Driving back to the apartment, Mitch was suddenly struck by the terrifying knowledge that he would have to make another payoff to Teddy in approximately two weeks. By her reckoning, he would "owe" it to her then, and he would have to get it up or else. And barring a miracle, he simply couldn't do it.
He saw a drive-in restaurant just ahead of him. Turning into it, he ordered coffee; sipped it slowly while he did some rapid mental arithmetic.
Five thousand dollars. That was roughly the amount he had laid on the line at the hotel-apartment. Then, there was the three thousand he had been cheated of at Zearsdale Country Club. Plus a two-grand bribe to the major at Sam's school. And another three thousand this morning to Teddy.
It added up to an incredible thirteen thousand dollars. Thirteen thousand in less than three days!
He had been close-run to begin with, with really less than he needed to enter a big game. But he could have made out all right, despite the five grand at the apartment. It had been that extra eight thousand that had put him under the gun- the club loss, and the bribe, and the money to Teddy. He hadn't counted on that. Which was stupid of him. In this racket, a man always had to anticipate the disasters which he had no logical reason to fear.
Now… well, just how much cash on hand did he have?
He started to take out his wallet, then firmly thrust it back into his pocket. There was no point in knowing the exact amount. Whatever it was, it would have to be enough. It would be enough.
It always had been, and it would be now.
Driving on to the apartment house, he felt unreasonably cheerful. The fatalistic cheerfulness of a man who has survived the worst that can be handed to him. In the lobby of the building, he ran into Turkelson, who greeted him with the news that Winfield Lord was checking in early. Lord would be there the following night, axiomatically ready for a game. Mitch said that he would go for it-with certain cooperation from Turkelson. The manager happily agreed to give it to him.
So the mood of cheerfulness grew. Stepping onto the elevator, Mitch assured himself that the pendulum was now swinging the other way. He would make a killing here in Houston. He could look forward to nothing but good from now on.
Bad beginning, good ending. Everything bad that could possibly happen had already happened.
It was an excellent hotel-apartment, needless to say. Perfectly insulated to accommodate its air conditioning. Soundproofed. A monument to luxury which neither admitted nor emitted noise.
Thus, Mitch had no warning. Not the slightest. He simply stepped into the penthouse and found Jake Zearsdale waiting for him.
11
He was aware that Red was in the room, but he couldn't look at her. He was aware that she was saying something, but he couldn't hear it. It wouldn't register on him. All his senses were concentrated on Zearsdale.
For an endless moment, he stood stock still, barely across the threshold. He was frozen there, unable to speak or move. Then, the inner man took over, and the voice of experience spoke to him-always take the initiative, always face up to the danger. And frowning politely, he advanced on the oil man and held out his hand.
"I hardly expected to see you again, Mr. Zearsdale," he said coolly. "Red, why don't you give our guest a drink?"
"She already has, Mr. Corley." Zearsdale gestured toward a side table. "Your sister has been very good to me. I only hope"-his broad mouth parted in a smile-"that you'll be equally pleasant. Not that I'd blame you much if you weren't."
"My sister and I are always polite to guests," Mitch said. "We were taught to be as children. Apparently, that isn't a teaching that penetrated your country club, is it?"
Zearsdale's heavy face darkened. His sharp eyes glittered coldly, seeming to whet themselves on Mitch's eyes. Then, he laughed with the sound of ice tinkling on fine crystal.
"Mr. Corley," he said. "I came here instead of calling because I was afraid you might refuse to accept my call, and What I have to say is important. Now, do I get to sit back down, or are you going to make me speak my piece standing up?"
"Of course, you're going to sit down," Mitch smiled, dropping the offended bit. "Let's freshen your drink a little, too." He carried the glass over to the bar where Red took charge. She brought him a drink also when she delivered Zearsdale's.
Mitch studied the oil man as the latter took an incongruously delicate sip. Zearsdale wasn't covering up, obviously. As he had proved at the club, he behaved pretty much as he felt, not at all moved by the constraints which governed ordinary mortals. Unfriendly, he had shown it. Now, since he was showing friendliness…
"I came here to apologize," Zearsdale said. "John Birdwell-he's the man who won that three thousand from you- was cheating."
"I see," Mitch nodded.
"Would you mind telling me how you caught on to it, Mr. Corley?"
"It was pretty plain." Mitch shrugged lightly. "He kept rolling fours and sixes and eights. Never anything but those three numbers. There had to be something wrong."
"And you accused him of cheating just on that basis? That sounds pretty risky."
"I thought it was pretty clear-cut. Particularly when he used his dice hand to reach into his pocket." Mitch paused to light a cigarette. "What tipped you off?"
"We-ell…" Zearsdale hesitated. "Maybe it would be easier to explain if I told you something about Birdwell. He worked for me, you know. Assistant vice-president."
"I believe I'd heard something to that effect."
"I don't pay my people big salaries, Mr. Corley. Not what you and I think of as big. There's just not much point to it, you know, the way taxes are, and it doesn't give them the feeling of being part of what they're working for. It's much better all around, as I see it, to give them stock options to be taken up at staggered intervals. In other words… but I'm sure I don't have to explain all this to you."
Mitch said easily that perhaps he'd better, if it was necessary for Red and him to understand it. "Sis and I are much better at spending than earning."
"Put it this way, then," Zearsdale went on. "Johnny-Mr. Birdwell, that is-had been with me for seventeen years. During that time, he received increasingly large stock options. They were better than money, you understand. Every dollar put into them was worth more than two. So Johnny should have been a wealthy man, comfortably fixed at least. But you started me to thinking about him, and I ran a fast check, and I discovered that what he had was hardly dime one. Let it all slip away from him in one way or another…"
The oil man frowned heavily, seemingly as much offended as bewildered by Birdwell's bad management. He continued:
"Yes, Johnny was broke. But he had another one hundred thousand dollar stock option due him in a few days, and he'd already notified me that he was picking it up. Well…" Zearsdale spread his hands. "There it was. Last night I took him into a private room at the club, and searched him. He was using crooked dice, just as you said."
Mitch shot a quick glance at Red. He frowned unconsciously. "I'm sorry if I caused any trouble," he said.