Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

Vennell said: “Well, how does that help?”

I sipped some more of my drink. “It alibis him,” I replied. “I'm going to spread the word that he's my find. A big bruiser, a roughneck reaching for higher things. He's my find, and you wanted me along. So I brought him. I want him against the background, for a book I'm thinking about writing. You fall hard for him, laugh once in a while at his stuff—and it'll give him a reason for sticking close to you. You like him—and you're the big boss.”

Vennell slitted his eyes and looked at Mick's huge form.

“All right,” he said, “but it's like this—”

He shifted his body a little and his right hand slipped under his dinner jacket, toward the left shoulder. His voice had risen a little. The chair on which Mick was sitting creaked suddenly. Mick said in a grunt:

“Uh—”

His body battered the table between Vennell and me out of the way—his left-hand fingers ripped the yacht-owner's hand away from the half-exposed shoulder holster. His right hand jerked Vennell's gun loose, tossed it toward a pillowed window seat. For a second the hand vanished—then it held his own snub-nosed weapon. He backed away from Eric Vennell.

“Now—” he said slowly—“was that nice?”

Eric Vennell adjusted his dinner jacket, stood up. His eyes came away from the breakage on the floor, went to the snub-nosed gun in Mick's right hand. The gun was held low and close to the big fellow's right side. Mick was smiling.

I said: “Thank God I was holding my drink.”

Vennell smiled with his thin lips making a straight line. His eyes were on Mick's.

“It suits me,” he said grimly. “You've got eyes and you move fast for a big man. The five grand entitled me to know about that.”

Mick O'Rourke chuckled. He went over to the pillows of the window seat and picked up Vennell's gun. There was a tapping at the door. Vennell took the gun from the big fellow and smiled at me.

“Open it—it's probably Griggs,” he said.

I opened the door, and the steward looked past me toward the broken glass on the floor. Vennell smiled at him and said:

“Get at this mess, Griggs, will you? I didn't know the Hudson could get so rough.”

The steward's face was expressionless. Both Vennell and Mick had their guns out of sight. Mick said suddenly:

“It's the Passion Play influence, clearly.”

Vennell fingered his tie and moved toward a mirror hung between two windows. The siren of the yacht wailed twice and drew a piping reply from some small craft. Vennell said:

“We've a gay crowd aboard. Some picture people. Tony Jones, Don Rayne—he captained and stroked Columbia last year. Jones is the flier, you know. Carla Sard—she's between screen epics and on from Hollywood. Cy Dana—the sportswriter. Sonia Vreedon, the daughter of Ben Vreedon, the California criminal lawyer. And ten or fifteen others. Perhaps not that many. How many, Griggs—know?”

The steward said: “Fourteen, sir, besides the ones you named. I can't recall their names.”

Vennell grunted. “I shouldn't think so,” he said. “Don't believe I can. Don't believe I'd wish to.”

I grinned. “Just a good bunch going up to see California sweep things clear,” I said.

Vennell faced me, his eyes suddenly sharp. He said:

“Think so, Al?”

I nodded. “Cinch,” I replied. “Odds are two, two and a half to one. Practically all sports writers agree. The battle is for second place, between Washington and Columbia.”

Vennell said: “You think that way, eh?”

I nodded. He shrugged. “Pour me one of mine, Griggs,” he said. “And another for Mr. Connors. Mick—won't you have one?”

Mick O'Rourke smiled and shook his head. “Sometimes it gets my eyes,” he said. “It finished my grandmother.”

Vennell said: “That so? Too bad.”

The big fellow chuckled. “Hell, no,” he said. “She was a louse.”

Griggs sucked in his breath sharply. Eric Vennell looked startled, then looked at me questioningly.

I said: “Personally, I thought she was quite a charming old lady.”

Mick looked at me with amazement. I showed a thumb toward Griggs, who was pouring a drink, his facial muscles twitching. Mick O'Rourke said:

“Yeah—when she was sober.”

Vennell laughed a little. “I imagine she lived to a good old age,” he said.

Mick nodded. “She said she was ninety-eight—but she was an awful damn liar,” he replied.

I took a fresh glass from Griggs' fingers. Vennell lifted his, and Griggs went from the cabin, closing the door quietly behind him. His footfalls died along the corridor. Vennell looked at me and said:

“Here's to the best crew, Al.”

I nodded. “And the next best—the one that finishes back of California,” I said.

Vennell drank. He did it decisively. Mick stood near the door, looking cramped even in the large cabin.

“Are them oars heavy—the ones they use?” he asked suddenly.

Vennell looked at me and chuckled. I said:

“Crew's a tough racket, Mick. It takes guts.”

Mick O'Rourke smiled at me, narrowed his fine eyes on Eric Vennell's.

“I stick to my ten-shot rod,” he said grimly. “It does the same thing.”

Eric Vennell did something that might have been a shiver. He lighted a cigarette and said cheerfully:

“I believe the crowd is up above—aft.”

Mick O'Rourke looked at me, then turned his eyes toward the yacht owner.

“Do I get a tip-off?” he said. “Anything to help?”

Vennell shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied. “And don't crowd me—it isn't that bad.”

I said: “Just be around, Mick.”

Vennell nodded. “That's it,” he agreed. “Just be around.”

“Well—I can't swim,” Mick stated. “So it won't be hard to be around.”

I said: “We'll get right and go up.”

Vennell smiled: “For cocktails,” he said. “I think Carla Sard said she'd invented one for the trip. Called the 'Regatta.'“

He went out and toward a companion way. We went back to Suite B. After the door was closed, I said to Mick:

“Well—what do you think of Vennell?”

The big fellow frowned at his spread-fingered hands. Then he shrugged.

“He's tough—and he's a liar,” he said in a hard voice.

I sighed. “But you're not quitting.”

He swore at me. “Quittin'?” he breathed huskily. “I like 'em that way.”

3

Carla Sard said gaily: “It's the 'Regatta'—to be taken with a clean stroke and no splashing. If you're in form you sit up at the finish. I got the idea while I was in the tub, at the Plaza—”

Torry Jones cut in: “As if that Plaza bunch ever bathe!”

Cy Dana, short and thickset, tapped his small mustache with stubby fingers and nudged me with an elbow.

“The kid's got the stuff,” he said in his husky voice. “You'd better watch that palooka of yours.”

I shook my head and leaned against the aft rail. Mick sat across the deck, taking up a lot of space and watching activities with a silly grin.

“He's seen all this before,” I said. “Only not on a yacht. He was a bouncer at the Lido for a time.”

The sportswriter stared at me. “Bouncer at where?” he muttered.

I said: “Sure—at the Lido. But he made a mistake one night.”

Dana grunted. “And bounced Moss and Fontana for doing a hot dance, I suppose?” he said.

I shook my head. “You were close,” I told him. “It was Irene Bordoni—he chucked her out for doing one of those French songs.”

Cy grunted again. He looked across the deck at O'Rourke. Mick didn't look so bad in dinner clothes—he had them fitted tightly, and he didn't need shoulder padding.

Cy said: “What's the racket, Al? I don't fall for that one about bringing him along to get material.”