Roger Torrey - 42 Days For Murder

My Spanish-looking gal said: “My God, man! Will this happen wherever we go?” and I almost liked her then. Lester was fumbling around with his glasses, too excited to put them on and blind as a bat without them. I put them on for him and we started for the door. Rucci got in the way, just as we got to the door between the back room and dance floor and the bar, and I straight-armed him out of the way. He went whirling back and we got in the bar proper.

The first thing I saw was Crandall, standing at the bar and gawking at us. I said to Lester: “There’ll be a cab outside. Grab it quick!”

And then I want to Crandall. I said: “It didn’t work, mister, but don’t give up.”

He grinned at me and said: “I won’t.”

I started to pass at him and somebody grabbed my arm when it went back. I could see I was outclassed, that I couldn’t whip the entire bar bunch, so I said:

“I’ll be seeing you.”

He nodded, keeping his grin, and I dashed outside.

Lester and the women were just climbing in a cab. There was always one sticking around outside, waiting for a sucker. I climbed in after them and told the hacker: “Wheel her, boy! They don’t like us here.” He grinned and said: “Yus, Chief!” and I saw it was the same good-looking kid that had driven us out there.

So did Hazel Heber. She leaned forward and cooed: “My, did you wait for us?”

He said: “Hell, no!” That stopped her. We kept on taking in the spots until about twelve and by that time I thought Hazel was drunk enough to tell the truth, if she knew it. I was half tight. My Spanish effect was lit like a chandelier. Lester was cold sober and watching his Hazel with fear on his face. We were in a booth in the Palace Bar, and I leaned across to Hazel and said: “Lester tells me you know the Wendel woman.” She giggled and said: “Li’l Hazel knows everybody. Knows ’em all, she does. Don’t she?”

“Sure, Hazel, sure you do. What’s she like?”

“She’s swell kid. At’s all Hazel knows; swell kids. You’re swell kid; I’m swell kid.” She screwed up her face and focused on my Spanish. “She ain’t swell kid. She’s bum.”

Spanish said: “Why you big horse!” in an outraged voice and lifted her hand to cuff her. I caught her arm and said under my breath: “Easy, honey lamb! She’s just stiff.”

Spanish said, in the same tone, which was high and carrying: “So’m I drunk. So’re you drunk. Everybody’s drunk. But I’m no bum.”

Hazel wagged a finger at her and insisted: “You are too a bum. I guess I know a bum when I see a bum.”

I wanted to laugh but this was business and no place for pleasure. I hustled Spanish off what she was sitting on and out of the booth and started her back to the Ladies Room. I said: “Look, kitten, go back and wash your face with cold water. Run cold water on your wrists. If you don’t you’ll never last out the night and we’re just starting to have fun.” This has been a good argument for as long as I can remember. She fell for it. She looked up at me and said, in that gargling voice: “You come with me, Lover.”

“I can’t go in the Ladies Room.”

She admitted this seemed sensible and weaved toward the back of the place. I sat down opposite Hazel and said:

“You were telling me about Mrs. Wendel.”

She frowned and said: “She’s better than me, hunh? Is zat it?”

I said: “Hazel, you’re the sun and the moon and the stars for me. You know that. Don’t be silly. I was just wondering why this Wendel woman was getting a divorce.”

“Her old man was mean, that’s why. Jus’ like all the men he was. Mean. Mean, tha’s what he was.”

“What did he do: beat her up?”

“Sure! Alla time. She tol’ me. He used to swear at her and call her dirty whore and things like ’at. No woman stand that. No womanly woman stand that.”

I though possibly she was getting her case and Ruth Wendel’s a bit mixed in her mind. I asked: “What grounds are you suing on?”

She said proudly: “I got reasons, too, I have. Cruel and inhuman treatment. D’ya know what ’at man did to me?”

I said I didn’t.

“Used to read paper at breakfast. Make me get up for it then read paper. Talked about bills all time. Front of people he talked. No woman stand that. No womanly woman stand that. Right?”

I said: “Right. And the Wendel gal is suing because her papa beat her up and called her dirty names?”

“Sure. She tol’ me.”

She pounded on the table and called for another drink; she was drinking double-Scotch highballs, and Lester said in a worried voice: “Hazel, don’t you think you’ve had enough for a while? Wouldn’t it be better if you laid off?”

“Li’l Hazel never has enough. Not ever.”

I said to Lester: “Well, every man has his cross to bear,” and then my Spanish honey came staggering back and gasped: “Jesus, Honey, I’m sick,” to me.

She sounded sick, but a hell of a lot soberer.

I said: “Let’s get to hell out of here and let young love have a chance.”

She gave me one of those kind of looks and said: “We can have a drink at my place. I want to lie down.”

Lester made a frantic attempt at getting his blonde menace on his feet, so they could go with us, but it was hopeless. The big tramp sat solidly on what she had plenty of and wouldn’t turn a wheel. The last I saw of them she was up-ping another Scotch and Lester was staring after me with a pained and worried expression.

My girl sobered up in the cab going home, enough to be more than a little sore when I wouldn’t go in her apartment with her. I said: “Now look, hon! I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. I’ll give you a ring during the afternoon.”

She said: “Don’t bother.”

“Make it easy on yourself,” I said, and turned and started down the hall, but she paddled after me and purred: “Don’t you be mad at me, Sweet. You call me tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sure, Pet.”

“I’ll wait by the phone for you to call.”

I left, hoping she wouldn’t go hungry sitting by the phone and waiting for me to call. She was pretty but I didn’t like her voice. I don’t expect ’em perfect, at my age, but I don’t want them saying sweet nothings in my ear and sounding as though they had adenoids while they do it. It’s not that I’m so fussy but you can hear a voice, even in the dark.

Wendel had a long night letter waiting for me the next morning and I found out later he hadn’t waited to wire New York but had called them on the phone. It said that his New York lawyers had advised him to consult Amos Mard, and that he was wiring Mard that I’d call to see him. That Mard and I should talk the situation over and decide what was best. And that I should keep in touch with him. I got on the phone, got Mard, and made an appointment for an hour from then, which barely left me time to dress and eat. Lester said, as I started out:

“I’d advise you to make sure Mard and Crandall aren’t too friendly. They might work together on this.”

I had a headache and a hangover and I snapped back: “You should tell me my business.”

He grinned and said: “Okey, Shean,” and I apologized for the temper and left.

Amos Mard was a young fellow, barely thirty. Or so I thought. We talked for a bit, with me being careful not to say anything that might carry to the enemy camp, until finally he said:

“You know, Mr. Connell, this is a bit unusual. Your coming to me like this. Frankly, there’s something wrong with the case, though I don’t know what it is. I sense that. If it wasn’t that I have personal reasons, I’d turn it down.”

“Does that mean you don’t like Crandall?”