Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

In fifteen minutes Morrison came out, leaving the bedroom door open. Max looked in, saw the girl was snoring softly.

Morrison looked angrily at Max and said, “Somebody gave that girl a hell of a beating.”

“Beating?”

“Come here.” Morrison led him into the bedroom, pulled her arm out from under the covers. There were two large purpled bruises between her elbow and shoulder. He said, “She’s got a round dozen bruises like that. And look here.” He rolled her head to one side, pulled the fine blond hair away from her ear. Behind her ear was a large, angry-looking lump. “That looks like she’s been sapped. But I wouldn’t know. She’s suffering from the beating, from shock, maybe from a minor concussion. I gave her a shot of sedative. She’ll sleep hard for twelve hours. There don’t seem to be any broken bones. I’d like to get my hands on whoever treated that girl that way.”

“That’s a pleasure I would enjoy too, Doc,” Max said gently.

“Twenty dollars, please. I’ll stop in tomorrow and see how she is and see if we should take her down for X rays.”

Morrison took the twenty and walked out, still angry, slamming the door behind him. Max walked back in and stood by the bed and looked down at her. In sleep her face was composed, childlike. Her blond hair was softly spread on the pillow.

He turned to the lightweight suit she had been wearing, went carefully through the two pockets. He found a balled-up handkerchief smelling faintly of perfume. Nothing else. Then he went over the labels. The shoes and suit had come from New Orleans, definitely. The other items could have.

He opened the window a bit further, looked down at her again, and said, “Honey, you’re gradually becoming a burden.”

Closing the door gently, he left the bedroom. He locked the apartment. The streetlights had just come on. The air was growing a bit more chill. At the corner, he swung onto a bus and took it down to within a half block of the Examiner office.

Townsend, on the desk, said, “Sorry, Raffidy, but we haven’t—”

“This is something else, Bobby. I want to see if you got a clip on a citizen of this fair city named Jerry Norma. Jerome, I’d guess.”

Townsend, relieved that Raffidy hadn’t come about a nonexistent job, gave him the use of an empty desk and, within a few minutes, a copy boy brought a brown manila envelope from the morgue.

Ten minutes later Raffidy had a fair picture in his mind of a young man named Jerry Norma. In 1966, an alert gas station attendant had smashed the eighteen-year-old Norma with a wrench, while Norma was working on the till. He drew a one-to-three. Fifteen months with good behavior. In 1968, he had been implicated in the case against a car-theft ring. Case dismissed for lack of evidence. In 1971, he was under suspicion of having tried to bribe a member of the State Liquor License Board. No case. No trouble with the cops since that time. In 1975, listed as one of the “partners” in an enterprise called Valley Farms, Incorporated. Max knew the place. Riding horses. Whiskey sours for breakfast and a lot of fat gambling. A semiprivate club with the rumored reputation of being “protected.”

In 1977, a paragraph about how Jerome Norma, acting as agent for the Concord Amusement Devices, had issued a statement to the effect that none of the equipment located near the public schools of the city was in any sense gambling equipment, but should be considered merely games of skill.

There was a cut with the paragraph. Max studied the picture. Yes, Norma would be about his size. A bit thinner. Same general coloring.

He knew the type. A rough kid who starts out like a chump then finds that you can work close to the letter of the law without actually stepping over. A rough kid who gets smarter and smarter, learning where the four-thousand-dollar convertibles and the plush apartments come from.

But where would the girl fit? He had heard that Concord Amusement Devices was a segment of a national organization. If Jerry Norma was high up in Concord, he could very well take business trips to New Orleans. Gambling was on the way back there. And, meeting Marylen, it was also probable that Jerry could fall for her. She wasn’t what he was used to. She had — might as well admit it — more than a little charm and breeding.

He found a phone book, found a J. B. Norma listed. He signaled for an outside line, dialed the number given. The phone at the other end was picked up in the middle of the second ring. A cautious low voice said, “Yes?”

“Mr. Norma?”

“Isn’t in. Who’s this?”

“I had an appointment with him for five o’clock. He didn’t keep it.”

“No. He went out of town for a while.”

“When will he be back?”

“I couldn’t say. If you’ll leave your name—”

“Are you a friend of his?”

“Yeah. He loaned me his apartment here until he gets back.”

“This is about some — some equipment to be installed for me.”

“Oh!” There was a pause. There was a distant sound of voices. Max listened intently, but with the newsroom noise around him, he couldn’t catch what was said. The man came back on and said, “If it is in connection with the Concord Amusement Devices, friend, you get hold of Bill Walch tomorrow morning at the Concord offices. Know where they are?”

“On Madison.”

“That’s right.”

Max hung up slowly. The girl had spoken of Jerry Norma falling over slowly in some place that could have been a garage. And now Jerry Norma was out of town. Way out, maybe. He knew of Bill Walch. Walch was also one of the partners in Valley Farms. A big jovial backslapping man of mysterious and varied interests.

He thanked Townsend, walked slowly out of the building. He grabbed a crosstown bus to Primrose, went on back to Stukey’s. The crowd was a lot heavier and the place was thick with smoke. He wedged himself into a foot of space at the bar. A variety show was on video.

Stukey came along the bar, poured the shot and said, barely moving his lips, “You had callers.”

“Same ones followed the girl?”

“Other side of the fence, lad. Very harsh types. They wanted the girl. All I knew was she left with a stranger.”

“Thanks, Stuke.”

“They went the same way you went when you left with her.”

Max downed his drink, dropped the money on the bar and was out of the door, moving fast before he had thoroughly swallowed the rye. He kept on moving fast until he rounded the corner where Hiram’s, bright with green neon, shone in the middle of the block. Two cabs were parked in the stand at the corner.

He went over to the first one. The driver snapped the door open. Max pushed it shut and said, “People have been bothering you with questions?”

“In a nasty way. Why?”

“They were tracking a couple who came out of Hiram’s a little after five. Is that right?”

“Am I talking for free?”

“For whatever it turns out to be worth.”

“Okay, so they wanted the couple. Vague on the guy but lots of detail on the woman. They let it be known they could be unhappy about it all. Joey saw ’em come out. The guy first to hail the hack, and then he went back and brought out this dish. Drunk, maybe. Or sick. Joey would have had the fare but his boiler didn’t catch the first time and so a floater got the fare. These other nosy guys asked Joey about it until they got tired. Unless they can use cops, they can’t trace it.”

Max’s sigh of relief came right up from his shoes, was expressed through his wallet. He went back to his apartment by bus. He had Gruber dig up a cot and install it in his small living room. In the meantime he went in, clicked on the bedside lamp and looked at the girl. She was breathing heavily and she hadn’t changed position.