Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

I said in a hurt tone: “You don't think I can write a book?”

He swore at me. “You're too damn lazy to even scribble a bad one,” he said.

Carla Sard came over to us with two cocktails. She spilled most of mine, but I got out of the way. Carla had saucer eyes, dark hair, and a nose that just escaped being snubbed. Her figure was the thing, and she knew how to move it around. She said to both of us:

“Will you take them this way—or like a sandwich?”

Dana said: “What's a sandwich way of taking them?”

She handed me mine. “Cocktail sandwich—-three in succession, one in the middle.” She chuckled. “My , God—hasn't that reached New York yet?”

Cy looked sad. “We miss so much, not being close to Hollywood,” he said.

I tasted the drink. Carla frowned at Cy and looked at me.

“Like it?” she asked.

I nodded. “If I'm all right in a few hours, I like it,” I told her. “What's in it?”

She shook her head. “I keep forgetting,” she replied. “Or maybe I change things around. Anyway, there's alcohol.”

Cy groaned. Carla gestured toward Mick and said:

“He says he's on the wagon—does he mean it?”

I shrugged. “He might,” I told her. “Mick's hard to figure.”

Carla said: “Yeah?”

I qualified the statement. “Hard for me to figure,” I said.

She flashed me a smile that looked as though it might screen nicely.

“Thanks,” she said. “I'll try him.”

The radio sent dance music across the deck. The yacht was above Storm King, cruising at greater speed now. It was almost dark.

I sipped the cocktail, leaned against the rail, and looked over the group seated and sprawled near the buffet and radio. Torry Jones was talking in low tones to Sonia Vreedon; there was something about the girl I liked. She had a sharp face, gray eyes that held intelligence—and a firm mouth. She'd been on the Coast much of the time, with her father. He was on some sort of a world cruise at the moment, and there was some reason why she hadn't gone along. I couldn't think of it. She spoke without making any gestures, and she was decisive in tone.

Eric Vennell was stretched in a deck chair, between Rita Velda and a gray-haired woman who talked too much and too loudly. Rita wasn't far behind her in either respect. She'd done a wisecracking book about a bootlegger who went in for culture, and it had been a best seller. She was tall and willowy—and had red hair slicked down. Her nervousness seemed to make everyone else nervous.

Eton Rayne stood near a pile of cushions, talking with a chunky human whose name was Panklin. Rayne had the build of a crew man, but a year in a stockbroker's office had taken most of his last season's crew tan from his lean face.

My eyes went to Eric Vennell again. He was watching Sonia closely; at intervals he moved his head to speak with one of the two women beside him, but his eyes always returned to Ben Vreedon's daughter. I was thinking:

They might do well together—Vennell and Sonia Vreedon. Both of them quick, hard, and sharp. One a big-league gambler, wealthy and tricky. The other the daughter of the best criminal lawyer on the Coast. A man that licked Fallen when he was at the peak—

Cy Dana interrupted my thoughts. He spoke in a low voice.

“Funny—this crowd.”

I said: “Why funny?”

Dana shrugged. He tapped his mustache. There was a burst of laughter from a young group near the buffet.

“Vennell hasn't had the yacht on the Hudson for years. He never went in much for this sort of thing.”

I said: “What sort of thing?”

The sportswriter said: “Crew.”

I looked at Vennell and caught him watching Sonia again. His expression was intense.

“He's a yachtsman,” I pointed out. “It's a big race—and a chance for a big party.”

Dana said grimly: “Just between two newshounds—why is he throwing a party? What's he got to celebrate?”

I passed Cy a cigarette and we lighted up. I said softly:

“You know something.”

Cy smiled a little. “And I'm not holding it back—the way you are.”

I pulled on the cigarette and watched Carla Sard move toward Mick O'Rourke, with a 'Regatta' held high. Cy said:

“I've got an apartment with Tracy, you see. He works the Street. Vennell lost a couple of million in a couple of months. He's so pleased that he's throwing a party for a mixed crowd—and he doesn't know most of them any too well.”

I said: “Perhaps a farewell party.”

Cy smiled a little grimly. “Does Vennell strike you like that sort of a human?” he asked.

I looked toward the yacht owner and caught him speaking to Rita Velda and staring at Sonia Vreedon. His face was relaxed, but his body was tense.

I said: “Not exactly. What, then? Here we are. The yacht's moving. Tomorrow there's the Regatta.”

Cy said: “Yeah. And how come he went out of his way to get you aboard? And me?”

“Easy,” I replied. “He knows I'm not a spot writer. I get a chance to read what all the other boys write, and then soliloquize on why Columbia finished second. I can do it just as well here. I've known Vennell for some years.”

Cy Dana smiled. “All right,” he agreed. “So have I. But this is the first year I haven't ridden the observation train.”

Carla Sard came over and gestured toward Mick O'Rourke.

“The big fellow's gone off the wagon,” she said triumphantly.

I grinned. “You've got a way,” I said, and watched Mick toss liquid overboard, with Carla's back turned to him.

She smiled and went toward Vennell, who rose from his deck chair. Cy Dana looked at Mick and said in a mocking tone:

“And you brought him along just because he's a funny guy, and you couldn't be interrupted in your material digging.”

I said: “That's it, Cy.”

The sportswriter grunted. “It's a swell layout,” he said. “But there's something wrong.”

“What?” I asked innocently.

Cy started to say something, but Vennell held up a hand and looked around at the gathering.

“Dinner in the main saloon,” he announced. “You may choose partners. Miss Vreedon is already chosen—the commander's honor, you know.”

I looked at Cy and saw that he was not smiling. Sonia Vreedon seemed a little startled. The men started to move about a bit. Mick O'Rourke's big feet made sudden sound. He went close to Carla Sard and said boomingly:

“I'll take you, kid!”

There was sudden silence. Torry Jones stared at Mick and said:

“Sorry, big boy—she's been looked.”

Mick stopped grinning and dropped his head forward on his shoulder.

“Yeah?” he said.

Vennell looked past O'Rourke, at me. There was an amused expression in his eyes. Cy Dana said:

“Oh, God—”

“It's this way, Mick,” I said, and tried to wink at the group beyond him, “Mr. Jones is an old acquaintance of Miss Sard.”

The big fellow nodded his head. His body relaxed slightly.

“That makes it easier for me, huh?” he said.

Torry didn't like the laugh that got. He looked at me and said grimly:

“It'll be a hell of a book you'll write on this guy, Al.”

I just smiled. Mick said slowly:

“The thing is—do you feed with me, kid—or with him?”

Carla Sard laughed lightly. She said: “Toss a coin—how's that?”

Mick nodded and reached into his pocket. He produced a quarter that I'd seen several times before. It was a clever piece of metal splitting—tails on both sides. He tossed it to me.

Torry said: “Heads.”

That made it easier. I flipped it up and watched it spin. There was a nice ring when it hit the deck. We crowded around. I said:

“Tails, boys.”