James Chase - 12 Chinks and a Woman

Fenner twisted in his chair. It quite shocked him to see that the little man was sincere.

“Swell,” he said hastily. “Don’t get me wrong. Where I come from there’s a different set of morals.”

“I can give you introductions. But what is it exactly that you want?”

Fenner wished he knew. He stalled. “I guess I gotta get into the money again,” he said. “Maybe one of your crowd could use me.”

“Crotti says you’ve got quite a reputation. He says you’ve got notches on your gun.”

Fenner tried to look modest and cursed Ike’s imagination. “I get along,” he said casually.

“Maybe Carlos could use you.”

Fenner tried a venture. “I thought Noolen might be good to throw in with.”

Nightingale’s watery eyes suddenly flashed. “Noolen? Noolen’s the south end of a horse.”

“So?”

“Carlos has Noolen with his pants down. You won’t get any place with a piker like Noolen.”

Fenner gathered that Noolen was a wash-out. He tried again. “You surprise me. I was told Noolen was quite a big shot around here.”

Nightingale stretched his neck and deliberately spat on the floor. “Nuts,” he said.

“Who’s Carlos?”

Nightingale got back his good humor. “He’s the boy. Now Pio’ll get you somewhere.”

Fenner slopped a little of his Scotch. “That his name—Pio Carlos?”

Nightingale nodded. “He’s got this burg like that.” He held out his small squat hand and closed his thick fingers into a small fist. “Like that—see?”

Fenner nodded. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll be guided by you.”

Nightingale got up and put his glass on the table. “I’ve got a little job to do, and then we’ll go down and meet the boys. You rest here. It’s too hot to go runnin’ around.”

When he had gone, Fenner shut his eyes and thought. The lid was coming off this quicker than he’d imagined. He’d have to watch his step.

He felt a little draught and he opened his eyes. The blonde had come in and was gently shutting the door. Fenner heard her turn the key in the lock. “Jumpin’ Jeeze,” he thought, “she’s goin’ to grab me!”

He swung his legs off the chair Nightingale had sat in, and struggled to his feet.

“Stay put,” she said, coming over. “I want to talk to you.”

Fenner sat down again. “What’s your name, honey?” he said, stalling for time.

“Robbins,” she said. “They call me Curly round here.”

“Nice name, Curly,” Fenner said. “What’s on your mind?”

She sat down in Nightingale’s chair. Fenner could see bare thigh above her stockings. He thought she had a swell pair of gams.

“Take my tip,” she said, keeping her voice low, “an’ go home. Imported tough guys don’t stand up long in this town.”

Fenner raised his eyebrows. “Who told you I was a tough guy?” he said.

“I don’t have to be told. You’ve come down here to set fire to the place, haven’t you? Well, it won’t work. These hoods here don’t like foreign competition. You’ll be cat’s meat in a few days if you stick around.”

Fenner was quite touched. “You’re bein’ a very nice little girl,” he said; “but I’m afraid it’s no soap. I’m down here for, a livin’, and I’m stickin’.”

She sighed. “I thought you’d take it like that,” she said, getting up. “If you knew what’s good for you, you’d take a powder quick. Anyway, watch out. I don’t trust any of them. Don’t trust Nightingale. He looks a punk, but he isn’t. He’s a killer, so watch him.”

Fenner climbed out of his chair. “Okay, baby,” he said. “I’ll watch him. Now you’d better blow, before he finds you here.” He led her to the door.

She said, “I’m tellin’ you this because you’re cute. I hate seein’ a big guy like you headin’ for trouble.”

Fenner grinned, and, swinging his hand, he gave her a gentle smack on her fanny. “Don’t you worry your brains about me,” he said.

She leaned towards him, raising her face; so, because he thought she was pretty good, he kissed her. She wound her arms round his neck and held him, her body close to his. They stood like that for several minutes, then Fenner pushed her away gently.

She stood looking at him, breathing hard. “I guess I’m crazy,” she said, color suddenly flooding her face.

Fenner ran his finger round the inside of his collar. “I’m a bit of a bug myself,” he said. “Scram, baby, before we really get to work. Beat it, an’ I’ll see you in church.”

She went out quietly and shut the door. Fenner took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands thoughtfully. “I think I’m goin’ to like this job,” he said aloud. “Yeah, it might develop into somethin’,” and he went back and sat down by the open window again.

Nightingale led him through the crowded lobby of the Flagler Hotel. Fenner said, “This guy does himself well.”

Nightingale stopped before the elevator doors and thumbed the automatic button. “Sure,” he said; “what did I tell you? Pio’s the boy to be in with.”

Fenner studied the elaborate wrought ironwork of the gates. “You’re tellin’ me,” he said.

The cage came to rest and they stepped in. Nightingale pressed the button for the fifth, and the cage shot them up. “Now I’ll do the talkin’,” Nightingale said, as the lift stopped. “Maybe you won’t get anythin’, but I’ll try.”

Fenner grunted and followed the little man down the corridor. He stopped outside No. 47 and rapped three times fast and twice slowly on the door.

“Secret signs as well,” Fenner said admiringly.

The door opened and a short Cuban, dressed in a black suit, looked them over. Fenner shaped his lips for a whistle, but he didn’t make any sound.

Nightingale said in his soft voice: “It’s all right.”

The Cuban let them in. As he shut the door after them, Fenner saw a bulge in his hip-pocket. The hall they found themselves in was big, and three doors faced them.

“The boys in yet?” Nightingale asked.

The Cuban nodded. He sat down in an arm-chair by the front door and picked up a newspaper again. As far as he was concerned they weren’t there.

Nightingale went into the centre room. There were four men lounging about the room. They were all in shirt-sleeves and they all were smoking. Two of them were reading newspapers, one of them was listening to the radio, and the fourth was cleaning a rod. They all glanced at Nightingale, and then fixed wooden looks on Fenner.

The man with the rod got up slowly. “Who is it?” he said. He’d got a way of speaking with his teeth shut. He wore a white suit and a black shirt with a white tie. His wiry black hair was cropped close, and his yellow-green eyes were cold and suspicious.

Nightingale said, “This is Ross. From New York. Crotti knows him. He’s all right.” Then he turned to Fenner. “Meet Reiger.”

Fenner gave Reiger a wintry smile. He didn’t like the look of him.

Reiger nodded. “How do,” he said. “Stayin’ long?”

Fenner waved his hand. “These other guys friends of yours, or are they just decoration?”

Reiger’s eyes snapped. “I said, stayin’ long?” he said.

Fenner eyed him. “I heard you. It ain’t no goddamn business of yours, is it?”

Nightingale put his hand on Fenner’s cuff. He didn’t say anything, but it was a little warning gesture. Reiger tried a staring match with Fenner, lost it and shrugged. He said, “Pug Kane by the radio. Borg on the right. Miller on the left.”

The three other men nodded at Fenner. None of them seemed friendly.

Fenner was quite at ease. “Glad to know you,” he said. “I won’t ask you guys for a drink. Maybe you don’t use the stuff.”