Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

Actually Ross was a thorn in his side only as an example to others who might get independent ideas, for Ross made a careful point of not treading on Bix Lawson’s toes so long as he was left alone. Though the two were not exactly unfriendly, a sort of armed truce existed between them. It was not usual for the political boss to come calling socially.

Ross asked, “Who’s with him?”

“Some out-of-town visitor Bix says is a friend of his, and that dull-witted bodyguard who always trails Bix around.”

“Let them come on up,” the gambler decided.

Ross personally met the unexpected guests at the elevator. Bix Lawson was a huge, wide-shouldered man whose muscular frame was marred by a round little potbelly. Kinky black hair, cut close to his oversized head, gave him the appearance of wearing a black knit skullcap; and ropelike eyebrows set in a straight line over a large, hooked nose gave him a faintly piratical look.

Lawson’s bodyguard was a long-limbed, big-knuckled Pole with an expression even duller than the one Sam Black simulated when he wanted to pretend inability to understand a question. Only in Vince Krzal’s case it wasn’t an act.

The third man was tall and thin and lacked any facial expression whatever. The moment he spotted him, the hair at the base of Ross’ neck bristled like that of one fighting dog meeting another, the gambler’s instinctive reaction to meeting a killer. For he could tell at a glance by a kind of deadness in the man’s eyes that here was a professional gun who killed casually and without emotion.

Nothing in Ross’ face gave away his instant dislike of the man, however. When Bix Lawson thrust out his hand and said, “How are you, Clancy, old boy?” the gambler clasped it affably, gave Vince Krzal a friendly nod and threw a smile of greeting at the stranger.

“Meet Ed Lowry from Detroit,” Lawson said. “Ed, this is Clancy Ross, the Rotunda’s owner.”

The thin man extended a hand with the reluctance of one who doesn’t like to have his right hand immobilized even momentarily. On a pixie impulse Ross clasped it warmly and shook it several times, at the same time thrusting his left hand into the side pocket of his coat. The thin man’s gaze instantly jumped to the pocket and stayed there uneasily until Ross finally released his hand and brought his left hand from his pocket again.

“You can drop your hats at the cloakroom over there,” Ross said, nodding in Stella’s direction. Then he indicated the small archway to the right of the elevator. “There’s a bar where we serve free drinks, or, if you prefer, just give your orders to one of the cocktail girls circulating in the gaming room. You’ll find that straight ahead. We also have a couple of poker games going in private rooms, if you want real stakes. Just make yourselves at home.”

“Thanks,” Bix Lawson said. “We’ll just wander around and see what’s going on, if you don’t mind.”

“Help yourselves.”

He watched as the three men moved on in the direction of the cloakroom. Then his eyes narrowed as he saw the expression on Stella’s face when the thin man handed over his hat. She had turned deadly pale and her gaze was fixed on his face in almost panicky fascination.

The thin man’s expression didn’t change and he seemed to pay no attention to the girl. When the three men moved on into the casino, Ross walked over to the cloakroom.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

With effort Stella forced a smile. “Nothing. Why?”

“You’re scared half to death. Is Lowry the man who’s been hounding you?”

“Lowry?”

“Ed Lowry. The tall, thin man who just gave you his hat.”

“That isn’t his name,” she said. “I told you that if he appeared I wouldn’t be a bother to you. Do you mind if I leave right now?”

“I certainly do. I have no intention of taking over the cloakroom.”

She looked distressed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. Honestly, I have to leave right now.”

“Nothing can happen to you here,” Ross said reasonably. “If he attempts to bother you, I’ll bounce him out on the seat of his pants. What’s his real name?”

“George Mott,” she said reluctantly.

The gambler’s startlingly black eyebrows raised. “The Syndicate torpedo? What in the devil is a man like that to you?”

“He means to kill me,” she said in a low voice.

Ross’ eyes suddenly turned bleak. “He won’t do it in my club — or outside of it, so long as you’re my employee. You stay right where you are and we’ll discuss the matter at closing time.”

“I don’t want you to get involved in this, Clancy. It isn’t your problem.”

“When people make passes at my employees, it’s always my problem,” he said curtly. “If you move from behind that counter I’ll spank your round little bottom. Understand?”

She gave him a weak smile. “Yes, sir, if you put it that way.”

“That’s better,” he said, and moved on into the casino.

He spotted the three men circling the gaming room, pausing now and then to observe the play. The thin George Mott didn’t seem to be very interested in what was going on, but Bix Lawson observed each game carefully. Ross suspected he was counting the house and comparing it to the customary draw of the three casinos in which he had a personal investment.

From a vantage point just inside the archway Ross watched as the trio made a complete circuit of the room without risking a single bet. When they got back to the archway, he turned on a smile which failed to reach his eyes.

“Having fun?” he inquired.

The thin man and the lanky bodyguard said nothing. Bix Lawson replied for all three of them. “It’s a little too crowded, Clancy. You always draw this big a crowd?”

“Naturally.”

Lawson’s ropelike eyebrows climbed. “Why naturally?”

“People know it’s the only honest casino in town.”

Bix Lawson smiled, from the teeth out. “Good old Clancy. Always making with the jokes.”

The three men moved past Ross to the cloakroom. The gambler companionably fell in at George Mott’s side. Stella paled again as Mott handed over his stub, and her hand trembled when she gave him his hat. The thin man dropped a half dollar in the tip box lying on the counter and turned toward the elevator without even glancing at her. Vince Krzal pitched a quarter into the box and Lawson, as befitted his picture of himself as a big shot, tossed in a five-dollar bill.

Ross personally escorted the visitors onto the elevator and rode down with them. Bix Lawson looked at him in surprise.

“Aren’t you overdoing the red-carpet treatment a little, Clancy?”

“I always escort special guests out,” Ross said. “To be certain they make it.”

Lawson thought this over with a dubious expression on his face, not sure how to take it.

When the elevator operator brought the car to a halt at the first floor, George Mott spoke for the first time since he had been introduced to Ross. The mirrored elevator doors were of one-way glass, opaque from the outside, but affording the operator a complete view of the downstairs club from inside. They didn’t open automatically when the car stopped, as ordinary elevator doors do. The operator paused to stare through the glass for a moment before pressing a button to release the doors.

Mott said, “Pretty clever.”

Ross accompanied them clear to the street door and bade them a pleasant good night. When they were gone, Sam Black walked over from where he had been standing nearby.

“Why the perfect-host act?” he inquired.

“Just making sure they got all the way out. If Lawson’s friend comes back, he’s barred from upstairs.”

“Oh? Why?”

“His name’s George Mott.”