Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

But there stood the owner, Nick, ready to take my order — and when I gave it to him his face fell until his chin hung down on his chest.

‘Bring me a split of White Rock,’ I told him. ‘And be sure the cap’s tightly on. I carry my own opener.’

The hurt expression of his fat face, when he thought I’d questioned the honest intention of the house, lifted when I slipped him a five-case note — which was good pay for the water, but not too much if the cap was securely fastened. No — I didn’t suspect the joint, but I hate to put anyone in the way of temptation.

‘Now — beat it. You’re blocking the show, and I’m all for a light fantastic evening.’ I waved him aside.

And the show was on — such as it was. Five or six girls were shaking themselves loose from their clothes upon a small platform. There was the leading lady, who had seen her best days before McKinley was shot. But she had an arm on her like the sturdy oak and, so, could swing a mean chair if trouble started. Also her capacity for bum liquor could probably be rated in tank car lots. And that was a big asset. I daresay, through eyes of gin, her calcimined face looked like the Madonna’s.

The younger ones were hand-picked and awkward. But the faces and figures stood out even through White Rock. Hard, speculative little faces, maybe, but pretty — that is, with a sinister sort of beauty. And I saw the one on the end.

She was two steps behind the others and about a note and a half off key in her song. Her eyelashes were blacker, her cheeks redder, and her golden curls the cheapest kind of a wig. Yet, she stood out. There was a fearful tightening of her lips and a ghastly grimace to the way they slipped back into what was meant for a smile. But the impression she left was that she didn’t belong, and her flashing eyes searched the room with both fear and hope. A deadly terror one moment, the next a ray of hope. Her eyes told the story — nothing remarkable in that. I’m not especially gifted in reading faces, but hers was like an open book.

But I wasn’t there to give the dames the up and up. I looked over the customers, and it was a queer crowd. Down near the stage were a half dozen college boys. At the next table a little pickpocket from the Avenue kept smiling at Nick, the proprietor, in an attempt to leave the impression that he was there simply on pleasure. Then, a flashy party from uptown, with high society stamped all over their dress shirts, and middle class stamped on their loud coarse mouths. There were a couple of stick-up men, spending the proceeds of their last haul — tipping lavishly and letting the crowd know that they were liberal guys. Yet, it wasn’t hard to pick them out. Some I recognised, some were just stamped with the type — you can’t miss them.

And I saw the two men who came in shortly after me — swarthy, dark fellows they were. Neither conspicuously dressed nor shabbily dressed. They were quiet, watchful men who, too, drank White Rock and eyed the performers with an absorbing interest and a certain sense of satisfaction that could hardly be built up on charged water. They neither applauded nor waved to the girls, but whispered occasionally to each other and nodded in apparent agreement. Instinctively, I knew that with these men my mission was connected.

The dance was over and the girls hopped from the platform and scurried about the room — greeting friends, acquaintances and strangers alike. It was a free and easy party. It was the girl on the end, with the tricky blonde wig, who came from the stage last. Uncertainly, she glanced about the smoke-laden room, then started down a narrow aisle between the rows of tables. I didn’t watch her especially — I watched the dark men who now sat with their heads close together; their eyes upon the table, as if they made it a point to impress upon the performers that they did not desire their company.

It happened quickly, and I doubt if a single one in the room saw the motion. Even I, watching closely, could not be sure. But it seemed as if the blonde-wigged frail slunk close to the opposite tables as she passed the two men. It seemed, too, as if a thick brown hand shot out, closed upon the girl’s wrist and pulled her to the table. Anyway, one thing was certain. She was sitting between the men and their grave demeanour had departed and they were laughing and talking and calling loudly for something to drink. In a dazed, uncertain, fascinated way the girl sat between them.

And I had something else to occupy my mind. A sharp-featured little performer had suddenly flopped into the seat beside me.

‘How about a little drink, dearie?’ A hand was laid upon my wrist.

I shook her off.

‘Beat it, kid,’ I told her. ‘I’m waiting for another Moll. She’s jealous and has long nails.’ That would save a long argument, and abuse for being a cheapskate. I know these dives and I know these women.

She laughed hoarsely, drew back slightly — and I heard her whisper, ‘Race Williams.’

It was my turn to reach for her wrist now. Things were going to open up and the bank notes in the envelope be explained. I don’t forget faces and this dame’s map was strange to me. She wasn’t sure, so she whispered my name.

‘You want me?’ I half pulled her closer. ‘I’m Race Williams — you sent for me?’

‘Not me! That girl over there,’ she nodded vigorously towards the girl who sat between the two men. ‘The one with the Wops.’ And if her words were not elegant they were at least expressive. Certainly those boys looked her description.

‘She didn’t know you — didn’t dare ask who you were. I picked her up on the street three nights ago. She’s scared of something, and I told her of you. She’s dough heavy and I think those lads are looking for a split. Anyway she wants to chin with you, and she was afraid those Wops would try to stop her. My Gawd! they’re giving her the walk now.’

And they were. They had jerked suddenly to their feet, with the girl between them. They didn’t exactly drag her, and she didn’t exactly go willingly; her feet sort of lifted and scraped alternately. But it didn’t attract attention, for the two men leaned over her from either side, and they were laughing and talking as they hid her face behind their bobbing black heads.

She didn’t scream and she didn’t hold back, or if she did it wasn’t noticeable. But there was my bank roll, being dragged off by two strangers.

‘What’s her name?’ I asked the girl by my side quickly.

‘Bernie—’ She stopped a moment. ‘Just Bernie, I guess. She’s a good kid, and—’

But I didn’t hear any more. Bernie had sent for me; Bernie had paid for action — and Bernie was going to get it. I snapped to my feet and turned towards the steps which led to the cloakroom.

I was just in time, for the men ahead with the girl between them ignored the cloakroom and were willing to brave the zero night without coats. Hardly thoughtful, for the girl’s flimsy lace dress was built for the banks of the Nile. Of course, the cloakroom attendant made no effort to stop them. He had passed the stage where anything was strange to him.

One quick glance I took back over my shoulder, then stepped out quickly, shot past them, and turning stood before the trio in the dull light of the hall, between the cloakroom and the inner door.

‘Why, Bernie.’ I cocked one eye and played a lad with half a jag on, ‘I thought I spotted the back of your neck. Not going, without having a drink with your little friend.’ And then seeing the bewildered look in her eyes as she stared vacantly at me, I added, ‘Thought you said you’d see me here tonight — said it, or wrote it, or something.’ And this time I thought I got my wink over. At all events, the fear went out of her eyes — they shone once in that quick sparkle of hope I’d seen on the platform, and she tried to speak. But no words came — her mouth just opened and closed, and her lips clicked with a dry snap.