Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

“Because, when you had somethin' you wanted done, Rick, you'd put out a set of blueprints with the job. I don't work that way.”

The cigar waved in the pudgy hand. “Think it over, anyway. I could use you, and I think we could work it out.” He paused as though planning his next sentence, and Johnny glanced at Manuel Ybarra. The dark man smiled slightly and nodded his head in the very slightest degree. In agreement? Johnny couldn't be sure. “I been gettin' a bad report card on you, boy,” Rick Manfredi resumed. “Had a visitor a little bit ago. Ed Keith. Said he'd been talkin' to you today, and that you was askin' questions about me. That goin' on all over town?”

“Not all over,” Johnny said lightly.

“I don't like it,” the gambler said heavily. “Trouble I can't use. Why you got to get on my back?”

“I heard you say you didn't fix that fight,” Johnny said evenly. “I haven't heard anyone else say so.”

“Listen!” Rick Manfredi said hotly. “If an' when I fix a fight, mister, I don't wind up behind the eight ball with the slobs countin' the money. When I do somethin', I do it right!” He pointed the cigar for emphasis. “Don't crowd me, man.” The olive features turned a dull red as Johnny laughed.

“We already settled you can't buy me, Rick,” Johnny told him. “You think you can scare me? You know what I'd do, was I you? I'd find out who fixed that fight.”

The chubby man's eyes narrowed. “You say that like you think I don't have far to look. I'm beginning not to like a lot of the things you have to say, Killain.” The cigar was restored to the full-lipped mouth, the tip glowed redly and a thin stream of pale smoke emerged in driblets. “I didn't finish tellin' you about Keith. He wanted to borrow five grand so bad he could taste it. I gave it to him.”

“So you're hangin' up with me because Keith put you on the arm for five thousand?” Johnny asked disgustedly. “If it's that easy, I'll take ten myself.”

“The five grand is nothing, I got a story for the five,” the gambler said. “Come to find out Keith went the same way I did on the fight, but he didn't have it to pay off. Now, who bets five grand he don't have on a fight?”

“So he knew it was fixed. So did you, an' I don't see them pinnin' no medals on either of you.”

“He could go like Gidlow went, an' then where's your five?”

“Newspapermen don't get killed,” the gambler said stubbornly. “And how often do you get a chance to put a big-sheet sportswriter in your pocket? It could be a good investment.”

“Regardless of what other pockets he's in?”

The hooded eyes narrowed again. “Like whose?”

“Turner's.”

The silence built up in the cloakroom. “You sayin' Turner fixed that fight?” Manfredi asked finally. He frowned. “I can't see it. He's got too much to lose.” The frown deepened. “I hope you're wrong. I wouldn't like to think it was him I tied into on this deal. That's a tough rooster.” He looked at Manuel, who shrugged neutrally. The round man snapped his fingers. “I've got to make a phone call.” He pointed at Johnny. “One more chance, boy: I'll put you to work.”

“Some other time, Rick. Phone booths are right outside.” Johnny delayed Manuel as Manfredi went out into the lobby. His eyes were on the mark on the bronzed cheekbone, reduced now to a livid scar. “No more excitement?”

Manuel touched the mark tentatively with a fingertip. “Nothing,” he said easily. “For now.”

“I never did ask you if you recognized them,” Johnny said casually.

“If you didn't ask, I wouldn't have to lie,” the dark man replied gravely, and smiled at Johnny. “I don't think they want to kill me.”

“Why the hell should they? Four or five good head shots, an' you sit in the dark the rest of the way.”

“It has occurred to me.” The eyes were shadowed, but the lips were firm. “Shall we join Rick?”

“You joined him a long time ago,” Johnny said softly. “I hope you knew what you were doin'.” He led the way out into the lobby.

Johnny's cab pulled up before the lighted canopy at the entrance to the Cafe of the Three Sisters as Consuelo Ybarra came hurriedly out of the door. “Hey!” he called after her as she started up the street without noticing him, and she glanced impatiently over her shoulder but waited while he paid off the driver and joined her. He pointed to the cloth coat over her street-length dress. “Where's all the fine feathers tonight?”

“I asked off.” She gestured at herself with a gloved hand. “Cinderella returns to the fireplace.”

He examined the ringed dark circles beneath her shadowed eyes. “What's gnawin' on you, kid? You look like an accident huntin' up a lawyer.”

“I'm tired.” She flared suddenly with more of her usual spirit. “Tired of being unlucky!”

Johnny cocked an eyebrow at her. “You're unlucky?”

“Desperately,” she said harshly. “All my life. Everything I attempt. I involve all my friends, and drag them down with me. I should be burned at the stake.”

“Why?”

But she as quickly withdrew. “It is not important.” She nodded at the door behind them. “Manuel is at the bar.”

“I didn't come to see Manuel.”

“I hope you didn't come to see me.” Her tone was grave. “I'm not proud of the other night, you understand. I haven't known men of your force of will, but I do not excuse myself. It is my penance that Christian lady and female animal are in too delicate a balance in my nature. I have much need of self-control. You hit an exposed nerve, but it will not happen again.” The classical features were almost school-girlishly solemn. “If you'll excuse me, I'm on an errand,” she continued. The full-lipped mouth twisted bitterly. “Of mercy, its necessity created by my greed.”

“I'll go with you,” Johnny said easily, and took her arm. “We need a cab?”

Angrily she flung off his hand. “Did you hear me? I won't have you trailing after me like a bitch in heat!”

He recaptured the arm, firmly. “Simmer down, kid. I don't need you in bed to like you. There's a difference.”

“There is a difference,” she admitted tiredly. “And I hope, if I had not sensed it, there would never have been the other between us.” She smiled at him somberly. “It's a cushion to bruised nerves to believe it, anyway.” She waved a hand ahead of them down the dark street. “I'm visiting the small hospital the mission sisters maintain. If such a place doesn't dishearten you, it's true I'm tired of my own company. We won't need a cab. It's only two blocks crosstown.”

She took his arm, and they walked in silence. The streets were quiet, the gutters filthy, the shop windows behind heavy steel grilles. In such a neighborhood, Johnny reflected, menace was a part of the atmosphere.

On the stone steps of the hospital building Consuelo took the lead, and inside the heavy doors Johnny's nostrils automatically tested the antiseptically deadened air. He followed left through the first door; the room was a small chapel, with tiers of candles burning quietly on low stands behind a wooden railing. He stood awkwardly as the girl knelt and, producing a coin from her bag, placed it in the offertory box. She lighted a candle, remained on her knees a moment with bowed head, then arose. They were in the outside corridor again before she spoke in the lowered tone the building seemed to require. “The hospital is so small that visitors are supposed to come singly, but I don't believe the sisters will question your being with me.”

He was beginning to second-guess himself on this trip; these places were just too damn depressing. “Who we gonna see?” he asked her as they passed half-open doors with silent rooms beyond. Consuelo turned toward the stairs.