«I ain’t never been a tough guy, and don’ want to start,» he said slowly. «But I’se all tired of white boys like dat guy. Some day he gonna get cut.»
Pete Anglich kicked his suitcase.
«Yeah. Keep the keister for me, Mopsy.»
He went out.
Two or three cars flicked by in the crisp fall night, but the sidewalks were dark and empty. A colored night watchman moved slowly along the street, trying the doors of a small row of dingy stores. There were frame houses across the street, and a couple of them were noisy.
Pete Anglich went on past the intersection. Three blocks from the lunch wagon he saw the girl again.
She was pressed against a wall, motionless. A little beyond her, dim yellow light came from the stairway of a walk-up apartment house. Beyond that a small parking lot with billboards across most of its front. Faint light from somewhere touched her hat, her shabby polo coat with the turned-up collar, one side of her face. He knew it was the same girl.
He stepped into a doorway, watched her. Light flashed on her upraised arm, on something bright, a wrist watch. Somewhere not far off a clock struck eight, low, pealing notes.
Lights stabbed into the street from the corner behind. A big car swung slowly into view and as it swung its headlights dimmed. It crept along the block, a dark shininess of glass and polished paint.
Pete Anglich grinned sharply in his doorway. A custom-built Duesenberg, six blocks from Central Avenue! He stiffened at the sharp sound of running steps, clicking high heels.
The girl was running toward him along the sidewalk. The car was not near enough for its dimmed lights to pick her up. Pete Anglich stepped out of the doorway, grabbed her arm, dragged her back into the doorway. A gun snaked from under his coat.
The girl panted at his side.
The Duesenberg passed the doorway slowly. No shots came from it. The uniformed driver didn’t slow down.
«I can’t do it. I’m scared,» the girl gasped in Pete Anglich’s ear. Then she broke away from him and ran farther along the sidewalk, away from the car.
Pete Anglich looked after the Duesenberg. It was opposite the row of billboards that screened the parking lot. It was barely crawling now. Something sailed from its left front window, fell with a dry slap on the sidewalk. The car picked up speed soundlessly, purred off into the darkness. A block away its head lights flashed up full again.
Nothing moved. The thing that had been thrown out of the car lay on the inner edge of the sidewalk, almost under one of the billboards.
Then the girl was coming back again, a step at a time, haltingly. Pete Anglich watched her come, without moving. When she was level with him he said softly: «What’s the racket? Could a fellow help?»
She spun around with a choked sound, as though she had forgotten all about him. Her head moved in the darkness at his side. There was a swift shine as her eyes moved. There was a pale flicker across her chin. Her voice was low, hurried, scared.
«You’re the man from the lunch wagon. I saw you.»
«Open up. What is it — a pay-off?»
Her head moved again in the darkness at his side, up and down.
«What’s in the package?» Pete Anglich growled. «Money?»
Her words came in a rush. «Would you get it for me? Oh, would you please? I’d be so grateful. I’d —»
He laughed. His laugh had a low growling sound. «Get it for you, baby? I use money in my business, too. Come on, what’s the racket? Spill.»
She jerked away from him, but he didn’t let go of her arm. He slid the gun out of sight under his coat, held her with both hands. Her voice sobbed as she whispered: «He’ll kill me, if I don’t get it.»
Very sharply, coldly, Pete Anglich said, «Who will? Trimmer Waltz?»
She started violently, almost tore out of his grasp. Not quite. Steps shuffled on the sidewalk. Two dark forms showed in front of the billboards, didn’t pause to pick anything up. The steps came near, cigarette tips glowed.
A voice said softly: «’Lo there, sweets. Yo’ want to change yo’r boy frien’, honey?»
The girl shrank behind Pete Anglich. One of the Negroes laughed gently, waved the red end of his cigarette.
«Hell, it’s a white gal,» the other one said quickly. «Le’s dust.»
They went on, chuckling. At the corner they turned, were gone.
«There you are,» Pete Anglich growled. «Shows you where you are.» His voice was hard, angry. «Oh, hell, stay here and I’ll get your damn pay-off for you.»
He left the girl and went lightly along close to the front of the apartment house. At the edge of the billboards he stopped, probed the darkness with his eyes, saw the package. It was wrapped in dark material, not large but large enough to see. He bent down and looked under the billboards. He didn’t see anything behind them.
He went on four steps, leaned down and picked up the package, felt cloth and two thick rubber bands. He stood quite still, listening.
Distant traffic hummed on a main street. A light burned across the street in a rooming house, behind a glass-paneled door. A window was open and dark above it.
A woman’s voice screamed shrilly behind him.
He stiffened, whirled, and the light hit him between the eyes. It came from the dark window across the street, a blinding white shaft that impaled him against the billboard.
His face leered in it, his eyes blinked. He didn’t move any more.
Shoes dropped on cement and a smaller spot stabbed at him sideways from the end of the billboards. Behind the spot a casual voice spoke: «Don’t shift an eyelash, bud. You’re all wrapped up in law.»
Men with revolvers out closed in on him from both ends of the line of billboards. Heels clicked far off on concrete. Then it was silent for a moment. Then a car with a red spotlight swung around the corner and bore down on the group of men with Pete Anglich in their midst.
The man with the casual voice said: «I’m Angus, detective-lieutenant. I’ll take the packet, if you don’t mind. And if you’ll just keep your hands together a minute —»
The handcuffs clicked dryly on Pete Anglich’s wrists.
He listened hard for the sound of the heels far off, running away. But there was too much noise around him now.
Doors opened and dark people began to boil out of the houses.
THREE
John Vidaury was six feet two inches in height and had the most perfect profile in Hollywood. He was dark, winsome, romantic, with an interesting touch of gray at his temples. His shoulders were wide, his hips narrow. He had the waist of an English guards officer, and his dinner clothes fit him so beautifully that it hurt.
So he looked at Pete Anglich as if he was about to apologize for not knowing him. Pete Anglich looked at his handcuffs, at his worn shoes on the thick rug, at the tall chiming clock against the wall. There was a flush on his face and his eyes were bright.
In a smooth, clear, modulated voice Vidaury said, «No, I’ve never seen him before.» He smiled at Pete Anglich.
Angus, the plainclothes lieutenant, leaned against one end of a carved library table and snapped a finger against the brim of his hat. Two other detectives stood near a side wall. A fourth sat at a small desk with a stenographer’s notebook in front of him.
Angus said, «Oh, we just thought you might know him. We can’t get much of anything out of him.»
Vidaury raised his eyebrows, smiled very faintly. «Really I’m surprised at that.» He went around collecting glasses, and took them over to a tray, started to mix more drinks.
«It happens,» Angus said.
«I thought you had ways,» Vidaury said delicately, pouring Scotch into the glasses.