Richard Deming: No Pockets in a Shroud

I examined her set face curiously. “I’m not in love with her.”

Immediately she smiled. “I’m not jealous really. But I do like you. I have since the minute you walked in Louis’ office. We’d make a good team.”

“You’re on a team already.”

“Byron? I’ll leave him tomorrow, if you want.”

She looked “up at me seriously and I doled her out a wary grin.

I said, “I’ll think it over,” stepped out of the car and let the door swing shut. “Thanks for the ride.”

A small crease appeared in her forehead and her lower lip thrust out. “You’re laughing at me again. I really mean it.”

“I really mean I’ll think it over.”

She made a face, shoved the car in reverse and backed down the drive toward the highway at forty miles an hour.

It was eight minutes to nine when Greene let me through the great double doors.

“Fausta ain’t down yet,” he said.

“Then I’ll look around Louie’s office again while I’m waiting,” I told him.

Wandering around the office, I noticed that whoever had cleaned up the mess Bagnell’s blood made had done a thorough job. No trace remained, not even a discolored spot on the carpet. I moved on into the bathroom and pulled the light chain. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I was just looking. Getting down on my knees, I lit a match and peered under the tub. Nothing was there except a little lint. I glanced into the tub, into the commode and then into the washbowl. The oil beads I had” previously noticed still ringed the drain. I touched the brass strainer ring and it moved slightly, for it was the type that lifts out for cleaning.

I don’t know whether instinct, a shadow or a slight sound warned me, but suddenly I had the impulse to duck and I obeyed it. As I threw myself backward and down, sound bellowed in the small room and the mirror over the washstand shattered, showering me with pulverized glass. Acrid smoke misted the air as I crammed myself in a tight ball between the tub and the commode. The gun thrusting between the window bars went off again. The second slug whirred around inside the bathtub like a bee in a tin can, then plunked upward into the ceiling.

With my left hand I edged the muzzle of my P .38 over the tub’s rim and pumped three shots at the window. Before the concussions stopped echoing in the tiny room, I had dived at an angle through the door. I slid along the baseboard on my stomach, jerked my knees toward my chest until I got my feet solidly planted against the wail and jackknifed my body out of the line of fire. Before my assailant could move from the bath window around the corner and pump more shots through the office window, I was out into the hall.

Mouldy Greene, an automatic in his hand, blundered into the hallway from the dining room and stopped dead when he saw me. Spinning him out of the way, I raced toward the front door. The chain lock binding together the two bronze doors delayed me, but I got it solved in fair time, took the steep entrance steps in four leaps and loped down the drive toward the highway.

When both my legs were flesh, I was a fair runner, but aluminum had cut my speed. By the time I reached the stone pillars at the drive entrance, twin tail lights fifty yards away were beginning to move. And by the time I dropped to one knee and steadied my gun elbow on the other for an accurate tire shot, the car was seventy-five yards away. Maybe there are pistol shots who can hit a receding target at seventy-five yards in the dark, but I’m not one of them. I wasted two shots and quit.

Fausta, Gloria Horne, Mouldy Greene and Romulus all stood in the wide open doorway when I returned. Mouldy still had his gun in his fist.

“Stack it away,” I said. “The shooting’s over.”

“What happen?” asked Fausta.

“Someone shot at me from the same spot they shot Bagnell. I shot back and missed.”

Gloria asked: “Was it Amos?”

“I didn’t see him,” I snapped. Then I added: “Your husband didn’t kill Bagnell.”

I moved in toward the bar and they all trooped after me. Going behind the counter, I poured myself a straight rye and pushed the bottle toward Fausta. I got glasses from the back bar, set them next to the bottle along with mixings and said: “Mix your own.”

Fausta and Gloria ignored the bottle, but Greene poured himself a double shot.

“You mean me too, mister?” asked Romulus.

Mouldy said, “Why not?” and slid the bottle toward him.

“Where’s Caramand?” I asked.

Mouldy said: “Went to town.”

Gloria said: “How do you know Amos is innocent?”

“He just is,” I told Gloria. “It all evolves about some tire tracks and they let your husband out. You can go home. He says he won’t beat you much.”

Gloria looked dumbly from me to Fausta and Fausta said: “If Manny say Amos not hurt you, then Amos not hurt you. You go home.”

“I’m scared.”

Being shot at put me in no mood to, argue with a female dunce, and I didn’t really care if she ever went home. I turned my attention to Fausta. She was immaculate in a dark green evening gown and ermine jacket.

“We must be going somewhere expensive,” I said.

“We go where you like.”

“How about North Shore? Tonight’s the opening.”

Fausta’s eyes narrowed. “That Byron Wade’s place. You desire go there for business!”

“No,” I protested innocently. “I’d like to see the place.”

Gloria said: “Are you sure Amos is all right?”

I looked at her steadily. “Look. Your husband won’t hurt you. Go on home.”

“I haven’t any way to get home.”

“We’ll drop you off.”

I picked up the bar phone and ordered a cab. While we waited, Gloria argued with her courage, alternately deciding to go with us and changing her mind. Being indifferent, I refused further advice and after an interval of waiting for the cab to arrive, she consulted the rye bottle. Apparently its persuasive powers were greater than mine, because when the taxi arrived she climbed in as though she had not a care in the world.

Halfway to town Gloria said: “Amos will be at work. Drop me at Eighth and Market.”

When she got out in front of the green glass windows of the bingo hall, Gloria peered back in at us indecisively.

“Want us to wait?” I asked.

“No. I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

She turned resolutely and we watched until the curtained door of the hall closed behind her.

“North Shore Club,” I told the driver.

At North Shore Club we checked our coats in the lobby and moved over to the brocaded entrance to the casino. Here we were stopped. A lone man ahead of us raised his arms while my juvenile acquaintance, Danny, patted his chest and hips before letting him enter.

I said: “Don’t bother. I’ve got one and I’m keeping it.”

Danny’s yellow eyes narrowed, and I noticed the pupils were normal size. “I got orders to frisk everybody.”

“I don’t take, orders. Tell Wade I want to see him.”

He neither moved from his flat-footed position in the center of the doorway, nor bothered to say anything. I suppose he thought it was a stalemate.

I said: “Let’s see if you can do it without coke,” put a palm under his chin and pushed.

His arms flailed to regain balance, suddenly yielded to the laws of physics, and he sat solidly on the floor. Taking Fausta’s arm, I guided her around his recumbent body. Across the room Byron Wade stood near a poker table watching the play. As we angled back and forth through the crowd toward him, I kept shooting over-the-shoulder glances back at Danny. I saw him scramble to his feet and scurry after us.

All three of us reached Wade simultaneously. Danny skidded to a stop between Wade and me, facing me with his back to Wade. His hands were thrust stiffly into his coat pockets and his face was green with rage.