Bare Trap (5 page)

Muggsy tasted the bourbon and approved. “As long as you’re going to get clipped, these are the proper surroundings for it. We going into the casino?”

Liddell watched out of the corner of his eye as a tuxedoed man went up to the bartender, conferred with him. The bartender looked down to where they were standing, nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the whole thing. The man in the tuxedo walked down to where they stood.

“Good evening, sir.” His voice had the faintest trace of accent. “Do you have a reservation?”

Liddell shook his head. “Just drove out on the spur of the moment.”

The man in the tuxedo tilted the corners of his lips mechanically, didn’t change expression. “I’m very sorry, sir.
We are full up.”

“Stack around?”

“Mr. Stack?” The headwaiter’s eyebrows arched. “Are you a friend of his?” He tapped his pencil against his teeth indecisively.

“Try him and see.”

The headwaiter hesitated, then walked over to a phone set on the wall at the far side of the bar. He pressed one of the buttons on its base, held the receiver to his ear. He replaced the instrument, walked back to where Liddell stood.

“Mr. Stack will be out in a moment, sir.”

Liddell nodded, swung back to the bar. He signaled for a refill and waited until the bartender had replaced the bottle on the back bar. “You don’t make it any too easy for a guy to drop his dough around here, do you?”

The bartender shrugged. “Like I said, mister. I only work here.” He looked past Liddell’s shoulder. “Here’s the guy you want to make your beefs to. Mr. Stack.”

Liddell turned to face a two-hundred-pound fashion plate in a midnight-blue tuxedo, a red carnation in his buttonhole, a lazy smile pasted on his thick, red lips. The headwaiter hovered anxiously in his wake.

Stack bowed to Muggsy, turned a pair of cold, gray eyes on Liddell.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Liddell nodded. “I knew it would be a waste of time to ask for Yale Stanley. I figured it would have to be done through you.”

The big man nodded, sniffed at the carnation in his lapel. “Does Mr. Stanley know you?”

“No. But I think he’d be glad to see me.”

Stack considered it, failed to be impressed. “Why should he?”

Liddell pulled his card out of his pocket, wrote on the back, “Concerning Shad Reilly’s paper,” handed it to Stack. The big man read it slowly, nodded.

“You may be right. I think Yale will see you. However,”
he added sadly, “he isn’t in the house yet. He doesn’t usually get here this early.” He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, looked sadly at Liddell. “If you’d care to wait?”

Liddell looked at Muggsy, got a nod. “I have no reservation.’ ‘

The stock smile was back on Stack’s face. He pulled the menu from under the headwaiter’s arm, stepped aside, motioned for them to precede him. At the entrance to the dining-room, he stepped ahead, led the way down three crimson steps, along the tables that skirted the dance floor. He stopped at one facing the bandstand, pulled it out. “Will this be all right?”

Liddell nodded. “Fine. You’ll call me when Stanley arrives?”

Stack nodded and opened the menu for them.

“Make it two combination sandwiches and two Harper,” Liddell told him. Stack nodded, transmitted the order to the waiter.

“Anything else?” he asked. When Liddell shook his head, Stack bowed slightly and glided off. On the way to the door, he stopped to smile at a customer here and a customer there, or to bend over a table to talk to a favored one.

“You must know the password,” Muggsy whispered. “Whatever you wrote on that card sure got results. What was it?”

Liddell grinned. “I just said we were here concerning Shad Reilly’s paper. From the action we got it must be enough to pay the national debt.”

The waiter deposited two drinks and two sandwiches on the table and left. At the other end of the dance floor, the band on the low podium blared into an introductory chord, and the house lights went down. A long yellow spot stabbed through the dimness of the room to outline the figure of a girl emcee. She undulated out onto the stage, waited for the overhead mike to be lowered to within range, broke into a brassy song of welcome. Her voice was heavy, roughened by whisky and overuse.

After the song, a long line of girls scampered onto the floor in spangled brassieres and satin tights. They went through a tortured routine, twisted and squirmed under the colored spot, their bare legs flashing, their bare stomachs undulating. They ran off the stage to a smattering of applause, gave way to a piano single that played and sang a series of
double-entendre
songs in a manner that left only one interpretation.

The line of girls was back with different costumes but the same steps, the same bare midriffs and insufficient brassieres. This time they made way for the brassy-voiced emcee. She leaned against the piano, threw her head back, and gave herself over to a wail of unrequited love.

“Got enough of this?” Liddell asked.

Muggsy nodded.

“How about trying the casino?”

“Love it,” Muggsy whispered.

Liddell flagged down the waiter, dropped a bill on his tray, pushed back the table, led the way to the game room. Stack stood outside the door, smelling the carnation in his lapel.

“Mr. Stanley isn’t in yet,” he told Liddell sadly. “He’s a little late tonight. You’re not leaving?”

“Thought we’d try our luck while we’re waiting. Okay?”

“Of course. I’ll have you notified the minute he arrives.” He stepped aside and signaled an okay to the man on the door.

The game room advertised itself by a low, tense murmur of conversation, spiced by the chatter of roulette balls. At the far end of the room was a small portable bar. There were three craps tables, two roulette setups, and along the wall a line of one-armed bandits stood with one metal arm raised in salute.

The hum of conversation, which had been low and polite in the dining-room, had a shrill feverish note in here, almost as if everyone had determined that this was The Night and they must savor it to the hilt.

Liddell and Muggsy walked over to the roulette setup
nearest the door. He slid a fifty-dollar bill over to the croupier, accepted three reds and four whites in return.

He stacked two whites on the red diamond.

“Make your bets, ladies and gentlemen,” the croupier intoned monotonously. He watched with cold, disinterested eyes as others in the crowd around the wheel placed their chips on the various squares. Then he spun the wheel and sent the ball flicking in the groove with a light flip of his left wrist.

The buzz of conversation died to a breathless silence as the ball skimmed around the groove, slid down the flank of the wheel, chattered along the tines between the numbers. Suddenly it fell dead, dropped into red seventeen with a click. The wheel stopped.

With no show of emotion, the croupier stacked a pile of chips alongside the winners, raked in the chips on the losing numbers.

In twenty minutes, Liddell had run his stack into twelve reds, fourteen whites. In thirty-five minutes he had to buy more chips. When that pile was gone, he stepped back, watched the others play. After a moment, a man in a tuxedo tapped him on the arm.

“Were you waiting to see Mr. Stanley, sir?” he asked.

Liddell nodded.

“He’s in now. Come this way, please.”

They followed him through drapes into a short corridor. At the far end was a large metal door painted a dull brown. The guard knocked, then opened the door. As Liddell passed him, the man stumbled, catching at Liddell for support. He apologized, brushed Liddell’s coat of some imaginary wrinkles he had caused.

“Waste of time.” Liddell grinned bleakly. “I never make social calls with a gun.”

The guard nodded and closed the door behind them. Yale Stanley sat on the corner of a desk that looked as if it had cost a lot of money, his feet swinging lightly against the side. He didn’t look up from the absorbing task of cleaning his nails with a small pocketknife.

“Wanted to see me?” he asked.

He was smaller than Johnny Liddell had expected, and dapper. His hair, carefully slicked back, was a deep black that seemed almost blue in the indirect lighting.

“That was the general idea,” Liddell told him coolly. “That is, unless we’re interrupting something more important.”

The gambler stopped digging at his nails, looked up. He grinned suddenly, digging curving white trenches into the mahogany tan of his cheeks. He closed the knife, dropped it into his jacket pocket, nodded to Muggsy. “I’m sorry.” He looked over to Liddell. “It was about Shad Reilly, I think you said?”

“Understand he owes you some money.”

Stanley raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “Yeah, you could say he owes me some money.” He fumbled with the points of the fine linen handkerchief in his breast pocket. “You ready to buy his paper back?”

Liddell shrugged. “That’s the general idea. But before I can make a stab at it, I ought to know how much it is.”

“I thought you represented him.”

“His guardian.”

Stanley raised his eyebrows, scowled. “He’s in me for fifty grand.”

“Fifty thousand?” Muggsy whistled softly.

The gambler jumped lightly from the corner of his desk, walked around it, took a small key ring from the top drawer. He selected one key from it and walked to an oil painting on the far wall. Under it was a small safe that opened to the key. He fumbled in the interior of the safe for a moment, came up with a bundle of papers held together by a rubber band. He tossed them to Liddell. They were IOU’s in varying amounts covering the period of a year.

“Count it yourself,” Stanley growled.

Liddell flicked through it with his thumb and dropped the notes back on the desk. “I believe you. But Richards will never go for fifty grand.”

The mask of good nature on the gambler’s face slipped. “Look, pal. If you were sent here to chisel, forget it.” He picked up the bundle of IOU’s, tossed them back into the safe, locked it, slid the painting into place. “Richards is a sucker thinking he can pull that stuff. And so’s the kid.”

“Why not make a deal? It’s a lot easier on everybody,” Liddell suggested. “Richards had no idea the kid was in that deep. He won’t stand still for a tap like that. I might be able to talk him into — ”

“Look, pal. Fifty gees he owes me and fifty gees he’ll get up. When I get hit, I pay off a hundred cents on the dollar. That’s the way I expect to get paid when I hit. I’m not running this joint for experience.”

“Well, you’re the boss. When I see the kid I’ll tell him what you said.”

Stanley walked over to the padded leather chair behind the desk, dropped into it. “What’s that supposed to mean? When you see the kid?”

Liddell shrugged. “He’s taken a powder. Nobody knows where he is.”

The gambler bared his teeth in a humorless grin. “You look like you been around too long to pull one like that, pal,” he chided. “This is no penny-ante crap game. We got ways of finding people who powder. I got two boys of my own who could find a tear drop in the ocean.”

“Would one of these boys of yours be a big guy with a nasty disposition?”

The cold grin was still pasted on Stanley’s thin lips. “All of my boys have nasty dispositions, pal. Be good to yourself and don’t get them mad at you.”

“What do you intend to do to Shad if you do find him?” Muggsy wanted to know.

Stanley rolled his eyes from Liddell to the girl. “What are we going to do?” He dropped his eyelids to half veil his eyes, pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. When we find him, you’ll read all about it.” He reached over, pressed a button on the corner of his desk.

The door to the office swung open; Stack’s two hundred pounds stood framed in the doorway.

“Our guests are going, Stack. Don’t bother to have them stop at any of the tables on the way out. They don’t think they’re playing for keeps.”

• • •

The pealing of the phone at his ear was shrill, discordant. Johnny Liddell groaned, cursed softly, and dug his head into his pillow. But the noise refused to go away. He opened one eye experimentally, peered at the half-lowered blinds, noted it was not yet light. He rubbed the heel of his hand in his sleep-heavy eyes and glared at the phone. The glare had no noticeable effect; the phone kept ringing. Finally he reached out, lifted the receiver off its hook.

“Liddell? Is that you, Liddell?” The voice was heavy, gurgling.

“Who’s this?”

“Richards. I’ve got to see you. Right away.”

Liddell swore under his breath, squinted at the luminous dial of the clock on his stand. “It’s only four o’clock. I just got to bed.”

“I’ve got to see you,” Richards persisted.

“Make it in the morning, will you?” Liddell protested. “It’ll keep.”

“Not this. I heard from the kid,” Richards told him in a low voice. “I heard from Shad. He wants to see me right away.”

Liddell nodded. “Good. As long as he’s okay you don’t need me.”

“I do. The kid is scared. He wouldn’t say over the phone. He wants me to go out there. I don’t want to go alone.”

“He’ll still be there in the morning.”

Richards’s voice was insistent. “I found out why he took the powder. He’s been gambling. Heavy.”

“I know all about it. I had a talk with Yale Stanley tonight. Tomorrow we can pick up the kid and figure some way to square it.”

“But Stanley knows where the kid is. The kid said so.”

Liddell groaned, knew he was licked. “All right, I’ll go with you. You driving?”

“Yes.”

“Pick me up at my place. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. The Marlowe, right off Wilshire.” He put the receiver back on the hook, glared at it for a moment; cursing the fate that had made him a private detective, he started stuffing his feet into his trousers. He was standing on the curb outside his hotel a half hour later when Eddie Richards drove up.

Liddell got into the car without a word and sank back against the cushions. The morning air had a bite to it so he rolled up the window and glared at the blank-eyed store fronts along Wilshire.

Richards headed the car north out of town. The big coupé ate up the blocks effortlessly. The fat man handled the car with sure ease.