Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

Without looking back at the two people on the floor, Johnny marched the length of the corridor to the exit door and departed.

In his room Johnny applied a succession of wrung-out cold towels to the lump under his ear, and finished off by attaching a square of adhesive to the bleeding bruise he had reopened in the process. He inspected himself in the mirror and grunted disparagingly. “If that guy had had anything but an icy spot to stand on, Killain, you'd be doin' your walkin' around layin' down.”

He returned to the outer room and sat down on the edge of the bed, its sheets still in a whirl from his romp with Sally two hours before. He bent forward gingerly to remove his shoes; at anything other than dead center his head still buzzed rebelliously. He had the left shoe off when the telephone rang, and he studied it in silence through three rings before he reluctantly picked it up. He cleared his throat huskily. “Yeah?”

“This is Turner, Killain.” Johnny blinked in surprise. “Can you get over to the office here? Something I'd like to straighten out.”

“Now there's an invitation that ought to make my day complete,” Johnny muttered aloud before he thought.

“I didn't get that, Killain.”

“I said I'd be right over.”

“Good. We'll be expecting you.” The promoter's voice was the familiarly bustling energetic crackle.

It's no editorial “we” that will be expecting you, either, Johnny mused as he replaced the phone. Still, Turner would hardly stage a circus on his home grounds-would he? Johnny stared at the phone. He had been afraid it was Cuneo going to interrupt his needed sleep, and now he wasn't going to get any sleep anyway.

There's a way to find out what Turner wants, he reminded himself, trying to get himself back into gear. Get yourself over there.

He shoved his left foot back into the shoe he had just removed and tied it with difficulty. His fingers seemed to be all thumbs. He knew that he wasn't co-ordinating properly. It was nothing that ten hours sleep wouldn't straighten out, but in the meantime there was this Turner fish fry.

He pushed himself from the bed and to the door. In motion he felt better, less fuzzy. The cold air in the street helped as he waved for a cab; by the time he disembarked in front of the Emerson Building he felt almost normal.

He smiled at Stacy Bartlett's look of surprise as he entered the green-and-gold reception room from the elevator. “H'ya, sugarfoot,” he said softly as he walked to her desk. “You're lookin' well this mornin'.”

“Sorry I can't say the same for you,” she returned briskly with a look at his patched ear. “What happened to you?”

“The ear? I didn't get out of the way of an unidentified flyin' object. Nothin' fatal. The king bee aboard?”

“Do you think this is a good idea?” she asked doubtfully.

“Tell you later,” Johnny said cheerfully, “but it's his idea, not mine. He called me just a few minutes ago.”

“He must have used his direct line,” the tall girl said. “I hope you're on your good behavior.” She sounded a little anxious.

“I'm always on my good behavior,” Johnny said significantly, and Stacy blushed. “How come you haven't asked for a return bout after that no-decision set-to the other night? With your left hand sharpened up a little you'd be six-to-five to win the marbles.”

“I'll-have to consult my engagement book,” she answered with attempted lightness.

“Hell with the engagement book,” Johnny replied vigorously. “What about tomorrow night? Okay?” She hesitated, and he pressed her. “Okay?”

“You keep pushing me into corners,” she protested.

“Trouble is you keep squirmin' out.” He grinned. “I'll pick you up out front. Okay?” She nodded, slowly. “Fine. You can call the gorilla now.”

She pushed the buzzer for Monk. “Don't you go agitating him, now,” she warned. The sound of her voice was still in the air when Monk Carmody appeared at the rear of the room and waited silently. Johnny followed him out, and they passed right through the bare, green-walled check point without even a pause. Johnny couldn't resist the opportunity.

“No search parties today, Monk?” he inquired genially. “I was just gettin' to like those games.”

The squat man never even turned his head; still silent, he led the way directly to the door of Lonnie Turner's private office and, when Johnny had entered, closed the door behind him with himself on the outside. Johnny looked suspiciously at the closed door and quickly at the room, but its only occupants were Turner behind his massive desk and Al Munson seated stiffly in a chair to his right.

The promoter smiled his chilly smile at Johnny's examination of the door and the room. “You mistrust our hospitality, Killain?” he asked mildly.

“Just checkin',” Johnny said shortly. “What's on your mind?”

“I trust you won't think I'm too wasteful of your time when you find out why you're here,” the white-haired man answered. “Al has something to say to you, but I wanted to hear him say it myself.”

Johnny looked from the tanned promoter to the pasty-faced publicist. Al Munson didn't look as though he had had much of a night's sleep either, Johnny reflected. The press agent crossed his short legs in an effort to simulate an ease he plainly didn't feel. “Ah-that conversation we had the other evening, Killain. At the hotel. It's out. Null and void.”

He folded his hands in his lap and fielded Johnny's stare impassively before Johnny switched off to Lonnie Turner. “I must have my stupid suit on today,” Johnny said lightly. He shifted his attention back to the publicist. “Go ahead an' remind me, Al. We had a conversation?”

“You know the conversation,” the fat man replied expressionlessly. “We-I'm relinquishing all claim to the money.”

“Nice of you, boy. Real nice of you.” Johnny moved up to the desk and leaned over it. “What he's sayin', Turner, is that after you decided you couldn't afford to make a play to get your dough back Munson stepped in for himself. But you found out an' now you're puttin' the cuffs on him.”

“You have a talent for jumping to the wrong conclusions, Killain,” the promoter replied tartly. “And stop breathing in my face. Sit down. This will take a little while.” Johnny seated himself carefully in one of the big leather armchairs as Lonnie Turner continued. “Let me preface this by admitting that my share in the proceedings I'm about to relate confirms my lawyers' opinion that I'm an incompetent in the management of my own affairs.” He smiled, a tight little smile, sank back into the depths of his padded chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I came into this business some years back with no necessity for scraping a living from it, as you may know, but rather to satisfy a sense 6f challenge. I found it a business unlike any other in my not inconsiderable experience, and I found myself dealing with a weird and wonderful variety of people with a weird and wonderful variety of ethics, both business and social.”

The crisp voice ran on drily. “I've always considered myself an adaptable animal, Killain, and I adapted. When it became accepted, in my new circles, as it eventually did, that I was unlikely to be overcome by the lesser forms of avarice, a rather special relationship came into being between myself and the people with whom I was dealing.” The white-haired man unfolded his arms, leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk top. “At any given time a business associate with money due him from a successful promotion might say to me, 'Give me a chit for my end, Lonnie. You hold it.' As the custom become more common I found myself the custodian of considerable sums of money, none of which was mine. I became in effect the treasurer of an unofficial club.”