I laughed, thinking of McGuire’s reputation. I said. “A bookie joint, and a shop for receiving stolen goods, and maybe a little dope mill to one side. We could get modernistic showcases for attractive displays of heroin and cocaine.”
The friendliness went out of Sampson’s snarl. He said, “McGuire don’t mess with dope.”
“That isn’t the way I heard it,” I said. “But that’s your business. Tell your boss the answer’s no.”
He got up. Standing, he was not quite so small as he had seemed slumped down in the chair. But he was thin, and shorter than I. He had a lean and pointed face. “That ain’t the answer I came for,” he said. “I brought you a business proposition, an’ before you even talk about it, you’re giving me a no.”
“McGuire and I can’t do business,” I said. “I don’t want any part of McGuire.”
“You want to remember,” the little man said, “you’re doin’ good now, doin’ fine. The way I hear it, you came up fast. Now you got a big chain of swell hash joints. But you always want to remember, you can go down the same way you came up.”
I smiled, but I wasn’t amused. I said, “I built Roney Restaurants with a little luck and one hell of a lot of hard work. When I go down, it’ll be my fault. It won’t be because I let some punk of McGuire’s tell me what to do.”
The little man came forward, rolling a little as he walked. His hands were at his sides. He said, “You shouldn’t done that, Roney. You shouldn’t call people punks.”
I was tired. I had been through a long, hard day. Sure I liked the work. But managing a chain of restaurants isn’t something to soothe the nerves, nor was the harsh voice of Sampson doing anything to help. The man came forward, and when he was close enough, I reached with my left hand and grabbed his coat lapels.
Sampson said, “Let’s go, or I’ll—”
My right hand caught him across the mouth. Then, as he pawed frantically to reach his shoulder holster, I backed him against the wall near the door, belting him each time he opened his mouth.
When he clamped his mouth tightly and no longer cursed or talked, I stopped slapping him and reached in and took the gun.
Stepping back, I withdrew the clip, and ejected the shell from the chamber. Then I held out the gun to Sampson, “Next time,” I said, “bring two. You can see one isn’t enough.”
He said nothing. He just stood there, looking at me. There was something about his eyes; it seemed as if a film had come over them. He watched me through a thin, gray veil.
I tossed the gun, and Sampson caught it. He slipped it inside his coat, and although it was no longer loaded, he kept his hand on the butt. It seemed to give him strength.
“When you check with your boss,” I said, “don’t forget the answer’s no.”
Sampson nodded, and then the flood of words came out. “I’ll tell him, tough boy. But there’s one mistake you made. With me, before, it was business. Either way you took it, it wasn’t anything to me. Before, it was just business. But you made it personal now.” He smiled, and a little trickle of blood came from his split lip and ran down his narrow chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and turned, and went out the door.
I chuckled, watching him go. The day was gone when a punk like that could hurt me or my restaurants. I had built a secure business, with a good reputation. It never occurred to me that the matter was serious enough to report to the police.
That was Saturday night, and nothing happened Sunday, except that my housekeeper came about noon with the news that she was quitting. No, it was nothing about the job. She liked keeping house for me, but her sister was sick, the one in New Orleans, and she had to go there for a while.
I phoned a cab for the woman, and watched her go with no particular regret. She hadn’t been with me long, and her management of me and my household affairs was nothing that couldn’t be duplicated by merely phoning an employment agency the first thing Monday morning.
As it turned out, I didn’t even have to do that. My problem was solved when the doorbell rang late Sunday afternoon. I got up and went to the door.
The girl said, “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Mr Roney.”
I said, “How do you do? Won’t you come in?” I tried to place her – waitress, hostess, entertainer. She could be any of these. She went ahead of me into the living room, a slim girl, yet padded nicely. I could tell it wasn’t the suit. She sat when I offered a chair, but when I offered a drink, she said, “Before I get too comfortable, perhaps I’d better tell you – I came about the job.”
“Job?” I said. I had a personnel man who took care of hiring the restaurant help. Furthermore, there was nothing about this girl that made you think of a person who wanted a job.
“I knew Mrs Ferguson slightly,” the girl said. “She told me she was leaving, and suggested you might be hiring another housekeeper.”
I opened my mouth slightly and stared at her.
She smiled, “It’s not as silly as it sounds, Mr Roney. Incidentally, my name’s Elaine Watkins.”
There was, I supposed, no reason why a housekeeper had to be old and homely. On the other hand . . . I said, “Miss Watkins, have you ever been a housekeeper before? Do you know what housekeepers make?”
“Mrs Ferguson said you paid two hundred. I’m sure that would be all right with me, if you think I’d be satisfactory.”
“Have you tried keeping house before?”
“No . . . I’m afraid if it’s references you want, I won’t be able to give them. I’ve been a model up until now.”
I leaned back in my chair. “And you’d give that up to keep house?”
“Why not?” She was laughing at me.
“Doesn’t it pay more? Don’t you find it’s more interesting work?”
She turned brisk now. “Mr Roney, have you any idea what a model makes?”
“None at all,” I said.
“A few hundred in the entire country make a real living. But for every one of these there are a hundred who are lucky if they get enough to eat. I’ve been at it for more than a year now. I’ve averaged about twenty a week.”
I smiled. “I’m beginning to see your point.”
She got up and loosened her jacket. I said, “Well, I suppose there’s no reason why a man’s housekeeper has to be hideous, though I’m sure you’ll be something of a shock to the girl I’m going to marry, and to the wives of some of my friends.”
“I’ll do my hair plain,” Elaine Watkins said. “I’ll put it up in a bun.”
I said, “Whatever you like, Miss Watkins. I’ll show you to your room.”
2. Spare Corpse
That evening, after I’d showered, I found a change of clothing laid out for me, though I had not told Miss Watkins I was going out. Downstairs, there were ice cubes ready on the bar, and beside them a bottle of my favorite Scotch. When I asked about the clothing, Elaine Watkins smiled.
“I checked your date book,” she said, “the one near the telephone. It said ‘dinner with Lola,’ so I assumed you’d need some clothes.”
“And the Scotch?” I asked.
“You have three cases on hand,” she said dryly. “Either you’re very fond of it, or else you’d like to use it up.”
I said, “Genius, Miss Watkins. Pure genius . . . Look, I won’t be home until late. Why don’t you take the night off?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” she said carelessly. “Tonight I’ve too much to do.”
I said goodbye and went out, savoring the pleasant warmth of the Scotch, and congratulating myself on having hired this girl who, unless I was very wrong, would run my house like a charm.