“Well, I get the point,” Debby said. She stood and smoothed the skirt of her dress, an embarrassed little smile on her lips. “Did I say something wrong, big boy?”
“No.”
“Well, I like to know if I break the house rules.”
“There aren’t any rules here,” Bannion said. He put his hand on her arm as they went to the door.
“What’s the matter? Afraid to make a pass at Max Stone’s girl?”
Bannion didn’t answer.
Debby was trembling slightly. Something about this big, hard-faced man touched her in a curious way. She felt like squirming under the touch of his hand. “Do you really want me to go?” she said, turning at the door and coming close to him, so close that the points of her small, firm breasts touched the rough fabric of his jacket.
“You’re Stone’s girl,” Bannion said, dropping his hand from her arm. He felt disgusted with himself, betrayed and shaken by his need. “I wouldn’t touch anything of Stone’s with a ten foot pole.”
Debby colored and put a hand to her throat. “That’s a rotten thing to say,” she said.
“Goodnight Debby. Have a nice time. Buy another mink, get your legs waxed, roll in it.”
“Bannion what’s the matter?” Suddenly, without reason, she wanted to be close to him, to have him like her, but she was afraid of him, afraid of the look in his face.
Bannion slammed the door on her and then stood with his back to it and stared bitterly down at the small, soft indentation her body had made in his bed.
Chapter 11
Max Stone let himself into his apartment and kicked the door shut behind him with savage anger. From the closed doors of the dining room came the noise of laughter and conversation. There was a man in the living room sitting on the sofa. He got to his feet as Stone entered. “You Max Stone?” he said.
Stone eyed him up and down. “Yeah. Who the hell are you?” He was eager for something, anything, to use as a target for his rage.
“My name is Hoffman, Joe Hoffman, from Chicago.” Hoffman was a tall, loosely built man of forty or so, with thin, bony wrists and mild eyes. His hair was yellow and needed cutting. He looked like someone’s country cousin on a first visit to the big city. “Sylvester Ryan said you needed a man,” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” Stone said. He shook hands with Hoffman, some of his anger ebbing away. “Yeah, I need a man. How the hell is Sylvester?”
“Just fine. He told me to give you his best,” Hoffman said.
“Great guy, great guy,” Stone said. He put his overcoat on a chair and lit a cigar, studying Hoffman appraisingly. “This guy is an ex-copper named Bannion,” he said. “There can’t be any slipups. Understand?”
Hoffman nodded. “Sure,” he said.
“Bannion’s a pretty sharp character,” Stone said. “He was a cop, and he knows the score. He’ll have a gun and can use it. You got to be careful.”
“All right, I’ll be careful,” Hoffman said. “What else do I need to know?”
Stone described Bannion to Hoffman, told him what kind of car he drove, and where he was living. “I want this handled by tomorrow night, if possible,” he said.
“Glad you said if possible. I do a job when the time is right and not before. What’s a good hotel in town?”
“You can stay here if you want.”
“No, I like to be alone when I’m working. I can dope everything out better that way.”
“Anything you say.” Stone gave him the name of a hotel. “When you do the job get right back to Chicago. I don’t want any connection with us on this one. I’ll send your dough through Sylvester. That okay?”
“Perfectly okay. Sylvester said you were tops and that’s good enough for me. By the way, he sent you a present,” Hoffman said. He picked up a large, flat, carefully wrapped package from the sofa and handed it to Stone.
“Well, what d’ya know about this?” Stone said, smiling. He removed wrapping paper from a wooden box that was about two inches deep and a foot square. Stone raised the lid of the box and began to chuckle. Inside, surrounded by dry ice, was an unbaked pizza pie, covered with thinly sliced tomatoes and cheese, and crisscrossed with strips of anchovy.
Hoffman grinned at Stone. “It’s from Antonio’s Cellar, ready for the oven. Sylvester said you’d remember the place.”
“Know it?” Stone laughed, staring delightedly at the pizza. “Sure I know it. Sylvester and I eat there every time I can get to Chicago. Hell, Antonio’s got the best pizza in the world. Damn, this was a sweet thing for Sylvester to do. Imagine him remembering.” He looked away from Hoffman, touched oddly by the gesture. “What a sweet guy,” he said. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
“Well, he thought you’d like it,” Hoffman said, picking up his hat and a briefcase from the sofa.
“You tell him I thought it was a damn fine thing for him to do,” Stone said.
“Okay, I will, Max.”
They walked to the door together and Stone patted Hoffman on the back. “You get some rest now. And remember, this job is important to us.”
Hoffman nodded. “You can depend on me, Max.”
When he’d gone Max strode into the dining room where the poker game was in progress. There were four men at the table, Judge McGraw of Quarter Sessions, a magistrate, and two professional gamblers from Jersey. Stone showed them the pizza, feeling warm and happy. This little gift, a silly sentimental thing for Sylvester to have done, had helped to erase his bitterness and anger. He gave the pizza to Alex and told him to put it in the ice box. “Get some Chianti tomorrow morning, and we’ll have a real Ginny lunch,” he added. He sat down at the table, pulling his tie loose and grinning at the players. “Okay, let’s have a little action now. You guys are in for a rough time.”
“We shall see, we shall see,” Judge McGraw said, smiling. He was a tall, handsome man with a theatrical head of white hair. In the courtroom he was famed for his great, echoing voice, and his stem, scholarly lectures on Godliness and morality.
“Okay, deal somebody,” Stone said, cheerfully.
Half an hour later his mood had turned black once more. The cards ran against him, illogically, perversely. It was five card draw, no limit, open on anything. He couldn’t buy a pot; he played close, he played recklessly, but nothing worked. He hardly glanced up when Debby came in, and sang out a hello to everybody. She drifted around behind him and put her hands lightly on his shoulders.
“Winning?” she said.
“No, and shut up,” he told her.
“Well, you’re in a sunny mood.”
“Okay, okay, talk then,” he said. He held an ace kicker to a pair of tens. McGraw threw away one card; two pair Stone thought gloomily. He picked up his cards and found another ten. Three tens. He bet recklessly, angrily, into McGraw’s probable two pairs and got raised twice, heavily, for his trouble. “All right, all right,” he said, calling. “What the hell are you so proud of.”
Judge McGraw, chuckling, put down a flush.
Stone tore up his cards and threw them into the air. “Get a new deck, damn it.” He glared at McGraw, feeling mean and unfriendly. “Filled a four-card flush, eh? You could come out of a latrine with violets in your hair. How do you do it?”
“It’s just the smile of Lady Luck,” Judge McGraw said. “Your turn will come, Max, my boy.” He coughed and put a hand to his mouth, glancing quickly, casually at his watch. He hoped some excuse to break up the game would come along soon.
“Where the hell have you been?” Stone said to Debby, as Alex put a tray of coffee at his elbow.
“A fine time to be asking,” Debby said. “You left me stranded, I noticed. Why should you care where I’ve been?”