I'll Get You For This (8 page)

  I shook my head. "Not yet, anyway," I said.

  He shrugged. I could see he was disappointed.

  "Oh well," he said.

  I had an idea. "Know any newspaper men around town?"

  "Sure. There's Jed Davis of the Morni
ng Star. He's often
around. We go fishing together."

  "Get me some dirt on Killeano. Ask Davis. Dig deep. A guy like Killeano must have plenty of dirt in his life. I want all I can get."

  His face brightened. "I'll get it," he said.

  "And there's a cat-house somewhere on the waterfront, want to know who owns it. Speratza of the Casino has access to it. I'd like to tie him in closer than that if I can."

  "I know the joint," he said. "Okay, I'll get the stuff."

  I started the engine. Then I had another idea.

  "Gimme your telephone number," I said.

  He gave it to me.

  "I may run into trouble," I said, eyeing him. "I might not get back. If that happened, would

you do something for me?"

He got it all right.

"Sure, I'll look after her. Do you want to tell where she is?"

I had to trust someone. I thought I could trust him.

"Cudco Key," I said.

He nodded. "Yeah, that's a good place. Mac's there."

"I know, and he's a good guy."

"Hell! We're all good guys. I'll look after her,"

"I like that girl," I said slowly. "If anything should happen to her …" I gave him the cold eye.

He nodded. "I'll look after her," he said

I thanked him and drove away.

  Lancing Avenue was in the better-class district of Paradise Palms. It was a broad avenue lined by Royal Palms that were as straight-cut as a row of skittles.

  I found the chromium and black marble apartment block without difficulty. It had a halfcircular drive to the entrance and a lot of bright lights. It looked like a Christmas tree out of season.

  I drove the Mercury up the drive. A big, gaudy convertible threatened to squeeze me off the road as it passed, making a noise like snowflakes on a window. It stopped before the entrance and three dizzy-looking dames, all cigarettes, arched eyebrows and mink coatees got out and went in.

  The Mercury made me fell like a poor relation calling on his rich relatives.

  I parked behind the limousine and went in too.

  The lobby was no smaller than an ice-skating rink, but cosier. There was a reception desk, an enquiry desk, a flower-stall, a cigarette kiosk, and a hall porter's cubby hole. It was class; the

carpet tickled my ankles.

I looked around.

  The three dizzy dames had gone over to the elevators. One of them pulled down her gridle with both hands and gave me the eye. She had too much on the ball for me to be more than mildly interested. She was the kind of dame who'd pick out your good inlays without an anaesthetic. I took myself over to the hall porter. He was a sad old man dressed up in a bottlegreen uniform. He didn't look as if he had much joy in his life.

  I draped myself over the counter of his cubby-hole.

  "Hi, dad," I said.

  He looked up and nodded. "Yes, sir?" he said.

  "Miss Spence. Miss Lois Spence. Right?"

  He nodded again. "Apartment 466, sir. Take the right-hand elevator."

  "She in."

  "Yes, sir."

  "That's fine," I said, and lit a cigarette.

  He looked at me and wondered, but he was too well bred to ask why I didn't go up and see her. He just waited.

  "How are you going off for holding money, dad?" I asked casually.

  He blinked. "Always do with some, sir," he said.

  "Kind of tough here?" I asked, glancing around. "All silk for the customers and crepe for the staff?"

  He nodded. "We're supposed to make it in tips, sir," he said bitterly. "But they are so mean here they wouldn't give a blind beggar the air."

  I took out a five spot and folded it carefully. He eyed it the way I eye Dorothy Lamour.

"Miss Spence interests me," I said. "Know anything about her?"

  He glanced around uneasily. "Don't flash that money so anyone can see it, sir," he begged. "I wouldn't like to lose my job."

  I hid the note in my hand, but I let the end show in case he forgot what it looked like.

  "Do you talk or do you talk?" I asked pleasantly.

  "Well, I know her, sir," he said. "She's been here three years, and you get to know them after a while." He said it as if he hated her guts.

  "Nice to you?"

  "Maybe she doesn't mean it, sir," he said, shrugging.

  "You mean she doesn't kick you in the face because her leg doesn't stretch that far?"

  He nodded.

  "What's her line?" I asked.

  His old face sneered. "Tom—he runs the elevator—says she'd flop at the drop of a hat. Perhaps you know what he means. I don't."

  "It's a cynical way of saying she's a push-over," I said. "Is she?"

  He shook his head. "Maybe the first time, but not after that. She kind of whets a guy's appetite and then holds him off. It comes kind of expensive the second time. I've seen guys climb walls and gnaw their way across the ceiling because they couldn't make the grade."

  "She kind of gets in your blood, huh?"

  He nodded. "One sap shot himself because of her."

  "Tough."

  "I guess he was crazy."

  "How did Herrick make out with her?"

  He eyed me narrowly. "I don't know whether I should talk about him, sir. The boys in blue have been buzzing around here today like wasps."

  I showed him the other end of the five spot, hoping it would look more interesting that way.

  "Try," I said.

  "Well, he was different. He and the Basque."

  "The Basque?"

  He nodded. "He's up there now."

  "She played around with Herrick?"

  "Well, they went around together. Herrick had a lot of dough, but I wouldn't say they played, if you mean what I think you mean, sir."

  "You wouldn't, eh? How about the Basque?"

  He shrugged. "You know what these women are like. They have to have one regular among the many. I guess he's it."

  "And not Herrick?"

  "He was different. He never stayed nights with her. I guess they were on a different footing. Maybe they were in business or something together."

  "You wouldn't swear to that?"

  "No, but she didn't take any trouble to hide up the Basque from Herrick. He'd be with her when Herrick called. It seemed to make no difference."

  "Who is this Basque, anyway?"

  "Name's Juan Gomez. He's a jai alai player. The local champ around here."

  "What does he do beside play?"

  The old man's eyes rolled. "Gets out of training with Miss Spence, I reckon."

"Did the cops pay her a visit?"

He nodded.

"Hear anything?"

  "No, but Gomez was with her." A wintry smile crossed his face. "I bet she had to do some fancy talking to explain what that dago was doing in her room at eight o'clock in the morning."

  "Probably said he'd come to fix the refrigerator," I said. "Ever see Killeano in here?"

  "No."

  "Right," I said, and slid him the five spot. He snapped it up the way a lizard nails a fly.

  I was moving away when he leaned forward and whispered, "Here they come now."

  I looked over my shoulder and saw them. Being interested in women, I looked first at Miss Spence. She had on a pair of long-waisted, rust-coloured slacks, Bata shoes, a brown and white print shirt and an orange scarf. Apart from being a trifle heavy in the beam, she had a longlimbed languorous figure. Her red hair was as artificial as her long-spiked eye-lashes. Her mouth was wide and glistening, and her eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots, and as expressionless. She wore Revlon's "Fatal Apple" make-up (the most tempting new colour since Eve winked at Adam). As she wafted past me on a cloud of No. 5 Chanel, I observed the utterly disdainful expression on her face and the strange sins that lurked in her eyes.

  I decided it'd be interesting to have a session with her, providing two strong men were outside the door to rescue me if the going got too tough, and if she left me enough strength to scream for help.

  The Basque was a turn on his own. He was tall and broad and unpleasantly strong looking, and as lithe as a jungle cat and twice as dangerous. His brown, lean face was coldly savage, and there was a chilled expression in his eyes that didn't make you feel you wanted to slap him on the back.

  Miss Spence handed over the keys to the hall porter as if he was the invisible man, and then strolled across the lobby, with Gomez tailing her.

  As she walked, she managed to make her hips quiver, and all the men in the lobby, including me, peeped at them.

  Half way across, she paused to ask her boy friend for a cigarette. He was lighting it for her when a loudspeaker extension crackled into life.

  "Paradise Palms Police Department," said a tinny voice. The loudspeaker hummed slowly, then spluttered to sound: "Repeat as of nine fifteen on Herrick killing. Wanted: Chester Cain. Description: six foot one—a hundred and ninety pounds —about thirty-five—dark hair—sallow complexion—wearing grey suit, grey soft hat. Probably trying to get out of town . . . don't take any chances—he's dangerous. Anyone recognizing the wanted man should report at once by telephone to the Police Department. No attempt should be made to apprehend this man unless you are armed. That is all."

  Miss Spence threw down her cigarette and stamped on it.

  "Haven't they caught that bastard yet?" she demanded angrily.

  Jai alai is the fastest and toughest sport in the world. It is played with a
cesta
or basket, strapped to the player's right hand. The curved, three-foot basket has a maximum depth of five inches. A player can wear out three or four baskets during a contest. The hard, rubber-cored ball or pelota
, s
lightly smaller than a baseball, is covered with goatskin.

  The ball is driven with such speed that it sometimes breaks a leg or arm. The playing court or
cachet is spacious, its gr
een walls rising to the high-netted skylight of the auditorium. Where the concrete of the
cacha
floor ends in the red foul line and meets the wooden floor of the auditorium, there is a vertical wire screen which protects the tiers of customers.

  The server drops the ball, catches it on the rebound, and hurls it with a terrific forehand stroke against the wall. The opposing player has to intercept the ball with his basket and keep it in play. The players move like lightning, their cesta-lengthened hands reaching out miraculously to intercept and return bullet-like rallies of the ball. The pelot
a c
ontinues in play until it falls in illegal territory, or a contestant fails to make good a return.

  There are few ball games calling for greater strength, endurance and skill, and it is said most jai alai players die young. If they're not sooner or later severely injured by the ball, their hearts give out.

  I had followed Miss Spence and her boy friend in their Cadillac sedan to a large coral-tinted stucco building, which turned out to be the jai alai headquarters. I had watched Miss Spence leave her boy friend at the player's gate and enter the auditorium. I had tagged along behind her.

  Now I was sitting beside her on a plush seat in the front row of the first of the tiers behind the wire screen, looking down into the floodlit cac
ha.

  Four energetic young Spaniards were dashing about the floor slamming the almost invisible ball back and forth, and performing acrobatic miracles. The crowd seemed to be getting a big bang out of them, but I was more interested in Miss Spence.

  She had spread out on the flat plush top of the balcony wall a program, a pair of binoculars, her hand-bag, a carton of cigarettes and her orange scarf. The heady perfume of No. 5 Chanel brooded over her nick-nacks, herself, and of course, me.

  Sitting so close to her—the seats were cut on economical lines—I could feel a subtle warmth from her body, and her perfume had a distinct effect on me. I wondered vaguely what she would do if I enfolded her in a Charles Boyer embrace.

  The four Spaniards finished their game and walked off the court to a scattering of applause. They looked jaded and hot. If I'd been in their place I would have been carried off on a stretcher, with a dewy-eyed nurse in attendance packing ice around my temples.

  There was an interval, and Miss Spence looked around the auditorium as if she expected the rest of the audience to stand up and sing the National Anthem at the sight of her. They didn't.

  She looked to her right, and then to her left. As I was on her left, she looked at me. I gave her a sad, coy leer, and hoped it would unhook the disdainful expression on her face. It didn't exactly do that, but it registered enough for her to study me.

  I leaned forward confidentially. "They say the elastic shortage has made woman's position in world affairs less secure than it was four years back," I said briskly.

  She didn't say "Huh?", but she wanted to. She looked away instead, the way you look when a drunk speaks to you. Then she looked back and caught my grin. She smiled bleakly.

  "Reilly's the name," I said. "I'm a playboy with a lot of dough and a yen for red-heads. You'd better scream for help while there's time. I'm considered to be a fast worker."

She looked me over. No smile now. Eyes medium to hard.

  "I could handle you without help," she said in a husky voice that sent chills up and down my spine, "and I don't like playboys."

  "My mistake," I said, shaking my head. "I missed out on psychology when I worked my way through college. I'd've thought playboys would have been your strong suit. Let's forget it," and I picked up my program and pretended to study it.