John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

His voice was slurred and drunken, but his eyes weren’t. “I’d say you’re a stranger in town, friend.”

“That’s right.”

He lurched against me. I felt the quick cat-light flick of his hands as he made a close and clever check. “Ooops. Sorry, pardner.” He belched, lowered his voice. “Lookin’ for fun, mister?” I nodded. “You won’t find it out here tonight. The joint is dead. Better go back to town. Try Roger’s Place.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t mention it, friend.” He wavered off, but his steps steadied as he neared the booth. The twin was looking into the booth. I saw him get the sign and nod toward the door. The waiter went outside again. I had been looked over, searched, and apparently okayed. I finished my drink, left a quarter tip on the bar, and went back outside. The cab pulled over and the driver opened the door.

“Pretty dead in there tonight, I guess. My mistake. I won’t charge you for the haul to the next place. I’m taking you to a sweet little spot called Roger’s Place.”

He spun out onto the main highway and gunned it toward town. It was beginning to shape up. But I was worried. Roger’s Place would be a bit unhealthy to go back to. A little thinking was in order.

“Roger’s Place?” I said slowly. “I’ve heard that before. Now I remember. A fellow told me about that place.”

“Yeah?” he said, caution in his tone.

“I’d forgotten it until now. He told me that if I ever got to this town to go there and ask for a girl called Allana Montrose. He said she hung around there.”

“Oh.” I detected the relief. “Little blonde?”

“That’s what he said.”

“She isn’t around any more. The word is that she got married.” He laughed huskily. “They make good wives, the fella says, those little blondes.”

“I’m getting pretty tired. Maybe we’d better wait until tomorrow night.”

He slowed down, turned in the seat, and stared back at me. “What’s the matter with you? Figure this is a clip operation?”

“Not at all. I said I was tired.”

“I know you wise guys. Somebody tried to do you a favor, you figure there’s angles on it.” He slowed almost to a stop. “I got a notion to bust you one in the chops, Moran.”

“You got the name from the desk clerk. I wonder why he told you.”

The cab stopped completely. He yanked on the emergency brake. His tone was wheedling. “Look, Mr. Moran, I wouldn’t steer you wrong. Be a nice guy and let me take you there for free. If I take you back to the hotel I got to charge you for the trip in. Ten bucks.”

“It was only three to go out there.”

“It’s later now. So you see it would cost you a ten just not to take a look at Roger’s Place.” His rearview mirror was tilted down. I glanced in it and saw, in the glow of the dashlight, his square hand, the fingers cramped around a lug wrench. I smacked the door handle down with the heel of my hand and dived out. The wrench thudded against the upholstery behind me. I landed on my hands and knees and rolled into the shallow ditch, rolled up onto my feet, and moved back quietly another forty feet before lowering myself into the dry grass.

He stood beside the cab for a long time, staring out into the darkness. Then he jumped behind the wheel and roared toward Endor City. I estimated that we’d gone a half mile. I went back to the first place he’d taken me to — the Club Three — in a fast walk.

Rogah’s twin stared hard at me as I strolled in. He moved in beside me at the bar. “Back so soon?” he said softly. His voice was pitched lower than Rogah’s.

I nodded. “I was going into town, but I had trouble with the cab driver. He got wise, and I wanted him to take me back to the hotel. He wanted to charge me ten bucks and collect with a lug wrench. So I left him fast.”

“Indeed? I can’t have my patrons treated that way. Do you have his number?”

“Yes.”

“Let me phone the police for you.”

“I don’t want any trouble.”

He stared at me hard. “They’ll have a prowl car here in minutes.”

“Look,” I said. “I would prefer not to talk to any cops. Is that all right with you, or do you want me to type out an outline?”

His eyes hardened a bit. “Oh, I see.”

“And if you don’t mind, I’ll stay right here.”

“How hot are you?”

“Like a cucumber. This is the wrong state.”

“Then you can stay.”

“Thank you so very much.”

After a fanfare by the brassy band, the floor show started. It was a dull affair of blue jokes, a raspy emcee, a chorus line with meaty thighs, and a comic juggler — as funny as a case of typhoid. I was glad when it went away. I didn’t want to go back to the hotel. And I didn’t want to stay in the Club Three. The only other choice was to go for a walk. And that seemed like too much trouble. I stayed.

Beyond the booths was a stairway going up. The entertainers came in from a doorway beyond the bandstand. I wondered what was upstairs.

At five minutes past two, when I had one over the limit, Allana Montrose Garver, in pale yellow slacks and a halter, came down those stairs and slid into the first empty booth, sitting so she could watch the band. Rogah’s twin brother, in a crow-flight line, came across the floor and leaned over the booth, his face angry. She leaned forward, and I could see by the shape of her mouth that she was using four-letter words. He tugged on her arm to pull her toward the doorway, and she snatched it free. The crinkly-eared guy moved in and joined the party. He leaned over the booth and she leaned back out of sight. His arm moved quickly and he straightened up. They both stared at her. Once again the twin took her arm. This time she came along without a struggle. There was a red blotch on her jawline, and she staggered as she stood up. They got her onto the stairway and watched her go up.

I went outside as fast as I dared. The upper windows were dark. A light clicked on behind a screen on the third window from the left. Her silhouette crossed between the light and the screen. Her head was bent in dejection, her arms craned back in that odd distortion necessary to untie a halter or unhook a bra. I turned and went back inside.

Shay came in twenty minutes later. He didn’t look at me. He had one drink and left. I slid into the car beside him.

“You did good,” he said wryly. “A cop is watching for you at the hotel. A little question of deadheading a taxi bill.”

“Either that or go to see Rogah or get slugged with a wrench. I liked my way best. How’d you find this place?”

“The taxi man talks fast when you get his arm in the right position. This lovely little city gets warmer and warmer.”

“Now,” I said, “here’s something you didn’t expect. Allana Montrose Garver is up there behind the third window from the left. Her light’s out now. She came downstairs to watch the fun and games. They urged her to go back up.”

He exhaled slowly. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then we’d better get her out of there, Robby.”

“And then go down and heist some gold from Fort Knox.”

“Don’t be a defeatist. Anyway, you know the score now.”

“Sure. The badger game on a mass-production basis. The well-to-do strangers are screened first at the hotel, then out here. If they pass both inspections, they are funneled to Roger’s

Place. There the trained gals take over. With a good screening job they can make a killing on every sucker. The rooms and apartments may be wired for sound. James P. Garver was going to be a routine sucker. They had time to check on him after he registered in and found they had a widower of close to fifty with a half a million bucks. So they put their best talent on him — one Allana Montrose.”