Night Squad (8 page)

      “Fill it,” he said to the bartender. When the gin came he drank it with his eyes shut tightly, grimacing in a kind of anguish and surrender, as though he was drinking cyanide.

Quit lookin' at her , he shouted at himself. You got no right to look at her. That woman is another man's wife. And even if she wasn't, you still wouldn't have the right. You ain't in her league, that's why. She's a good clean package and you're nothin' but a Swampcat with dirty claws, a double-dealin' operator who only knows from cagey capers, angles—

      “Perchance a wine?” from a mild voice at his side, and before he looked he knew it was Carp. But the little man was speaking to someone else, a tall, lean sun-darkened construction worker who preferred to show his money on the bar, a ten and two fives and a flock of ones.

      “A wine, perchance?” Carp coaxed again. The construction worker looked down at the little man and said, “Don't bother me, and that's final.” Carp sighed wistfully, gazing at the man's money and said aloud, “A wine, a whiskey, or any nectar at all to spread some cheer—”

      “I said don't bother me,” the construction worker muttered. He raised his hand to strike Carp, aiming a backhand blow that didn't go anywhere. He stared with amazement at Corey's fingers gripping his wrist, then stared at Corey's face and said, “Who asked for you?”

      “Let it ride,” Corey said. He released the man's wrist, began to turn away, then felt the hard tug as the man pulled him around. The man leaned toward him and gritted, “You wanna get your face pushed in?”

      Corey smiled lazily. His eyes were half-closed. He didn't say anything.

      The construction worker lifted a hard-muscled arm and showed Corey a big fist. “You see this? You know what it can do?”

      “No,” Corey said. “Show me.”

      “You really want it, dontcha?” The construction worker spoke louder now, and stepped back to give himself room. Corey didn't move. A moment passed and nothing happened, except that the construction worker was studying Corey's eyes, his own eyes blinking and his expression somewhat uneasy. Then without saying anything he faced away from Corey, bending low over the bar and staring past a double rye.

      Carp still stood there, placidly rubbing his hands together, like a fly rubbing its feelers. Over the top of the little man's head Corey saw Lillian getting up from the table and starting toward the side door. In his brain he pressed a button that had no connection with a woman named Lillian, the name on the button was Delbert Kingsley.

      The button was wired to the deal last night in the alley off Second Street, when he hid behind the fence and saw the face of Delbert Kingsley, the man's eyes scanning the alley.

      He took hold of Carp's shoulders and turned the little man so that he faced the side door. At that moment Lillian was approaching the door. Corey said to Carp, “You see that dame? The one walking out? You know her?”

      Carp shook his head.

      “That offer you made,” Corey said. “That trust and friendship. You wanna prove it?”

      “Most assuredly,” the little man said.

      “Follow her,” Corey murmured. “Find out where she lives.”

      Carp glided away. As he neared the side door, he lifted someone's double bourbon. Nellie made a try for him and he slithered away from her clutching hands. He was gulping bourbon as he exited from the taproom.

      Corey turned and faced the bar. He ordered more gin. But when it arrived he didn't grab for it. He reached for it slowly and then sipped it absently, not really needing it anymore. His thinking was all mechanical; he was telling himself that these were working hours and he ought to be working. He ought to be making a report to his employer.

      He finished the gin and walked from the Hangout and headed north on Second Street, going toward Grogan's house.

His finger pressed the doorbell. It was the fourth time he'd pressed it. Now he kept his finger on the button. Finally the door opened and a girl wearing a maid's uniform with the collar ripped and her dark hair mussed stood there breathing hard, her eyes wet. She was in her early twenties and there was something Far Eastern in her features. He guessed she was East Indian. On the slim side, her hips very narrow, she seemed just a bit too fragile for whatever action had caused the tears. As he looked closer, he saw a cut near the corner of her mouth. It was bleeding slightly.

      “Yes?” she murmured, looking away from him while pressing a fingertip against her cut lip. “What is you want, please?”

      “Mr. Grogan.”

      “You are who?”

      “Bradford.”

      “Bradford what? You give me full name, please. You tell me—”

      From behind the girl, fingers pulled at her and she was yanked backward, then shoved aside. Now Lita was standing in the doorway, the platinum hair only slightly out of place, the dark green eyes tiny green-yellow torches. She was wearing a two-piece outfit that left her midriff bare. It was a pale green silk halter and toreador pants. “Very nice,” Corey murmured, looking at her navel.

      “What do you want?” Lita asked impatiently. She seemed anxious to get back to her discussion with the girl.

      “Is he here?” Corey asked.

      “He's occupied right now. He's upstairs.”

      “So I'll wait. I'll just come in and wait. I can wait a few minutes.”

      “It'll be longer than that,” she said.

      “How long?”

      “At least an hour.”

      “What's he doin'?”

      She didn't answer. She glanced backward at the East Indian girl. The girl was leaning against the wall of the vestibule, making whimpering noises.

      “You wait,” Lita promised her. “You just wait.” And then to Corey, “Look, I can't talk to you now. Can't be bothered—”

      She tried to close the door but he kept his hand against it. He said, “What happens upstairs?”

      She heaved an exasperated sigh. “If you must know,” she said, “he's getting an irrigation.”

      “A what?”

      “An irrigation,” she said. “A high colonic.”

      Corey thought about that for a moment. The gin he'd consumed was swirling in his head and he heard himself saying, “That ain't what he needs.”

      Lita stiffened. She breathed in through her teeth and made a hissing noise.

      “You know what he needs,” Corey said. “He needs it and he ain't getting it.”

      She studied him. She said, “You've been drinking.”

      “That's right.”

      “You're drunk.”

      “Just a little.”

      She smiled thinly, contemptuously. “You don't amount to much, do you?”

      Corey grinned. “That calls for another drink. You got anything to drink?”

      “You've had enough,” she said. And then, turning away from him, as though he had no importance, no meaning at all, she released her hold on the door. Corey opened it wider and walked in.

      As Corey passed through the vestibule, the East Indian girl made a move toward the open doorway. Corey looked back and saw Lita reach out and grab the girl's wrist.

      “Please no. Please,” the girl said. Lita pulled her away from the door, then kicked the door shut and shoved the girl through the vestibule. The girl bumped into Corey, they both staggered backward into the parlor and the girl fell to her knees.

      Corey bent over to help her up. Lita quickly came in and pushed him aside. The gin was rocking him now and he looked for a place to sit down. He lurched across the expensive Chinese rug and fell into the ebony armchair near the massive bronze Buddha. On the floor around the Buddha there was an overturned jade lamp, the pieces of a broken vase, an ashtray upside down and scattered cigarette stubs and ashes. Corey turned his head and looked at the Buddha, as though expecting some comment from the impassive bronze face. The slit eyes of the Buddha had nothing to offer except the soundless utterance,
problems of the earth not mine these days. Am merely an observer.

      We'll go along with that, Corey decided. The gin was throwing left hooks at his senses. He leaned back, his legs sprawled. Through gin-clouded vision he saw Lita and the girl. They were moving around considerably. A chair was knocked over. Then another chair fell over. The girl cringed under Lita's upraised arm.

      “You no can do this,” the girl whined. “You no have right to do this.”

      Lita's arm came down and the girl blocked the blow with crossed open hands. Lita used her other arm and her fist hit the girl on the shoulder. The girl went down on her side, rolled over and got to her feet and dodged another blow. She couldn't dodge the next one. It caught her on the temple and she fell sideways, then landed on the rug sitting down. She sat there weeping softly, her face in her hands. Lita aimed another blow with her fist, then seemed to change her mind and looked around the room, finally focusing on the brass-ornamented fireplace. In a holder there was an intricately carved brass poker, its handle a dragon's head. Lita crossed to the fireplace and picked up the poker and tried the weight of it in her hand. She said to the girl, “Now tell me the truth.”

      “Is like I say before,” the girl wept. She started to get up from the floor. Lita moved quickly with the poker raised high. The girl sat down again and covered her head with her arms.

      “You're a thief,” Lita said.

      “Why you call me a thief? I no take nothing.”

      “Perfume.”

      “What perfume?”

      “A five-ounce bottle,” Lita said. “Thirty dollars an ounce.”

      The girl looked up, bewildered. She shook her head slowly. She said, “Is wrong for you to say this. Is very unfair—”

      “You went out last night. You sneaked out.”

      “Is like I say before.”

      “I don't want to hear that,” Lita said. “You'll tell me why you went out.”

      “To go for walk,” the girl wailed. “Is like I say before. To go for walk.”

      “At half-past four in the morning?”

      “I no could sleep. Too hot in room. No could stay in bed.”

      “Keep telling me that and you'll stay in bed for a month, in a cast.”

      “You no can do this. Is not right.”

      Lita swung the brass poker and it came down on the girl's back just below her shoulders. The girl yowled, fell forward and was facedown on the floor as Lita raised the poker again. Corey got up from the chair and lunged forward. Then he had the poker in his hand and tossed it onto the floor behind him. Lita grabbed for the poker but he blocked her path.

      “Get away,” she hissed. “You're not in this.”

      He smiled lazily. His eyes said, don't come any closer.

      She stepped back. It wasn't retreat. She was coiled, her arms bent stiffly and her fingers hooked, the fingernails aiming. Then she came at him with the fingernails going for his eyes.

      He caught her wrists. She brought up her knee, trying for his groin. He pulled away and she tried again and came close, then made another try. This time it was closer and he let go of her wrists. She let out a low rattling sound, like a snake, and came at him with fingernails and teeth.
This dame is really outta control he thought. You're gonna hafta—

      Her teeth missed his hand. Her fingernails missed his face, almost found his throat. She backed away and came in again and he let her have it, a very short stiff right that caught her high on the jaw, just under the ear. She sagged, her eyes closed. Before she hit the floor, he moved fast and grabbed her around the middle. He saw she was out.

      He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the sofa. It won't show, he thought, looking at her jaw where he'd hit her. You didn't really hurt her. You measured it and you can see it wasn't an overdose of knuckles. You know it won't show, and there ain't no damage. But even so, it's a pity. You hadda do it, though. What else could you do?

      The East Indian girl was standing at his side, looking down worriedly at the platinum blonde sleeping on the sofa. The girl said, “Is terrible thing.”

      “She'll be all right.”

      “Is really a terrible thing.” The girl was getting ready to weep again.

      Corey turned and looked at her. “She sure put it on you with that poker.”

      “What hurts is not that. What hurts is name she calls me. She calls me thief. In front of you. Now why she do that?”

      “I'm wondering.”

      “I work here long time. Almost two year. Never anything like this. This is something I no understand.”

      Corey gazed past the girl. His eyes narrowed and he murmured, “What started it?”

      “Was not about perfume.”

      “I know that.”

      “Before you came in, was no talk about perfume. Was just that she gets upset about something. Walks up and down and makes noises like she is speaking to herself. Is very upset. Never see her like that before. Is nervous sometimes, but never like that. And then she jumps at me.”