Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

Torry said: “Just now and then?”

“Yes and no,” I replied.

Mick O'Rourke slapped the same thigh again. He roared with laughter.

“My candle burns at both ends,” he said hoarsely. “I gotta hunch it'll be out before morning.”

Torry looked at me and said: “One thing nice—we'll anchor off the finish line, below the bridges. The State Insane Asylum will be fairly close.”

There was muttering in the group just beyond Torry and the dark-haired gal. I said cheerfully to Mick:

“They think we're crazy.”

O'Rourke nodded, grinning. “It's a complex,” he said. “Ain't it?”

A white-coated steward came along the deck and smiled at me.

“Mr. Connors?” he said.

I nodded. “And Mr. O'Rourke,” I replied, and gestured toward Mick.

The steward bowed. “Suite B is prepared,” he stated. “Mr. Vennell sends his compliments and is glad you have arrived, sir. May I show you the way?”

Mick said: “I gotta wash up—I'm dirty as a—”

“Of course you are,” I cut in with speed. “See you later, Torry.”

Torry Jones stared blankly at me. Then he pulled himself out of it.

“At the stem—the rest of the gals are back there,” he said.

I nodded and started to follow the steward. Mick O'Rourke said huskily:

“Virgins aft, eh?”

Torry groaned. The others murmured. We went along the scrubbed deck, past polished things that shone red. Mick's big feet made heavy sound. We reached Suite B, and the steward showed us buzzers. Then he went away.

Mick sat on a bed, got a large handkerchief from the pocket of his striped suit, and wiped his forehead. He swore with great feeling.

“Did it go, Al?” he breathed thickly. “Did it go?”

I said: “It will go, but you've got to tone down a little. Vennell mixes his crowds. Some of the gals may be decent.”

Mick grunted. “On Vennell's yacht?” he said, with much doubt.

I united. “Just the same, take it easy,” I warned. “Let me tell 'em—my way. You remember what you used?”

The big fellow frowned. “That Ulysses crack—and the one about the candle burning at both ends,” he said.

I nodded. “Don't make it too thick—scatter the stuff a little,” I said. “Try the one about the Passion Play next.”

Mick brightened up. “The girls oughta like that one,” he said.

I stared at him, but he was serious enough. That cheered me. If he had me winging, it was fairly certain the others would fall for it.

The steward tapped on the door of the suite and stated that Mr. Vennell would be in his cabin for the next half-hour. I said:

“We'll be right along.”

Mick O'Rourke swayed a little on the bed, reached into a hip pocket, and got loose a snub-nosed gun. It gleamed blue-black in the electric's subdued glow. He regarded it as though he'd never seen it before.

I said grimly: “Well, well! Where'd that thing come from?”

Mick made a clicking sound that reminded me of my Aunt Fannie.

“Can you beat it?” he said. “Some guy must have slipped it to me.”

I nodded. “Is that the one you used on Beedy?” I asked.

Mick looked puzzled. “Maybe,” he said. “Or was that other rod—”

I cut in. “Never mind. Let's go along and see Vennell. You don't have to be funny with him. He's worth five million.”

Mick said: “And he's killed a guy.”

I nodded. The yacht was vibrating—there was sound that might have come from an anchor haul. It died away, and we felt movement. Mick O'Rourke got off the bed, slipped the snub-nosed gun into his pocket again.

“It's moving,” he announced.

I said: “A yacht is a she. She's moving.”

Mick grinned. “Sure, I know that.”

I led the way from the suite and spotted the steward down the corridor a short distance. Music drifted down from the deck. There was shrill laughter. Behind me the big feet of Mick thumped heavy shoes against linoleum.

“Hot-cha-cha!” he hissed tonelessly. “Papa's gotta new racket now!”

2

Eric Vennell looked at Mick O'Rourke with his gray eyes slitted. He had a browned face, contrasted by the white waistcoat and tie. His lips were thin and straight-lined and his features good. Vennell was handsome in a hard, deliberate way. His dinner clothes fitted exceedingly well; he had a small hip line and good shoulders. After he had shaken hands with Mick, he relaxed in a fan-backed chair and gestured gracefully toward bottles, ice, and ingredients on a small table.

Mick said: ”.Thanks, but I'm on the wagon.”

Vennell widened his eyes and looked at me. I fizzed a Scotch and soda into an important-looking drink.

“Mick never was much of a drinker,” I said.

Vennell had a hard tone, even when he joked.

“It's terrible stuff,” he said. “But this is sort of a farewell party, a final trip. The Virgin gets her keel scraped after the Regatta.”

Mick and I sat in chairs facing the owner of the yacht. We smiled and said nothing. Vennell spoke to me:

“Carleton said he was sending you up to cover the race—in your breezy way. He said it wasn't so much a news story as a slangy, smart-aleck column he wanted from you. I suggested you do it from the Virgin.”

I nodded. “Good of you,” I said. “Much more comfortable than any other way I can think about.”

Vennell rose, went over, and snapped a lock on the cabin door. It was growing dark—lights of Riverside Drive slipped beyond the windows of the cabin. The yacht was steaming slowly, with little motion. Vennell seated himself again. He said in a low tone:

“Then I called you—about a bodyguard.”

Mick O'Rourke leaned forward and took a cigarette from the large humidor. I smiled at Vennell.

“Mick was with Andy Dormer for six months, when Diamond Crass was hating Dormer,” I said. “I wasn't running a column then—just sort of covering Broadway. Getting information. I had some that Mick thought I shouldn't use. We argued about it, and I didn't use it. Then Dormer thought things were quieter than they were. He started going places alone or with a woman. They found him in the East River one morning, but he hadn't drowned.”

Eric Vennell's eyes were expressionless. Mick lighted a cigarette noisily.

“Guys don't drown on bullets,” he observed.

Vennell nodded. I smiled and said: “Now and then I run into Mick. I figured he might be your man.”

The yacht owner reached almost lazily into a vest pocket and produced a bill. He flicked it to Mick.

“Five grand,” he said quietly. “It may mean staying up late nights. But only for a few. We reach Poughkeepsie around midnight. The races are tomorrow. We'll lay over, maybe two days. That depends. Then we drop back here. And you're through.”

Mick fingered the bill and said huskily: “It don't sound too tough.”

Vennell shrugged. “It's one of those things,” he said. “I'm paying for the bullet you may catch. This is the first time the Virgin's been on Hudson River water in eight years. There were reasons for staying away—and for coming back. I'm not telling them.”

Mick said: “You're paying me to stick close—and to shoot first if it looks bad.”

Vennell nodded. “You're with me,” he said.

I sipped my whiskey and soda. “Mick is big and tough, Eric,” I said. “I had to figure a stall for him. He looks big and tough. So I've given him some lines to mix in with his own. Sort of as if he'd been around and had picked up stuff here and there.”

Vennell looked puzzled. “What sort of stuff?” he asked.

I said: “Highbrow, in a way. It had a neat effect when he came aboard. I think we got it over.”