After a moment Waltz said thickly: «He choked me. It was self-defense.»
«Sure. There’s two of us with sore necks. Mine’s a pip.»
«What do you want, Pete?»
«You tried to frame me for bumping off a girl.»
Waltz laughed suddenly, almost crazily. He said quietly: «When I’m crowded I get nasty, Pete. You should know that. Better lay off little Token Ware.»
Pete Anglich moved his gun so that the light flickered on the barrel. He came up to Waltz, pushed the gun against his stomach.
«Rufe’s dead,» he said softly. «Very convenient. Where’s the girl?»
«What’s it to you?»
«Don’t be a bunny. I’m wise. You tried to pick some jack off John Vidaury. I stepped in front of Token. I want to know the rest of it.»
Waltz stood very still with the gun pressing his stomach. His fingers twisted in the gloves.
«Okay,» he said dully. «How much to button your lip — and keep it buttoned?»
«Couple of centuries. Rufe lifted my poke.»
«What does it buy me?» Waltz asked slowly.
«Not a damn thing. I want the girl, too.»
Waltz said very gently: «Five C’s. But not the girl. Five C’s is heavy dough for a Central Avenue punk. Be smart and take it, and forget the rest.»
The gun went away from his stomach, Pete Anglich circled him deftly, patted pockets, took the Savage, made a gesture with his left hand, holding it.
«Sold,» he said grudgingly. «What’s a girl between pals? Feed it to me.»
«Have to go up to the office,» Waltz said.
Pete Anglich laughed shortly. «Better play ball, Trimmer. Lead on.»
They went back along the upstairs hall. The dance band beyond the distant curtains was wailing a Duke Ellington lament, a forlorn monotone of stifled brasses, bitter violins, softly clicking gourds. Waltz opened his office door, snapped the light on, went across to his desk and sat down. He tilted his hat back, smiled, opened a drawer with a key.
Pete Anglich watched him, reached back to turn the key in the door, went along the wall to the closet and looked into it, went behind Waltz to the curtains that masked the windows. He still had his gun out.
He came back to the end of the desk. Waltz was pushing a loose sheaf of bills away from him.
Pete Anglich ignored the money, leaned down over the end of the desk.
«Keep that and give me the girl, Trimmer.»
Waltz shook his head, kept on smiling.
«The Vidaury squeeze was a grand, Trimmer — or started with a grand. Noon Street is almost in your alley. Do you have to scare women into doing your dirty work? I think you wanted something on the girl, so you could make her say uncle.»
Waltz narrowed his eyes a little, pointed to the sheaf of bills.
Pete Anglich said slowly: «A shabby, lonesome, scared kid. Probably lives in a cheap furnished room. No friends, or she wouldn’t be working in your joint. Nobody would wonder about her, except me. You wouldn’t have put her in a house, would you, Trimmer?»
«Take your money and beat it,» Waltz said thinly. «You know what happens to rats in this district.»
«Sure, they run night clubs,» Pete Anglich said gently.
He put his gun down, started to reach for the money. His fist doubled, swept upward casually. His elbow went up with the punch, the fist turned, landed almost delicately on the angle of Waltz’s jaw.
Waltz became a loose bag of clothes. His mouth fell open. His hat fell off the back of his head. Pete Anglich stared at him, grumbled: «Lot of good that does me.»
The room was very still. The dance band sounded faintly, like a turned-down radio. Pete Anglich moved behind Waltz and reached down under his coat into his breast pocket. He took a wallet out, shook out money, a driver’s license, a police pistol permit, several insurance cards.
He put the stuff back, stared morosely at the desk, rubbed a thumbnail on his jaw. There was a shiny buff memo pad in front of him. Impressions of writing showed on the top blank sheet. He held it sideways against the light, then picked up a pencil and began to make light loose strokes across the paper. Writing came out dimly. When the sheet was shaded all over Pete Anglich read: 4623 Noon Street. Ask for Reno.
He tore the sheet off, folded it into a pocket, picked his gun up and crossed to the door. He reversed the key, locked the room from the outside, went back to the stairs and down them to the alley.
The body of the Negro lay as it had fallen, between the small sedan and the dark wall. The alley was empty. Pete Anglich stooped, searched the dead man’s pockets, came up with a roll of money. He counted the money in the dim light of a match, separated eighty-seven dollars from what there was, and started to put the few remaining bills back. A piece of torn paper fluttered to the pavement. One side only was torn, jaggedly.
Pete Anglich crouched beside the car, struck another match, looked at a half-sheet from a buff memo pad on which was written, beginning with the tear: — t. Ask for Reno.
He clicked his teeth and let the match fall. «Better,» he said softly.
He got into the car, started it and drove out of the alley.
SEVEN
The number was on a front-door transom, faintly lit from behind, the only light the house showed. It was a big frame house, in the block above where the stakeout had been. The windows in front were closely curtained. Noise came from behind them, voices and laughter, the high-pitched whine of a colored girl’s singing. Cars were parked along the curb, on both sides of the street.
A tall thin Negro in dark clothes and gold nose-glasses opened the door. There was another door behind him, shut. He stood in a dark box between the two doors.
Pete Anglich said: «Reno?»
The tall Negro nodded, said nothing.
«I’ve come for the girl Rufe left, the white girl.»
The tall Negro stood a moment quite motionless, looking over Pete Anglich’s head. When he spoke, his voice was a lazy rustle of sound that seemed to come from somewhere else.
«Come in and shut the do’.»
Pete Anglich stepped into the house, shut the outer door behind him. The tall Negro opened the inner door. It was thick, heavy. When he opened it sound and light jumped at them. A purplish light. He went through the inner door, into a hallway.
The purplish light came through a broad arch from a long living room. It had heavy velour drapes, davenports and deep chairs, a glass bar in the corner, and a white-coated Negro behind the bar. Four couples lounged about the room drinking; slim, slick-haired Negro sheiks and girls with bare arms, sheer silk legs, plucked eyebrows. The soft, purplish light made the scene unreal.
Reno stared vaguely past Pete Anglich’s shoulder, dropped his heavy-lidded eyes, said wearily: «You says which?»
The Negroes beyond the arch were quiet, staring. The barman stooped and put his hands down under the bar.
Pete Anglich put his hand into his pocket slowly, brought out a crumpled piece of paper.
«This any help?»
Reno took the paper, studied it. He reached languidly into his vest and brought out another piece of the same color. He fitted the pieces together. His head went back and he looked at the ceiling.
«Who send you?»
«Trimmer.»
«I don’ like it,» the tall Negro said. «He done write my name. I don’ like that. That ain’t sma’t. Apa’t from that I guess I check you.»
He turned and started up a long, straight flight of stairs. Pete Anglich followed him. One of the Negro youths in the living room snickered loudly.
Reno stopped suddenly, turned and went back down the steps, through the arch. He went up to the snickerer.