Джон Макдональд - Flight of the Tiger

After Davis left, Ben Morrow stretched out on the bed. He could hear the traffic noises. He felt restless. He sat up and lighted a cigarette — it had a stale taste. It was nearly three o’clock. In a neighboring room a woman began to laugh helplessly, a shrill neighing sound, drunken and meaningless. There was the sound of a slap, a man’s harsh voice, and silence again.

He got up, put his coat on and went out. He walked slowly west toward the midtown honky-tonks. He went into a corner bar. He nursed a drink and stared without interest at the television screen. A husky man came in and sat on the stool beside Ben and ordered a beer. Ben glanced at him, saw the square head with the receding silky blond hair, worn long over the ears, saw the flabby and petulant face. The man wore a camel’s-hair topcoat, stained gray-flannel pants, and a clip-on bow tie that had slipped loose from his collar on one side. The general impression was of a decayed college athlete clinging, years later, to old styles, old mannerisms.

The man took a long drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at the television screen and said, in a low voice, “I used to know a lot of people named Morrow around Scranton. P.A.”

The very casualness of his tone caught Ben off guard. He turned and stared at the man. “What was that?”

The man shrugged. “I just wondered if you come from around there.”

“I’m from Philadelphia. How do you know my name?”

“Some of them could have moved down that way, I guess. I got your name off the register at the Maralane. Benjamin Morrow.”

“Did you follow me from there?”

“Yeah, but not too close. I wanted to make sure nobody else had the same idea. If they have, they’re better at it than I am, and I haven’t met anybody yet who’s any better, Ben. They all know I’m good. Hell, as soon as I get reinstated, I can take my pick of any agency in town, right from Pinkertons on down. I’m Davey Lemon. They’ll be giving that license back any day now. Then I go back on wages. Right now I’m working on spec.”

“I don’t get it, Lemon. What’s on your mind?”

“You can figure that out, Ben. It doesn’t take any great brain.”

“Helen MacLane?”

“Keep it low. You can’t tell who some of these bums are. It has to be that, kid, because they got Davis working on nothing else but that, and he doesn’t go calling on old pals during duty hours. A pal tipped me that Davis was at the Maralane, and my pal knows I’ve got an interest in this deal and that a tip on it would be good for ten bucks, so I got the dope at the desk and picked you up when you came out. Where do you stand on this, kid? With your coloring, and knowing her brother is in town, I would have figured you for the brother, except his name is Delson. You wouldn’t be Delson calling yourself Morrow, would you?”

“No!”

“Don’t get hot. I just want to know where you fit, that’s all. You know the whole picture: the cops want her; Gorman wants her. And I’m sort of working on spec for some other people who want to make sure the cops get her before Gorman does. They sort of don’t like Gorman; you know how I mean. There’s a kind of a bonus in it for me. You look like a good kid. It won’t hurt you any just to tell me how you fit, Ben.”

Ben took another sip of his drink. He disliked Lemon. He didn’t like the idea of being followed. But he could sense that unless he gave Lemon an answer that would satisfy him, it would be almost impossible to get rid of the fellow.

“I flew with her husband. I just got back from Korea. I came here to see her and found she was in this trouble. That’s all I know about it.”

“So why should Davis go talk to you? He thinks maybe you’d know where she’d go?”

“I haven’t any idea where she’d go, and I don’t much care.”

“You’re sort of tensed up for a guy who don’t care.”

“I’m tensed up because I’m damn’ tired of you and your questions.”

“Don’t you guys have to carry identification cards? How about giving me a look, kid?”

“Go to hell.”

“Just suppose she finds a nice place to hide. Then she sends somebody to town to make a deal with Davis. And this guy who comes to town checks in at a junk hotel where he stands out like a sore thumb, and he stays at that kind of place because he thinks that’s the kind of place you’re supposed to stay when you’re handling that kind of deal.”

Ben finished his drink and picked up his change. “Gorman would pay more for her than anybody else, and you look like the kind of character who would sell his sister for ten pesos.”

Lemon grinned. “You just get back from Korea and you know all about Gorman’s offer. My people will match anything Gorman wants to pay. Did you know that?”

Ben walked out onto the sidewalk. Lemon came with him. He said, “If you want to play, kid, we’ll have fun. Just see if you can shake me. It will be good practice. Make sure you try the subway routine, and department stores and switching cabs.”

Lemon suddenly looked down the street and his expression changed. “Kid, please, trust me for a minute. Come on. Around this corner. This is serious. I’ll explain later.”

Ben allowed himself to be led around the corner. They stepped into the recessed doorway of a store that was for rent. Lemon moved close to him. Ben saw the quick flicker of the beefy hand and tried to duck. The edge of the man’s hand hit him on the side of the neck, just under the ear, and the whole world darkened. He didn’t lose consciousness, but he lost the use of his arms and legs. He would have fallen if Lemon hadn’t helped him up, backed him against the door, head lolling. He saw the vague shapes of the people who walked by the doorway, and he tried to cry out. He knew he made some sound, and he knew faces were turned toward him, but they walked on.

Lemon searched Ben’s pockets and Ben felt his wallet being taken from him. From far away he heard the traffic sounds, heard the quick footsteps of the people going by. Lemon kept him propped up by leaning against him. He examined the contents of the wallet and then pawed through other pockets looking for papers. Ben’s entire body prickled, the way a foot will that has gone to sleep. Then the support was gone, and Ben fell back against the door and slid to the floor of the vestibule.

He was alone in the entranceway.

He sat there and, with vision that was clearing slowly, looked at the people who went by. He saw them glance at him, look back at him as they went by. They all kept walking. His body felt numbed and enfeebled. He could hear people still walking by, endlessly. All the people in the world could walk by and not one of them would stop. No one would want to be involved.

He turned and reached up behind him and grasped the doorknob and used it to pull himself up so that he stood on trembling knees, leaning against the door, chin on his chest. He felt his pockets. His wallet had been returned to the side pocket of his suit coat. He took it out and looked dully into it. The money was gone, but his papers were all there. Lemon had taken a little over thirty dollars. The rest was in his khaki canvas money belt. In a few minutes he felt able to walk. His head pulsed. His neck was stiff.

After about ten steps, Lemon fell in step with him. He held out the money. He was grinning. Ben turned and braced himself and swung his fist at Lemon’s face. Lemon caught the fist in his palm, laughed aloud, shoved the money into Ben’s pocket, put a heavy arm around his shoulders and led him down the busy sidewalk, still laughing.

Lemon steered Ben into another bar. This one was smaller and darker, with booths in the back. They sat in one of the booths and Lemon leaned close to Ben. “I had to know fast, kid. Like they say, time is of the essence — whatever that means. Now I owe you a drink.”