Джеймс Чейз - You’re Lonely When You’re Dead

I followed the jerk of his thumb. On the far side of the ring where there were several rows of wooden forms sat a girl. The first thing you noticed about her was her shock of flaming red hair, then her thin face with its high cheekbones and her large, heavily lashed eyes that slanted upwards and gave her an oriental look that made you think of intrigue and secret papers and the night train to Budapest. She wore a bottle green suede windbreaker with a zipper down the front, black, high-waisted slacks and Bata shoes. She was watching the negro with critical intentness as he slid about the ring, and every time he landed a rib bender her mouth tightened, and she edged a little closer as if she were scared of missing anything.

‘Yeah, some doll,’ I said, and she was. ‘Why not ask her?’

‘It’d be safer to open an artery,’ Hughson said. ‘Hank tried to make her, but she laid him among the sweet peas. That baby’s tough. I guess she must have plenty of protection to be alone in this joint.’

Someone shouted for Hughson, and winking at me he went back into the crowd. I took one more lingering look at the redhead, then continued on my way to Olaf’s quarters.

The office was a small, shabby room, the walls papered with the glossy prints of prizefighters and old billposters advertising the hundreds of fights Olaf had promoted since coming to Ocean City. Olaf Kruger sat behind a big desk that was covered with papers and a dozen telephones that never rang singly. At another smaller desk a chemical blonde hammered a typewriter and chewed gum and filled the room with a perfume that would have come expensive at a dime a gallon.

‘Got a minute, or are you busy?’ I asked, kicking the door shut.

Olaf waved me to a chair. He was not much bigger than a jockey, bald as an egg and as smart as they come. He was in shirtsleeves, his thin gold watch-chain held his open vest together and his tie hung loose below his open collar.

‘How are you, Vic? I’m not busy. Nothing ever happens in this lousy joint. I’ve got all the time in the world.’

To prove him a liar three telephones started jangling and the door burst open and two guys came in and began yelling about dressing-gowns they wanted for their next fight — two guys as big and as ugly and as tough as a couple of bull rhinos, but Olaf brushed them off as if they’d been midgets.

He shouted, ‘Get the hell out of here, you bums!’

And they went.

Then he grabbed up two of the telephones, shouted into them he was busy, hung up, took the third, listened for a moment, said, ‘Tear up his contract and give him the gate!’ and hung that one up too.

‘Have a cigar, Vic?’ he went on, pushing the box across the desk. ‘What’s biting you? Heard about the murder. I don’t know the girl, but if you’re sorry I am too.’

‘She was a good kid, Olaf,’ I said, pushing the cigar-box back. ‘But never mind that. Know a guy named Mills?’

He ran a hand that lacked a thumb over his baldhead, looked at the chemical blonde and grimaced.

‘That’s a common name in our racket. What’s his other name?’

‘I don’t know. He’s handsome; around twenty-three or four. Useful with his fists. Moves like lightning and handles himself like a pro; but he’s not marked up any.’

Olaf sat up.

‘Sure, I know him. Caesar Mills. Yeah, that’s the guy. If he could have left women alone he’d have been the cruiserweight champ of the world. There wasn’t a fighter who could lay a glove on him at one time. He started here. I thought I’d picked a real winner, but the punk wouldn’t train. He won three fights in a row, then when I started matching him with boys who knew their business he couldn’t stay the course. He quit about six months ago.’

‘He and I had a little argument,’ I said, and turned so he could see the bruise on my neck. ‘He’s taken to using his feet.’

Olaf’seyes opened.

‘The louse!’ he said. ‘But leave him alone, Vic. He’s poison. If you think you can flatten him you’ve another think coming. Even now I guess he’d be hard to stop. I wouldn’t put anyone against him except a damn good heavy, and even then I wouldn’t be sure of my money. How did you run into him?’

‘He’s acting as a guard to the Santa Rosa Estate. I went up there on business and we got into an argument.’

‘A guard?’ Olaf said, staring. ‘Why, he’s got bags of dough. It doesn’t sound like the same guy.’

‘Must be. What makes you think he has money?’

‘Well, hell! By his style. He looks in here from time to time. Dresses like a million dollars, runs a blue-and-cream Rolls, has a house out at Fairview that makes my mouth water.’

I remembered the gold combined cigarette case and lighter Mills had produced from his pocket, but I didn’t mention it.

‘No one knows how he got his dough,’ Olaf went on. ‘When he first came to me he was out-at-elbows and glad to have a free meal. A guard, eh? Maybe he’s hit bad times again. I haven’t seen him for a month or so.’

‘He’s smooth with women, you said?’

Olaf threw up his hands.

‘Smooth? You’ve never seen anything like it. He has only to tip his hat for them to fall over backwards.’

I thought for a moment, then pushed back my chair.

‘Well, thanks, Olaf.’ I touched my neck tenderly. ‘That punch the Battler taught me was as useless on Mills as if I’d hit him with a handful of birdseed.’

‘It would be,’ Olaf said seriously. ‘That guy’s fast. But if you can land one on him he’ll turn yellow. Just one good solid punch and he’d flip his lid. The trouble is to hang it on him.’

‘And Olaf,’ I said, pausing at the door, ‘who’s the redhead outside? The one with the chinky eyes and fancy pants?’

Olaf’s face creased into a grin.

‘Gail? Gail Bolus? Is she out there? Now, that’s the damnedest thing. Haven’t seen Gail for weeks. She’ll tell you about Caesar. Used to be his girl. She’s crazy about fighting, but when Caesar wouldn’t train she threw him up. She used to come here night after night about six months ago. Then she suddenly quit. I heard she left town. A tough baby, Vic. They don’t come tougher than she is.’

‘Come on out and break the ice for me,’ I said. ‘I want to meet her.’

Lunch time at Finnegan’s was always a noisy, crowded free-for-all, with the centre part of the room packed with extra tables to cope with the rush. But on the outer ring of the room alcove tables offered sanctuary from the crush and were jealously reserved for Finnegan’s special customers.

From my secluded table near the bar, I spotted Kerman and Benny as they came in and waved to them. They waved back and moved towards me, threading their way through the packed-in crowd; Kerman pausing to apologize with old-world courtesy when he happened to jog an elbow or brush against a girl’s hat, while Benny followed on behind, readjusting the girls’ hats by tipping them over their noses and smiling blandly when they turned to remonstrate. Both seemed a little drunk, but that was a good sign. They did their best work after a bout with the bottle.

As they neared the alcove where I was sitting they spotted Miss Bolus. Both of them came to an abrupt halt and clutched at each other, then surged forward madly, struggling to get to the table before the other.

‘All right, all right,’ I said, pushing them back. ‘You don’t have to get so excited. Sit down and try to behave like you were house trained. There’s nothing in this for you.’

‘Isn’t this rat cute?’ Benny said, appealing to Kerman. ‘He sends us out all day walking our feet to the bone while all he does is to leech around with women. Then he has the crust to say there’s nothing in it for us.’