Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

“Sam says you’re looking for a job,” Ross said.

“Yes. As I told Mr.... ah—”

“His name’s Sam Black,” Ross said. “He didn’t introduce himself because he has no manners. I just keep him around as a pet.”

“You keep me around to do your work while you play,” Black said without rancor.

A couple came in the front door. Black said, “Excuse me,” and moved toward them.

“Shall we discuss it at the bar?” Ross suggested, lightly taking her elbow and steering her in that direction.

At the bar she ordered a martini and he a Scotch and soda. When he offered her a cigarette, she shook her head. Flipping one into his own mouth, he brought out a silver lighter and touched flame to it. Again his remarkable physical co-ordination called attention to itself. Even in so simple an act as lighting a cigarette he exhibited flowing grace; his movements reminded her of those of some master swordsman.

When the drinks were before them and both had sampled them, Ross said, “The only job open at the moment is in the upstairs cloakroom. Interested in that?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Ross. That would be fine.”

“The name is Clancy,” he said. “If I hire you, I’m Mr. Ross in front of patrons, Clancy in private.”

She smiled. “All right, Clancy.”

“Why are you interested in a cloakroom job?”

Her smiled faded. “What do you mean?”

“Cloakroom attendant is a perfectly honorable profession requiring rather definite qualifications. Physical attractiveness and a pleasant personality are musts, for instance, at least at Club Rotunda. But it hardly requires either education or brains. Your speech and manner indicate you have some of both. I’d guess you’ve been to college, or at least some secretarial school.”

She stared at him, then looked away again. “Secretarial school,” she said in a small voice, and took a sip of her drink.

“Can’t you get a secretarial job?”

“I—” She paused and shrugged hopelessly.

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” he said kindly. “But as your possible employer I feel justified in knowing something about your background. You don’t have to tell me, but then, of course, I won’t be able to hire you.”

In the same small voice she said, “You mean you’ll have to check references and things for just an old cloakroom job?”

“With tips it runs to about a hundred and fifty dollars a week, if you call that just an old job,” he said dryly. “But that isn’t the point. I’m rather careful about who I put upstairs. If you turned out to be something like a runaway heiress, and reporters found you working here, it would be splashed all over the papers. I couldn’t afford the publicity.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I don’t happen to be a runaway heiress, but I should think that type of publicity would help a supper club.”

Lifting his glass, he regarded her quizzically across the top of it as he sipped his drink. When he set it down again, he said, “Don’t you know what’s upstairs?”

“Mr. Black said a banquet room.”

He grinned. “You must be brand-new in town.”

“Three days. I just came in here at random looking for work. What is upstairs?”

“Any St. Stephen native could tell you — a gambling casino. It’s quite illegal, but I pay protection to certain greedy officials, so the law tolerates me. This town is full of gambling casinos, not to mention book shops, bordellos and other dens of vice. It’s what’s known as a wide-open town.”

“Oh,” she said a trifle blankly.

“Do you have moral scruples against working in a casino?”

She shook her head. “Unless you cheat.”

He grinned. “I’m a gambler, not a con man. I have a widespread reputation for honesty.”

“A wider one for pig-headedness,” Sam Black’s voice said behind them.

Both turned, but the manager of the downstairs legitimate night club had merely been passing along the bar and had thrown in the comment as he passed.

“He’s not very respectful, considering he’s your employee,” the girl said.

“Sam’s my severest critic,” Ross admitted. “Also one of my oldest friends. He’s a little more than just an employee. In practice he’s more like a partner. But to get back to you, what’s your real name?”

Her eyes widened. “How do you know Stella Graves isn’t?”

“Intuition. Let’s stop sparring. I really have to know something about you before I can risk putting you on upstairs.”

For a few moments she studied his face. Finally she said, “My first name is really Stella. There’s a reason I can’t use my true last name, but it isn’t because I’ve done anything wrong. I’m not wanted by the police anywhere.”

“You hardly impressed me as a criminal type. But you’re running from something, and I’d have to know a little about it before I could put you on.”

“Will you accept my word if I swear it’s the truth, and not insist on writing references so that people would know where I am?”

He shrugged. “I’m a gambler. Besides, you haven’t lied very effectively so far. I think I’ll know if you’re telling the truth.”

“All right,” she said. “I’m trying to avoid being found by someone, but if I am, I can guarantee he won’t want newspaper publicity any more than you do. I’ll also guarantee that if he appears, I’ll quietly move on without being a bother to you.”

“A persistent suitor?” the gambler hazarded.

She shook her head. “Something else, I can’t tell you any more than I have, so if that’s not enough, I’ll have to look for work somewhere else.”

Clancy Ross smiled. “I guess I’ll take a chance. This is the present cloakroom girl’s last night, because she gets married in the morning. She’s marrying one of my richest patrons, and after she gets him, she’ll probably object to his gambling. You couldn’t cause me any more trouble than that. Be here at four p.m. tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” she said with a smile of relief.

The casino was crowded, Clancy Ross noted as he looked over the house from the archway between the foyer and the gaming room. Both dice tables were ringed, the roulette wheel had people waiting for seats, and all the blackjack tables were getting play. All but a few of the slot machines edging the walls were whirring satisfyingly.

Glancing over his shoulder, he threw a smile at the girl behind the cloakroom counter. “How are you getting on, Stella?”

“Fine, Mr. Ross. I’ve had so many invitations to go out during the past week I feel like the belle of the ball.”

“Accepted any?”

She made a face. “I think they were all married. With only one night a week off, I’ll wait for someone unattached to ask me.”

The house phone, in a circular niche next to the cloakroom, emitted a discreet buzz. Leaning across her counter, Stella reached around to answer it.

“For you,” she said to Ross.

Moving over to take the phone from her hand, he said, “Ross speaking.”

“This is Sam, Clancy,” the voice of the downstairs manager said in his ear. “Bix Lawson is here with a couple of guys and wants in the casino. Says it’s just a social visit.”

Ross was silent for a moment. Bix Lawson was political boss and racket czar of St. Stephen. With one exception no gambler, bookmaker, numbers operator or other type of racketeer could operate in the city without Lawson’s approval. Clancy Ross was the exception, and he maintained his independence partly by paying larger protection fees to various public officials than he would have had to as a member of the Lawson organization, and partly through sheer brass.

Lawson’s past attempts to force Ross into the machine had met with such violent resistance, the racketeer-politician finally realized that nothing short of a major gang war would bring the gambler into line. Since he feared this might bring on a reform movement which would wreck his machine, he didn’t care to risk it.