De Ruse licked his lips and turned his head farther, looked towards the side of the rather small room. Francine Ley was sitting on a couch backed to the wall, with her head leaning against it.
«I think I’ve got it, baby,» De Ruse said to her. «I think I’ve got it.»
Francine Ley blinked and lifted her head away from the wall. She reached for a drink on a low round table in front of her.
She sipped the drink, looked at the floor, didn’t answer.
De Ruse looked back at the blond man. The three other men had made bets. The croupier looked impatient and at the same time watchful.
De Ruse said: «How come you always hit zero when I hit red, and double zero when I hit black?»
The blond young man smiled, shrugged, said nothing.
De Ruse put his hand down on the layout and said very softly: «I asked you a question, mister.»
«Maybe I’m Jesse Livermore,» the blond young man grunted. «I like to sell short.»
«What is this — slow motion?» one of the other men snapped.
«Make your plays, please, gentlemen,» the croupier said.
De Ruse looked at him, said: «Let it go.»
The croupier spun the wheel left-handed, flicked the ball with the same hand the opposite way. His right hand rested on the edge of the table.
The ball stopped at black 28, next to zero. The blond man laughed. «Close,» he said, «close.»
De Ruse checked his chips, stacked them carefully. «I’m down six grand,» he said. «It’s a little raw, but I guess there’s money in it. Who runs this clip joint?»
The croupier smiled slowly and stared straight into De Ruse’s eyes. He asked quietly: «Did you say clip joint?»
De Ruse nodded. He didn’t bother to answer.
«I thought you said clip joint,» the croupier said, and moved one foot, put weight on it.
Three of the men who had been playing picked their chips up quickly and went over to a small bar in the corner of the room. They ordered drinks and leaned their backs against the wall by the bar, watching De Ruse and the croupier. The blond man stayed put and smiled sarcastically at De Ruse.
«Tsk, tsk,» he said thoughtfully. «Your manners.»
Francine Ley finished her drink and leaned her head back against the wall again. Her eyes came down and watched De Ruse furtively, under the long lashes.
A paneled door opened after a moment and a very big man with a black mustache and very rough black eyebrows came in. The croupier moved his eyes to him, then to De Ruse, pointing with his glance.
«Yes, I thought you said clip joint,» he repeated tonelessly. The big man drifted to De Ruse’s elbow, touched him with his own elbow.
«Out,» he said impassively.
The blond man grinned and put his hands in the pockets of his dark gray suit. The big man didn’t look at him.
De Ruse glanced across the layout at the croupier and said: «I’ll take back my six grand and call it a day.»
«Out,» the big man said wearily, jabbing his elbow into De Ruse’s side.
The bald-headed croupier smiled politely.
«You,» the big man said to De Ruse, «ain’t goin’ to get tough, are you?»
De Ruse looked at him with sarcastic surprise.
«Well, well, the bouncer,» he said softly. «Take him, Nicky.»
The blond man took his right hand out of his pocket and swung it. The sap looked black and shiny under the bright lights. It hit the big man on the back of the head with a soft thud. The big man clawed at De Ruse, who stepped away from him quickly and took a gun out from under his arm. The big man clawed at the edge of the roulette table and fell heavily on the floor.
Francine Ley stood up and made a strangled sound in her throat.
The blond man skipped sidewise, whirled and looked at the bartender. The bartender put his hands on top of the bar. The three men who had been playing roulette looked very interested, but they didn’t move.
De Ruse said: «The middle button on his right sleeve, Nicky. I think it’s copper.»
«Yeah.» The blond man drifted around the end of the table putting the sap back in his pocket. He went close to the croupier and took hold of the middle of three buttons on his right cuff, jerked it hard. At the second jerk it came away and a thin wire followed it out of the sleeve.
«Correct,» the blond man said casually, letting the croupier’s arm drop.
«I’ll take my six grand now,» De Ruse said. «Then we’ll go talk to your boss.»
The croupier nodded slowly and reached for the rack of chips beside the roulette table.
The big man on the floor didn’t move. The blond man put his right hand behind his hip and took a .45 automatic out from inside his waistband at the back.
He swung it in his hand, smiling pleasantly around the room.
EIGHT
They went along a balcony that looked down over the dining room and the dance floor. The lisp of hot jazz came up to them from the lithe, swaying bodies of a high-yaller band. With the lisp of jazz came the smell of food and cigarette smoke and perspiration. The balcony was high and the scene down below had a patterned look, like an overhead camera shot.
The bald-headed croupier opened a door in the corner of the balcony and went through without looking back. The blond man De Ruse had called Nicky went after him. Then De Ruse and Francine Ley.
There was a short hall with a frosted light in the ceiling. The door at the end of that looked like painted metal. The croupier put a plump finger on the small push button at the side, rang it in a certain way. There was a buzzing noise like the sound of an electric door release. The croupier pushed on the edge and opened it.
Inside was a cheerful room, half den and half office. There was a grate fire and a green leather davenport at right angles to it, facing the door. A man sitting on the davenport put a newspaper down and looked up and his face suddenly got livid. He was a small man with a tight round head, a tight round dark face. He had little lightless black eyes like buttons of jet.
There was a big flat desk in the middle of the room and a very tall man stood at the end of it with a cocktail shaker in his hands. His head turned slowly and he looked over his shoulder at the four people who came into the room while his hands continued to agitate the cocktail shaker in gentle rhythm. He had a cavernous face with sunken eyes, loose grayish skin, and close-cropped reddish hair without shine or parting. A thin crisscross scar like a German Mensur scar showed on his left cheek.
The tall man put the cocktail shaker down and turned his body around and stared at the croupier. The man on the davenport didn’t move. There was a crouched tensity in his not moving.
The croupier said: «I think it’s a stick-up. But I couldn’t help myself. They sapped Big George.»
The blond man smiled gaily and took his .45 out of his pocket. He pointed it at the floor.
«He thinks it’s a stick-up,» he said. «Wouldn’t that positively slay you?»
De Ruse shut the heavy door. Francine Ley moved away from him, towards the side of the room away from the fire. He didn’t look at her. The man on the davenport looked at her, looked at everybody.
De Ruse said quietly: «The tall one is Zapparty. The little one is Mops Parisi.»
The blond man stepped to one side, leaving the croupier alone in the middle of the room. The .45 covered the man on the davenport.
«Sure, I’m Zapparty,» the tall man said. He looked at De Ruse curiously for a moment.
Then he turned his back and picked the cocktail shaker up again, took out the plug and filled a shallow glass. He drained the glass, wiped his lips with a sheer lawn handkerchief and tucked the handkerchief back into his breast pocket very carefully, so that three points showed.