Part 8 (1/2)

Only it didn't work out that way.

After twenty minutes or so of waiting, I checked the two photos again. The more effective of the two would be enough by itself, I figured, to shake Jay up like a Sazerac c.o.c.ktail. In that photo, for some reason - possibly because an infrared flash not only puts out heat but a sometimes barely noticeable light - both Jay and Mrs. Quinn were looking directly at the camera, the features of each very clear indeed. He looked as if he was just starting to sing On The Road To Mandalay at the top of his lungs, and she was slightly cross-eyed but not looking cross in any other way. Jay, I felt sure, would react splendidly.

I stuck both enlargements back in the envelope, and was putting the envelope into my coat pocket again when a blue Thunderbird wheeled out of the motel's driveway and came toward me. I almost missed it. Jay apparently didn't believe in Ladies First - and I had been keeping an eye peeled for Mrs. Quinn to show at her Caddy. But because it had come out of the motel I took a good look at the driver as the Thunderbird zoomed past. It was Jay.

I made a fast U-turn and followed Jay to Third Street, where he turned left toward L.A. I pulled up closer behind him, waiting for a spot where I could force him to the curb. In a well-traveled area like this it would be a tricky maneuver at best, and at worst he might shoot me, but I had to get to him tonight. And the sooner the better.

There were no cars between us when he reached La Brea, but he made it past the intersection as the light turned red and I had to stop. Just past the intersection, however, he swung left and into a parking lot on the far side of a hotel on the corner. Only then did I notice, with a definite sinking sensation, where we were. The hotel was the Barker Hotel. The Barker, managed by Fargo, hangout of numerous hoodlums - possibly even including Frank Quinn.

”No!” I yelled at Jay. I stuck my head out the window and yelled, ”Don't! Don't go in there!”

He continued on out of sight. Apparently he hadn't even heard me. He should have. I was yelling loud enough.

Now what? I thought. The Barker didn't look dangerous; it was a modern, attractive twelve-story building facing Third Street. I could see the entrance to the Gardenia Room down La Brea to my left. An alley ran behind the hotel from La Brea to the next street, Sycamore Avenue. Some big-leaved green plants softened the building's base, and a clump of three graceful-trunked fan palms rose on its La Brea side near me. Their spreading green fronds were almost level with the fourth floor, and rose-colored spotlights on the ground illumined their trunks. No, the Barker didn't look dangerous. Neither does cyanide.

The traffic light turned green. Somebody honked behind me. I mumbled unhappily, but gunned the Cad forward and then, taking a deep breath and letting it bubble through my lips, swung into the Barker's lot and parked.

Jay's T-Bird was in sight, but Jay wasn't. From the lot, steps led up to a side door which opened into the Barker lobby. I went up the steps and inside, lit a cigarette and looked around. The desk was on my left, a middle-aged man behind it. A few people sat on couches in the lobby.

Everything appeared normal and pleasant - until I spotted Jay again. He stood talking to a group of four men seated across the lobby, a few feet from an arched doorway above which was a neon sign, ”Gardenia Room.” As I glanced at that archway, a big red-headed guy came through it, walked to where Jay and the other guys were yakking it up, and clapped Jay on the back. In a moment he and Jay went back into the Gardenia Room. But not before I got a good look at him. Or a bad look.

He was a large, stumbling character named Blister. Blister was a red-headed creep with the florid complexion of men who fall asleep under sun lamps, and a nose which had been hit so many times with such a variety of objects that it was possible to tell only that it had once been a nose; consequently he breathed through his mouth, which was unfortunate, since he had a breath that could kill mosquitoes. Blister was a slob, true; a dim-witted muscleman and flunky - but a flunky who flunked for Frank Quinn. In addition he was very pally with the Barker's manager, Fargo, who loved me.

I started after them anyway. Nothing really unpleasant could happen to me in a public lobby or bar, I told myself. Of course not. But as I neared the group of men Jay had been talking to I glanced at them, and my feet slowed, then stopped, as if they had minds of their own. If so, those feet had pretty good heads on them, because the four guys were four guys it made good sense to stay away from.

They were Hal the Cad, Pizza Jim, Larry Bourne, and Tiger McGoon. Little Hal and beetle-browed McGoon, I knew, worked for Frank Quinn. Maybe they all did. Not that it made much difference, since not one of them would hesitate to steal crutches from cripples, feed candied dope to teenagers, or gleefully dissolve Sh.e.l.l Scott in sulphuric acid. Obviously they had spotted me before I noticed them, for all of them were staring at me intently, as if unbelieving, eyes bugging way out. It was an appalling sight - four bug-eyed mobsters - and the light in those eyes was a dim light indeed.

Thirteen months ago I had sent Hal to the State clink on a one-to-ten burglary rap; he'd been out for more than a month now. Only a few months back, Tiger McGoon and another hood had jumped me in an alley; I'd left them both in that alley, the other hood deceased and McGoon bleeding from his skull, which I had opened with the bottom edge of a garbage can. McGoon would carry the scar to his grave, but carry it first if he could - so he'd since promised me - to my grave.

I got my intelligent feet moving again and they carried me past the group. Four heads swiveled as I pa.s.sed; eight eyes bugged me. But, I told myself again, nothing very horrible could happen to me in a public bar. Could it? Of course not. So I walked under the neon sign and into the Gardenia Room.

The smell of hard liquor, beer, wine, mingled in the air and a four-piece combo played soft music, keyed to muted vibes, from behind a small dance floor on my right. On my left, between me and the La Brea entrance to the club, were small tables covered with beige cloths, candles in pink gla.s.ses burning at every table. The dimly-lighted club was about a third filled and conversation rippled around me.

Ahead of me, extending from near the front wall almost back to the dance floor, was the bar. I walked to it, climbed onto a stool. When the bartender came over I ordered a beer and asked him casually, ”What happened to Jay? I thought I saw him come in here with Blister.”

”Yeah, they just came in,” the bartender said. ”Think Jay went back to Mr. Sullivan's office.”

Sullivan was the name Lolita had mentioned. Beret-wearing Sully, who auditioned the club's acts in his private office. I grinned and said, ”Don't tell me Sully's going to work Jay - or, worse, Blister - into the show. It'll kill the dinner trade if he does.”

The bartender chuckled. ”Not hardly. No, Sully isn't here tonight. I think Jay went back there to see Fargo. Blister's sitting over there at a table, right behind you.”

”That's nice,” I said. I swung around on my stool, and had no trouble spotting red-faced Blister. He was at a table near the far corner of the dance floor, with another man and three women. The other guy was a Mexican wheelman named Toms Gonzales, inevitably called Speedy. Blister was with a young girl who looked like Lady Macbeth as a boy, but Speedy was with a sharp-looking red-headed tomato who could have been front and center in any chorus line. At least those were the girls Speedy and Blister were patting and pinching with the hoodlum's charming delicacy.

There was an empty chair at the table, and I guessed the third gal belonged with whoever wasn't present at the moment. Jay, maybe? She was a blonde, voluptuous-looking, wearing a green knit dress which she had stretched all into shape. Suddenly she let out a little trilling squeal and I noticed that Speedy was leaning close to her. Either he'd whispered something exciting into her ear or taken a bite out of it. None of them had noticed me yet.

I was beginning to feel like a cuc.u.mber in a pickle factory, but I eased off my stool, walked to the rear of the club and stepped through heavy cloth drapes into a dimly-lighted hallway. On my right light spilled through a partly-open door. I took the .38 from its holster, stuck the gun in my coat pocket and kept my hand on it, then walked to the door and pushed it open.

It was a big room, empty. On my right, was a gray desk, a red beret on its top - so apparently this was Sullivan's office. A couple of leather chairs were against one wall, and there was a big wooden bar aslant in the far corner on my left, that was all.

I went back into the hall. There were other offices back here, but no lights showed beneath their doors. At one end of the hallway a door led out to the parking lot; at the opposite end were stairs leading up, probably to the other floors of the hotel. But there wasn't any sign of Jay or Fargo. Maybe they'd gone up in the hotel somewhere. And no telling where. For a moment I considered just getting the h.e.l.l out of the Barker and trying to brace Jay later tonight, maybe even tomorrow. But then I thought of Ross Miller in that isolation cell, the seconds ticking his life away.

I went back into the Gardenia Room. Maybe I couldn't find Jay, but if I stuck around for a while I had a hunch Jay would find me. I didn't sit at the bar this time. Instead I stepped to the wall at its end and leaned against it, hand on the gun in my pocket. With such as Blister and Speedy, and my other pals nearby, I wanted n.o.body behind me.

And right then Blister glanced at me and started to look away, then visibly stiffened. He punched Speedy, whispered something to him. Speedy craned his head around, then he and Blister ushered the girls out into the Barker's lobby. The gals were doing some obvious protesting, but they went. I didn't think any of the girls saw me, or knew what the trouble was. In a minute Speedy came back alone and sat down at the same table, facing me.

I waited. The four-piece combo kept playing. A few couples were dancing, but then the band took a break. Another five minutes pa.s.sed. No sign of Jay yet. Blister came back, wiggled a finger at Speedy Gonzales. I felt a little damp.

And then I got damper. What I'd expected was happening. The monkeys were drifting in from the lobby. The old, familiar, horrible faces were in evidence. Hal the Cad, Pizza Jim, beetle-browed Tiger McGoon - several more whose paths had crossed or double-crossed mine at one time or another.

And right then something about all this struck me as more than pa.s.sing strange. Not the arrival of the goon squad - I'd expected that. It was that the club seemed no more crowded than before. In fact, even with all the new arrivals, the club was not nearly as full as when I'd come inside. Strange indeed.

And then I saw a very simple, ordinary thing, which nonetheless was a very chilling thing. It was merely a waiter carrying a tray on which were four plates sumptuously loaded with food. A common sight - except that he was carrying his tray back to the kitchen.

I got it then. But by the time I got it I didn't want it.

I had been so intent on watching for Jay and spotting the new faces arriving that I had been too little aware of the old ones vanis.h.i.+ng. At the moment, Speedy was bending over a table near the door talking earnestly to a young couple seated there. In a moment they got up and, after a brief argument, went out onto La Brea Street.

And, the final blow, Blister then stepped to the door, pushed it shut, and shoved the bolt home. So I knew those two had been the last. Especially since, simultaneously with Blister's burning of my bridge, Jay - together with Fargo - strolled out from the rear of the club and walked toward me.

It was clear now - very clear. I was trapped. Behind enemy lines. I had time for thought to dribble through my nut: This is it . . . This is Samson rubbing hair restorer on his noodle - too late. This is Tarzan lost in Apeland, with diarrhea and laryngitis. I should have listened to my feet.

But the shock that really paralyzed my nervous system, sapped neurons, stunned ganglia, was: This collection of mongoloid idiots had outwitted me. Which said something pretty depressing about my immediate future, especially with all those guns in view. Talk about guns! There were now in sight enough guns to sink an ore barge. Everywhere I looked - guns. I couldn't look. There were big ones, little ones, s.h.i.+ny one, dull ones - in fact they all looked pretty dull to me.

My nerves came all unzipped and I just stood there as Jay and Fargo stepped up in front of me.

Jay said, ”I guess you're stuck now, pal.”

I said, ”Oh, boy.”

He said, ”Chased all the square customers away, pal n.o.body here now but us friends.”

”Yeah,” I said. ”I figured it out. Just.”

Fargo chuckled deep in his throat. ”h.e.l.lo, Scott,” he said cheerily. ”It's good to see you.”

I didn't say anything.

Fargo was a big moon-faced man, tall and wedge-shaped, about 220 pounds - the thick chest and wide, lumpy shoulders leading to a size eighteen neck. His skin was unhealthy, blotched, mottled by faint dark spots like spreading freckles, and he wore a constant expression of distaste, as if his nose stank. That was a nose - a flaring gargantuan beak, useful rather than decorative, clearly designed for smelling.

At the moment he looked as if he were smelling something that pleased him for a change. He said, ”Finally gotcha. Yeah, I finally gotcha.” He looked at Jay. ”Walked right in here, didn't he? The guy must be cracky. But I caught him.”

”You caught me?” I said.

”Well, I gotcha. And it was me thought of chasing the citizens out. And you're caught, ain't you?”

He had a point.

Fargo said to Jay, ”I'll give the boss a call.”

”What for?” Jay said. ”He already told us what to do when we caught up with this guy.”