his suitcase, stepped out under the stencil sign, stood a moment looking toward the hard white glare of Central Avenue.
Then he walked the other way. The street was very dark, very quiet. There were four blocks of frame houses before he came to Noon Street. It was all a Negro quarter.
He met only one person on the way, a brown girl in a green hat, very sheer stockings, and four-and-a-half-inch heels, who smoked a cigarette under a dusty palm tree and stared back toward the Surprise Hotel.
TWO
The lunch wagon was an old buffet car without wheels, set end to the street in a space between a machine shop and a rooming house. The name Bella Donna was lettered in faded gold on the sides. Pete Anglich went up the two iron steps at the end, into a smell of fry grease.
The Negro cook’s fat white back was to him. At the far end of the low counter a white girl in a cheap brown felt hat and a shabby polo coat with a high turned-up collar was sipping coffee, her cheek propped in her left hand. There was nobody else in the car.
Pete Anglich put his suitcase down and sat on a stool near the door, saying: «Hi, Mopsy!»
The fat cook turned a shiny black face over his white shoulder. The face split in a grin. A thick bluish tongue came out and wiggled between the cook’s thick lips.
«How’s a boy? W’at you eat?»
«Scramble two light, coffee, toast, no spuds.»
«Dat ain’t no food for a he-guy,» Mopsy complained.
«I been drunk,» Pete Anglich said.
The girl at the end of the counter looked at him sharply, looked at the cheap alarm clock on the shelf, at the watch on her gloved wrist. She drooped, stared into her coffee cup again.
The fat cook broke eggs into a pan, added milk, stirred them around. «You want a shot, boy?»
Pete Anglich shook his head.
«I’m driving the wagon, Mopsy.»
The cook grinned. He reached a brown bottle from under the counter, and poured a big drink into a water glass, set the glass down beside Pete Anglich.
Pete Anglich reached suddenly for the glass, jerked it to his lips, drank the liquor down.
«Guess I’ll drive the wagon some other time.» He put the glass down empty.
The girl stood up, came along the stools, put a dime on the counter. The fat cook punched his cash register, put down a nickel change. Pete Anglich stared casually at the girl. A shabby, innocent-eyed girl, brown hair curling on her neck, eyebrows plucked clean as a bone and startled arches painted above the place where they had been.
«Not lost, are you, lady?» he asked in his softly husky voice.
The girl had fumbled her bag open to put the nickel away. She started violently, stepped back and dropped the bag. It spilled its contents on the floor. She stared down at it, wide-eyed.
Pete Anglich went down on one knee and pushed things into the bag. A cheap nickel compact, cigarettes, a purple matchfolder lettered in gold: The Juggernaut Club. Two colored handkerchiefs, a crumpled dollar bill and some silver and pennies.
He stood up with the closed bag in his hand, held it out to the girl.
«Sorry,» he said softly. «I guess I startled you.»
Her breath made a rushing sound. She caught the bag out of his hand, ran out of the car, and was gone.
The fat cook looked after her. «That doll don’t belong in Tough Town,» he said slowly.
He dished up the eggs and toast, poured coffee in a thick cup, put them down in front of Pete Anglich.
Pete Anglich touched the food, said absently: «Alone, and matches from the Juggernaut. Trimmer Waltz’s spot. You know what happens to girls like that when he gets hold of them.»
The cook licked his lips, reached under the counter for the whiskey bottle. He poured himself a drink, added about the same amount of water to the bottle, put it back under the counter.