Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

Sam Black emitted a sorrowful sigh. “Here we go again.”

Stella gave him a puzzled look.

“You probably think your boss is a nice guy,” Black said sourly. “But you know what he’s been doing the past few minutes?”

She looked even more puzzled. “What?”

“Deciding what to do about you. Why couldn’t you have done something nasty to Cord, such as absconding with a couple of pounds of his raw heroin or murdering his poor old mother?”

Her eyes grew wide. “What do you mean?”

“Clancy has a heart like a stone,” Black informed her. “If he thought Whitey Cord had some justification for going after you, he’d turn you over to his guns without batting an eye.”

The girl turned shocked eyes at Ross.

“Fortunately, for you, he also has a head like a stone,” Black continued sardonically. “For a maiden in distress Clancy will mount his big white horse and ride right into the dragon’s mouth.”

“She’s a little more than a maiden in distress,” Ross said reasonably. “She’s an employee of the club.”

“I know the argument by heart,” Black told him. “The only way to stay independent is not to give an inch. If you let people start pushing your employees around, pretty soon they’ll get the idea they can push you around. Know what I think of that argument? I think you thought it up as an excuse to get in trouble.”

Ross merely grinned at him.

“You see, Clancy is constitutionally incapable of doing anything the easy way,” Black explained to the girl. “Now, I’d like to help you out, too, but my idea would be to sneak you out of town and maybe come up with enough money to get you to South America. Clancy won’t settle for that. He’ll want to arrange things so you can walk down the streets of this town as safely as if you were in church. He’ll end up getting himself killed, me killed, and then you.”

“Oh, no!” she said, appalled. “I’m just going to run away again. I don’t want Clancy and you involved in this.”

“Why don’t you shut up, Sam?” Ross said amiably. “You’re not going anywhere, Stella, except upstairs to my apartment. There’s a spare bedroom where you’ll be perfectly safe.”

She gave her head a determined shake. “I’m not going to let you endanger yourself over me.”

“Don’t be as idiotic as Sam,” he said a little crossly. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

Black said, “Don’t concern yourself over him, Stella. He loves trouble. Just shed a few tears for me. He always drags me into the messes he stirs up.”

The girl looked from one to the other, and suddenly she smiled weakly. “All right, Clancy,” she gave in, “I’ll do whatever you think best.”

“That’s better,” Ross said. “Where have you been staying?”

“A rooming house at one forty-four Shannon.”

“Give Sam your key and he’ll run over to get your clothes.” He turned to Black. “Take her upstairs and show her around first, Sam. I’ll be back later. I have a little chore to perform.”

“What kind of chore?” Black asked suspiciously.

“I just have to see a couple of people.”

“Yeah. One sitting out front and one out back. I’ll come along and get Stella’s clothes later.”

“If I thought I’d need you, I’d take you along,” the gambler said with a touch of tartness. “Do what the hell you’re told.”

Sam Black subsided. Ross rarely used any type of profanity, and even a mild hell meant he was in no mood to take any more argument.

Lifting his hat from the clothes tree, Ross set it at a jaunty angle on his head, lifted one hand in a cheery good-bye and walked from the office.

By now all the second-floor employees except the cashiers had left for the night. The elevator operator was still on duty to take them down when they finished balancing their accounts, but when the second floor was clear, the operator would slide thin steel panels over the two-way glass at the first floor, set the elevator on automatic so that it could be called to other floors by push button, step out and close the doors behind him, which automatically locked them. Thereafter it would take a vault cracker to get into the elevator without a key, and Ross and Sam Black held the only two keys in existence. Even alone Stella would be safe in the third-floor apartment.

Downstairs the only employees left were the bartender and cashier, still checking out their registers. The kitchen was deserted when Ross passed through it. By the glow of the bulb over the rear door he saw that the shadowy figure still slouched behind the wheel of Sam’s car, now one of only a half dozen remaining on the lot.

He made for his Lincoln, parked left of the Cadillac, again passing within two feet of the stakeout man without glancing at him. Pulling open the right front door of the Lincoln, he suddenly spun, his right hand flickered beneath his coat, and the man seated in the Cadillac suddenly found himself staring into the blue barrel of a thirty-eight revolver.

“Step out easy, mister,” Ross said in a friendly voice, pulling open the door on the driver’s side.

The man’s right hand started to drop from the wheel to his lap, froze in midair when the hammer of Ross’ revolver drew back with an ominous click. Reaching inside, Ross lifted a forty-five automatic from the seated man’s lap and tossed it into the front seat of the Lincoln.

Slowly the gunman climbed from the Cadillac, his hands elevated to shoulder height. He was a squat, stocky man with an oblong head and a swarthy complexion.

With his left hand Ross pushed shut the door of the Cadillac, simultaneously closing the open door of the Lincoln with the heel of one foot.

“You know the routine,” he said. “Hands against the fender, feet well back.”

It obviously wasn’t the first time the squat man had undergone a shakedown, for he assumed the position with the bored air of a performer going through a familiar routine. Expertly Ross checked him for additional weapons, found none and ordered him to stand erect.

When he turned, Ross deliberately slid his gun back into the holster beneath his left arm, dropped his hands to his sides and smiled amiably. For a moment the squat man stared at him in astonishment, then his right fist lashed out.

Ross shifted the position of his head slightly and the fist whistled harmlessly by. At the same time the gambler’s right hand flickered beneath his coat again. The squat man froze in position when he felt the gun muzzle press into his stomach, his body inclined forward, his outstretched right arm across Ross’ left shoulder.

“I just wanted to demonstrate how fast I can get this thing out,” Ross explained. “You can straighten up now.”

Cautiously the man stepped back a pace and dropped his hands to his sides. Ross slid the gun back into its holster.

The gambler said, “I had to demonstrate, because we’re going to take a walk along a lighted street, and it embarrasses me to appear in public with a gun in my hand. I just wanted you to know how fast it can come out. Next time I’ll blow your head off.”

The squat man licked his lips.

“What shall I call you?” Ross inquired.

The man merely stared at him.

“I’ll call you Beanhead,” the gambler decided. “It seems to fit. Let’s go, Beanhead.” He made a courteous gesture for the man to accompany him.

Side by side they walked up the alley to the cross street, Ross to the man’s right. Beanhead kept glancing sidewise undecidedly, but the demonstration seemed to have convinced him that it would be fatal to make another break. Reaching the cross street, they turned right.

“I’ll brief you on our plans,” Ross said. “When we reach the car where your friend George is waiting, you’re, going to open the curb-side front door and say, ‘I don’t think she’s coming out, George.’ Exactly those words. If you try to improvise, I’ll separate your head from your spine with a bullet. Understand?”