James Chase - He Won't Need It Now

Duffy drove carefully. It took him quite a time to get to the Bronx, which was a basement club, with a convenient garage over the way. Duffy left the Buick at the garage and walked down the steps into the club.

“Gilroy around?” he asked.

The thin man who opened the door looked at him suspiciously, said, “Who wants him?”

“Tell him a friend of Ross.”

The thin man pulled the door open. “Come in,” he said. When Duffy stepped into the dimly-lit passage, the thin man ran his hands down Duffy’s suit. He stepped back. “You can’t bring a rod in here,” he said.

“Tell Gilroy,” Duffy snapped, “and shut up.”

The thin man looked at him, hesitated, then walked down the passage. He disappeared through a dirty green baize door, and Duffy leant against the wall, waiting. After a short delay the door opened again and a very light-coloured negro came out. He was tall and slender, with a heavy wave in his oily hair. He gave Duffy a hard look. “You want me?”

Duffy said, “Ross sent me here I want to keep under cover for a few days.”

Gilroy passed a long thin hand over his hair. “Okay,” he said. “A hundred bucks a day.”

Duffy sidled close. “Forget it,” he said. “You don’t make profit out of me.”

Gilroy looked at him, then his large lips smiled. “No,” he said, “that was bad. Ross’s a good friend of mine. Make it twenty-five.”

Duffy took out his roll, peeled ten saw bucks and handed them over. “That’ll hold you for a few days,” he said.

Gilroy moved near the light, counted the bills, put them in his pocket, and grinned some more.

He said, “How low do you want to stay, mister?”

“When you read the papers, you’ll see,” Duffy told him. “I want a meal, plenty to drink and a telephone.”

Gilroy led him through the baize door, down three stairs, past a bead-curtained door and through another door at the end of a dimly-lit passage. The room was small. It contained a bed, table, two arm-chairs, and a small radio.

“I’ll get you some chuck right away.”

Duffy said, “How safe’s this joint?”

Gilroy rolled his eyes. “It’s okay. I’m paying plenty for protection. The bulls won’t worry you here.”

He left Duffy and shut the door behind him. In the corner of the room, standing on a small table, was a telephone Duffy looked at it, his mouth pursed thoughtfully. Then he walked over and dialled.

He recognized Gleason’s voice. “Too bad you didn’t get the list when you knocked my girl-friend off,” he said, biting off each word.

There was a startled gasp as Gleason caught his breath. “Why, you double-crossing rat,” he jerked out. “What’s the big idea? I’m just back from the ‘Red Ribbon’. I had the dough and you never showed up.”

Duffy said, “Cut the comedy. You killed Olga and you pinned it on me. Okay, wise guy, you ain’t getting away with it….”

Gleason broke in. “What the hell is this? Who’s Olga?”

Duffy stared at the wall for a full minute, then he said, “I’m coming over. You got that dough still?”

Gleason said, “Sure.”

And Duffy hung up.

Gilroy walked in with a bottle of whisky, three bottles of ginger ale and a glass. “Your chuck’s coming right now.”

Duffy took the whisky from him and poured out a long shot. He shook his head at the ginger ale, and drank quickly. Just then a knock came on the door, and the thin man came in carrying a tray. He put it on the table, and glanced at Duffy before going out.

Duffy sat down and began to cat. Gilroy hung around, fidgeting by the radio. He said at last, “I knew that dame.”

Duffy looked up, a fork full of food suspended before his mouth. “Huh?”

Gilroy said, “I guess you’d better get moving.”

Duffy laid the fork down. “What the hell’s this?”

“Olga Shann, I knew her.”

Duffy picked up the fork again. “She was a swell kid,” he said. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what’s biting you.”

Gilroy stirred restlessly, beads of sweat hung on his top lip. “It looks that way,” his voice was exceedingly hostile.

Duffy went on eating. “A little judy called Annabel English shoved that knife into her,” he said. “This is a frame-up. I’m it.”

Gilroy took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his mouth. He stood still, looking at his bright yellow shoes.

Duffy finished the meal in silence. Then he drank some more whisky and sat back. He lit a cigarette, and forced two thin jets of smoke down his nostrils. “If you like that dame as much as I did,” he said, “I know how you feel.”

Gilroy relaxed a little and came over to the table. “Ross’s never sent me a bum yet,” he said. “I guess I was wrong.”

Duffy nodded. “Sure, that’s okay.”

“I’d like to make this a personal matter.” Gilroy studied his pinkish nails. “If you want any help, I’ve a nice little outfit.”

Duffy grinned. “I’ve gotta see this through myself.”

“Sure, sure,” Gilroy nodded his head. “Still, you can’t always beat the rap.”

Getting to his feet, Duffy said, “I’ll file that offer away. I might have to use it.”

He moved to the door, then looked over his shoulder. “It’s on the street now?”

Gilroy nodded. “Yeah, the heat’s on good.”

A hard little smile came to Duffy’s lips. “I ain’t starting anything just yet,” he said. “I’ll be back some time.”

He went over to the garage, got into the Buick and drove over to Annabel’s apartment. He parked up a side street and walked back. At the entrance to the organ loft, he paused At the corner he could see a flat cap, standing under a street light. He turned quickly and walked once more back to the Buick. He got in and sat there, watching the cop. The rain had ceased, but the pavements were still wet and shiny in the street lights. The cop moved on after a bit, and Duffy went back to the entrance. He opened the door with the key he still had with him, and silently went up the stairs.

When he got into the loft, he saw Gleason sitting in the room below, nursing an automatic. Sinking on his knee, so that his head did not appear over the balcony, he watched Gleason for several minutes. Then he said in a hard voice: “Put your rod on the floor, or you’ll get it.”

Gleason started, hastily put the gun at his feet, and looked up.

Duffy stood up and leant over the rail. He kept the Colt steady. “Where’s Annabel?” he asked.

Gleason said in a dry, strangled voice, “She ain’t in.”

Duffy swung his legs over the balcony and sat there. “I’m coming down,” he said. “Don’t start anything. I’m itching to blast you.”

He pushed himself off, breaking his fall with one hand. Gleason’s face was a little drawn. He kept both hands folded in his lap.

Duffy walked over and sat on the edge of the table. He held the Colt down by his side. He reached out a foot and kicked Gleason’s gun under a chair, away from Gleason. He said, “I gotta lot to talk to you about.”

Gleason looked at him, twitched his mouth a little, but said nothing.

Duffy said, “You’ve double-crossed me once. You’ve pulled a fast one at my joint, and another at the Villa. You tried to slap a murder rap on me. Well, you’ve had fun. Now I’m going to have some.”

Gleason said in a thin voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His race was so blank that Duffy stopped talking and stared at him. “Okay, you don’t know anything about it,” he said. “What do you know?”

“I’m dealing it off the top deck,” Gleason said. “I want the book, you got it, and I’m paying for it. I went to the ‘Red Ribbon’ with the dough as arranged, but you didn’t show up. I came back here and you ’phoned. That’s all.”