Ник Картер - The Code

I was standing outside the hotel when she arrived at the restaurant. I watched her open the door of a red Volvo, and caught a glimpse of sleek thigh as she slid out of the car. The legs were as good as I remembered, the sexy walk even better.

She took note of me as she moved around the car with long, graceful strides. Apparently the sight of any stranger tensed her up. She paused, eyed me briefly, and I returned her gaze with my most winning smile.

After she’d vanished into the restaurant, I smoked a cigarette. I wanted to give her time to shed her coat and start waiting on tables. As I stalled, three motorcycles roared into town. The cyclists were as out of place in Bonham as I was. They wheeled past the hotel, looking me over through goggles clamped to their bearded faces. They wore jackets with leering devils painted on the backs. Their destination was the bar. Talking loudly, they dismounted and went inside. I knew they didn’t live in Bonham. The town didn’t hold enough excitement for their kind.

“Outlaws and bums,” said the hotel clerk disgustedly. He was leaning in the doorway behind me. “They’re part of a gang that comes through here a couple of times a year. Call themselves Satan’s Brood. They camp out on the old fairgrounds. Folks in town would like to run them off the property, but the police don’t want to stir up a riot.”

I threw my cigarette away. If the bikers were regular visitors, that meant they were no concern of mine. I crossed the street to the restaurant, where business was picking up. I counted a total of four customers. All were men, and three of them couldn’t take their eyes off Sheila. The fourth, I thought, must have been half-blind.

I took a corner table away from the other diners. Even before Sheila moved toward me, I caught her gaze drifting in my direction, sizing me up.

“Welcome to Bonham. Plan to stay long?” she said when she reached my table.

“That depends on you, Sheila.”

The expression to her fragile face froze. “My name is Susan.”

“It’s Sheila Brant and until Frank Abruze was killed, you were his mistress.” My hand flashed across the table and I pinned her wrist. “Don’t get up-right. Plaster a smile on that lovely face and pretend we’re talking about what’s on the menu,”

“The smiling part won’t be easy. You’re about to crush the bones in my wrist.”

I loosened up on my grip, but didn’t let her go. “The people you’re running from know where you are. I can’t imagine why they’d want to eliminate you, but that seems to be what they have in mind. You need help.”

“And you’re going to give it to me?” Her pretty mouth twisted. “That’s the story of my life. Men are always going to help me. And the more help I get, the more trouble I find myself in.”

“I’m the man who’s going to change all that.”

“I was wondering who you are. Now I know. You must be Mandrake the Magician.”

“The name is Ned.”

“Well, Ned the Magician, it’ll take a couple of miracles to clear up the complications in my life.” Despite what she said, there was a stirring of interest in the dark eyes. “You want something in return for your help, of course.”

“We’ll discuss the terms later.”

“Oh, I’m sure we will,” she said in a sardonic voice.

Business or no business, I was hungry. I told her to bring me a thick steak and black coffee.

“You trust me not to make a run for it?”

“Cinderella didn’t run out on her fairy godmother, did she?”

She laughed. “I’m no Cinderella.”

She could have played the part, I thought. She looked like a girl a prince would bring a slipper to, and carry away even if the slipper didn’t fit. Only her Prince Charming had turned out to be Frank Abruze, Mafia capo.

When she returned with my coffee, she brushed against me as she placed the cup near my hand. I interpreted that as a sign that we were going to get along.

“Apparently you aren’t the fuzz. And you aren’t one of Abruze’s friends. So who are you?” she asked.

“I’ll explain that later, too.”

The door banged and the three bikers came in, bringing a stench with them. None of them had touched a bar of soap in weeks. The man behind the cash register, presumably the restaurant’s owner, regarded the trio with displeasure. He could have done without their business for at least the next ninety years.

They decided to sit at the table next to mine. They talked loudly, guffawing at each other’s jokes. To amuse myself, I tried to determine which of them was the ugliest. The contest ended in a dead heat between the one with a knife scar curling down his cheek and the one seated nearest to me, a stocky man wearing a bead necklace, a greasy headband, and leather wristbraces. The one in the middle, who had long hair and a copper-colored beard, was the most presentable.

While Sheila was taking their orders, Scarface ran his hand up her leg. She took the offense with remarkable cool. Copper Beard slapped his companion’s hand away. “Behave yourself,” he said in an even voice.

The one seated near me caught my gaze and showed his teeth, several of which were missing. “What are you looking at, buster?”

“You,” I said. “I was admiring your dental work.”

“A cop once stepped on my face. Would you like some of the same?”

“Not especially,” I said, resisting the temptation to shove my coffee cup down his throat.

Copper Beard clamped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He squeezed so hard that the man with the missing teeth winced. “Don’t kid around with the gentleman, Georgie. He might think you’re serious. The last thing we want is a misunderstanding. Right?”

“Right” echoed Georgie. He didn’t sound sincere. He sounded scared of the man with the hand clamped on his shoulder.

I finished my steak in peace and told Sheila I’d be waiting when she got off work at midnight. Returning to my hotel room, I settled down in the chair near the window to keep watch on the restaurant. For all I knew, the dead assassin had confederates who’d make a try for the girl.

The cycle bums emerged and meandered down the street in the soft dusk, still exchanging loud boasts and laughter. Only the one with the copper-colored beard was silent, striding between the others, a head taller than they were, smooth-moving as a catamount. They were heading back toward the bar. I watched them until they were out of sight.

Long before Sheila appeared, I was beginning to worry about Meredith, who hadn’t shown up and hadn’t called. Without taking my eyes off the restaurant’s door, I placed the telephone on my lap and asked the night clerk to give me an outside line. I dialed the number of the gas station and got no answer. I sat in the darkness listening to the buzz and I had the feeling that events had taken another abrupt change in course.

Sheila came out of the restaurant, walking at a fast clip, glancing around as she made for the Volvo at the curb. A light mist of rain had started to fall. I could see drops forming on my window pane. Sheila was wearing the long coat she had worn in the film made by Meredith. I could guess that she was carrying a gun in her pocket.

“Baby, you are a tricky one,” I said softly.

It wasn’t midnight; it was only 10 P.M. She was leaving early — running out on me.

I kicked back my chair and reached the door in three quick strides. I went down the stairway fast, passed a startled desk clerk, and hit the street as Sheila drove away.

The sound of bike motors starting up merged with the pulse of the Volvo’s motor. The cyclists charged past without seeing me. They were following the car. I saw the red glow of their taillights sweep around a distant corner as I sprinted for my battered Ford.