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.
«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?»