Lawrence Block - Masters of Noir - Volume 1

The cold smile was still pasted on the lean man’s face. “I heard all about how tough you are, Liddell.” The pat smile faded. “Maybe you haven’t heard about me. I’m a guy don’t like to be played for a patsy. By you or anybody else.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that if there were any diamonds in that place tonight, you got them,” Arms told him bluntly. “Only three people knew about that deal outside of you and your stooge. One of them’s dead, the other was with a mob all night and never went near the place — and me,” he hit his chest with the side of his hand, “I know about me. That leaves you, shamus.”

“That’s what you think, Arms. I told you I wasn’t taking this mess lying down. You’re right about who knew about it, but you forgot one thing. There’s three people I’m sure of — and you’re not one of them. The blonde is dead, Murphy’s got an iron-clad alibi, and I’m sure about me. In my book, that leaves you.” He jabbed his finger at the man in the chair. “And that’s where I’m going to pin it.”

The man who had let him into the room caught Liddell by the arm, swung him around. He was an inch or two shorter than Liddell, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up in breadth. His face was expressionless, dead-pan. “The boss don’t like guys to raise their voices at him, Liddell.” His voice was flat. “Don’t do it again.”

Liddell looked from the dead-pan face to the gun in the man’s fist. “Don’t count on the gun too much, Junior. I’ve seen guys take things like that away from guys and feed it to them.”

The dead-pan was disturbed by an upward twist at the corners of the mouth. “You sure talk a rough evening.” He tossed the gun over to where Arms sat. “Maybe you’d like to live it up?”

He gave Liddell no chance to sidestep his lunge. Automatically, the private detective fell away from it, saved himself the full force of the assault. The guard’s shoulder caught him in the side, slammed him back against the door. He stumbled to his feet, found his arm in a lock. He struggled to free it, had the sensation of flying through the air. He slammed against the wall and slid to a sitting position. He stayed there for a moment, shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. The chunky guard stood over him, feet braced.

“How do you like the kid’s style, shamus?” Arms’ silky voice insinuated itself, seeming far away. “That’s judo. Learned it in the Marines.”

Liddell braced his feet, slid upright against the wall.

The guard licked at his lips, lunged again. This time, Liddell was waiting. He chopped viciously at the side of the man’s neck, heard him gasp. As the guard started to sink, Liddell brought his knee up, caught him in the face, straightened him up. Then he put every ounce of strength behind a right overhand.

The guard’s head went back as though it were hinged. Liddell sank his left into his midsection to the cuff, stepped back and let the guard fall face forward. He hit the floor with a thud and didn’t move.

“That’s barroom brawling.” Liddell wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I learned it in McGowan’s Saloon on Third Avenue.”

Arms sat in the chair, the snout of the gun pointed at Liddell’s midsection. The private detective ignored the gun, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, lit one. He took a deep breath, exhaled through his nostrils.

“Louis isn’t going to like you,” the man in the chair grunted. “He learned other things in the Marines. They’re much more permanent.”

“You’re scaring me to death, Arms.” Liddell stepped across the guard’s body and walked over to where the night club operator sat. “If you’re going to pull that trigger, pull it now. Because I’m walking out of here. And from the minute I do, I’m going to spend every second proving that you killed the Lane broad.”

Arms’ face went white under its tan. The finger on the trigger tightened for a moment, then relaxed. He forced the smile back into place. “Don’t worry, Liddell. I’m not messing up my rug.” He dropped the gun into his lap. “There are other days and other places. Be smart and don’t get under my feet. Or I might have to stamp you flat.”

Liddell turned his back on him, walked over to where the guard still lay, breathing noisily. He turned him over, pulled his .45 from the man’s jacket pocket and hooked it into his holster. He turned, stared at the man in the chair for a moment. “Okay, Arms. It looks like your pot. Murphy will go along because he don’t want the Feds snooping. So you’ve got aces back to back. But take the advice of an old timer. Don’t push your luck too hard on just one pair.”

“I’ve done a little gambling in my time, too, Liddell,” Arms drawled. “I’ve got a few pet rules of my own. Such as, don’t bluff when there’s no limit on table stakes.”

It was almost light when Johnny Liddell got back to the Livermore Arms. He parked his car around the corner and walked to where he could keep an eye on the entrance.

He was on his third cigarette when a cab skidded to a stop at the curb, and the familiar broad-shouldered bulk of Mike Murphy stepped out onto the sidewalk. While the big man was paying the cabby, Liddell walked over to where he stood.

“It took you a long time, Mike,” Liddell told him softly.

The big man started, turned. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that, Liddell.” His face was a damp grey in the early morning light. “I’ve had a bad night.”

“Sometimes it gets worse before it gets better.”

“Look,” a hard note crept into the big man’s voice. “Don’t go giving me a hard time. Drop around in the morning, and—”

Liddell pulled his right hand out of his jacket pocket far enough for Murphy to see that it held a gun. “Why put off until tomorrow what can be knocked off tonight?” He flipped his butt at the gutter. “I don’t like people walking out and leaving me in the middle, Mike. You and I have some talking to do.”

Murphy shrugged resignedly. “Okay, come on up.” He turned his back on the gun, led the way through the lobby toward the penthouse elevator. When the car had started upward, he said, “I guess you’ve got a right to be sore, but there was nothing else I could do, Liddell.”

“What am I supposed to do? Laugh it off like the little good sport I am and stand still for the rap?”

“They can’t prove you had any thing to do with it. They think it was the kid. This Tate Morrow guy.” Murphy shrugged. “He’s dead. It can’t hurt him. You start a stink and a lot of people get hurt. Me, Arms, you, all of us.” The car slid to a stop. Murphy led the way to his apartment and opened the door with a key. “Why not let well enough alone?”

Liddell’s smile showed no sign of amusement. “There’s a little thing like a reputation to uphold, pal. And another little thing like paying off for your boys. Or wouldn’t you understand that?”

“Cut it out. Do you think it feels good for me to have to go see Laury stretched out on a slab in a morgue?” Murphy scaled his hat at a chair, walked over to the bar, poured himself a stiff drink and tossed it off. “But that’s no reason why we should foul everybody else up.”

“What’d you tell the cops out there?”

Murphy poured some more liquor into his glass. “I denied that I knew anything about any diamonds. I told them that as far as I knew Laury never even heard of Arms.” He drained the glass, set it down. “I told them I didn’t know of any connection you had with her.”

Liddell showed his teeth in a grim grin. “But when I show them your retainer—”

“It was in cash. One guy’s C-notes look pretty much like another’s.” Murphy dropped into a chair, raked his fingers through his hair. “I know I’m acting like a heel, Liddell, but that’s it.”