Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

“What is it?” It was a woman's hushed tone, and Johnny frowned. Before he could make up his mind to reply, he heard the door open cautiously on the chain latch and felt himself under inspection. The room behind the woman was unlighted, and he could make out only the indeterminate pale blur of her features, so far beneath his own eye level as to mark her as no more than an inch or two above five feet.

“Well?” she demanded huskily, her voice sounding young.

“I need to see Manuel,” he told her.

“Why?” she challenged immediately.

“I have to talk to him.”

“Perhaps tomorrow-” she began firmly, and from behind the door to her left Johnny could hear a hissing Spanish whisper.

“Describe him!”

“Huge,” she murmured rapidly in kind. “Hard. A crooked nose. In a gray uniform. Truly-”

“Open the door,” Manuel Ybarra said in English in a normal voice. “He was at the tavern tonight.” There was an instant of doubt as she turned to look at him. “Open the door, Consuelo,” the man repeated impatiently.

At the rattle of the chain latch Johnny moved forward a bit hesitantly; there was still no light in the room. He was still at the threshold when, to his left, Manuel turned on a lamp. The thick-shouldered man, in underwear and socks, was calmly returning a switch-blade knife to the lamp table's drawer.

In the same instant, at the other side of the room, Johnny caught a flashing glimpse of skimpily nightgowned femininity before a blanket swirled and descended serape-fashion, eclipsing the vision from neck to toe. Small she might be, Johnny reflected, but never petite; the curves were full-bodied.

“Dios!” the girl exclaimed indignantly, with a toss of a blue-black mane. She glared at Manuel. “You have to shame me?”

The dark man paid no attention. “You mus' have much impatience,” he said softly to Johnny. As an afterthought he gestured at the blanket. “My sister, Consuelo.” He shrugged broadly. “My penance.” He glanced at her, eying Johnny speculatively. “This is the big Johnny, from the hotel. The one of whom the Senor Mick is a compadre.”

Johnny stared frankly at the creamily oval face, classically Castilian in depth from brow to chin. Her nose and mouth were small, but very well made, and her lips provocatively full. She might have been twenty-five. The firm set of her chin and her wide-spaced dark eyes warned of an independent nature, and he extended his hand gravely. “This penance of which your brother speaks,” he said to her in Spanish, then, shifting to English, “it should happen to me.”

The soft ivory of her face bloomed with a tinge of added color as she retrieved her hand from his, but she looked up at him squarely. “If I'd known you knew Spanish, I hope you believe I'd not have said that about the nose-”

“Nicest thing's been said about it for years,” he assured her. He turned to Manuel. “Thanks for the welcome, amigo. I'll make it short. The two men in the tavern tonight-”

“What two men in the tavern?” the girl interrupted.

“Be quiet, girl.” Her brother said it almost absently as he studied Johnny. “The little fighter was a friend of yours?”

“You can make it stronger than that.”

Manuel nodded soberly. He knuckled his chin reflectively, the rasp of his beard plain in the quiet. “A very good left hand, for his weight,” he said after a moment. “Very good.” He pursed his lips. “You had a question?”

“When they came in, they spoke to each other. I'd like to know what they said.”

The dark man inclined his head slightly. “I heard what they said. The Senor Mick asked idly, to no purpose, and I denied it, because I do not wish to speak for the world to hear.” He considered Johnny carefully for a moment, then nodded again as if to himself. “They came through the door together, the tall one on the left-so.” Manuel positioned a hand in the air. “When he had looked around the tall one said quickly to the other 'Es este el hombre?' and pointed with his gun. The second man replied 'Esta es.' The gun had motioned at the little fighter, and the tall one at once turned to him.” Manuel shrugged. “The rest you saw. It is not given to all of us to go with such espina dorsal.”

“So the tall one asked 'Is he the man?' ” Johnny said musingly. “This is a tavern stick-up?”

Manuel looked somber. “The little fighter was in trouble?”

“Trouble?” Johnny repeated irritatedly. “Where the hell's the trouble? The kid took his dive, didn't he? Went clear off the thirty-foot board to do it.”

“It was a peculiar ending to the fight,” Manuel admitted.

The blanket-swathed girl spoke quietly. “He was killed, the man of whom you speak?” Johnny nodded, and within the blanket he could see her shiver. “Men!” she said bitterly. “There's not one among you who acquires the least of the sense God gives a girl child at birth.” She jerked a plump shoulder at her brother. “Look at that one. Twenty per cent vision in the left eye; sixty per cent in the right. And deteriorating.”

Manuel grinned. “She fears to have the support of me.”

“At least you can pimp for me,” she told him impudently, and the grin disappeared as his features darkened.

“I do not like the sound of that remark in this company,” he said heavily. “I could find my belt-”

She ignored him and apologized to Johnny. “He exaggerates about the support. Not about the belt, when I was younger.” She grimaced. “He saved his money when he was fighting. He has a little income. We live in this neighborhood because our friends live here. And rather than what I have said, I am not a schoolgirl, but I must nearly get down on my knees for permission to have a man walk with me.”

“This income of mine,” Manuel said thoughtfully. “I have not seen it lately.”

“Because with money you are a big fool,” his sister told him tranquilly. She smiled at Johnny. “I sing nights at the Three Sisters. It's a small place, but the food's excellent. I can recommend particularly the chicken valenciana.”

“Dinner tomorrow night?” Johnny promptly inquired.

Consuelo Ybarra laughed, a very pleasant sound. “Agreed. At eight-thirty. My first show's at ten.” She looked at him from beneath long lashes. “I like a man who can make up his mind.”

“You've met one,” Johnny told her, and turned to the door. “Eight-thirty.”

On the stairs he stopped once to reconstruct in his mind the girl's flashing facial beauty. It was a little hard to see how this dinner date tomorrow night could be a mistake.

Johnny's key admitted him noiselessly to the apartment, and he moved quietly through the small hallway to the bedroom entrance. Amy was sitting bolt upright in the big wing chair, but her head was down on her shoulder. As he came inside she straightened convulsively, her uniform rustling as she came halfway up out of the chair in the darkness.

“Mist' Johnny?” she asked in a tremulous whisper, and collapsed with a soft sigh at his affirmative grunt. “Hoo- ee! Don' you never sneak up on me like that!” She looked guiltily toward the bed. “She been sleepin' 'bout a hour, now.”

He nodded and, realizing that she couldn't see him in the darkness, walked out into the kitchen and turned on the light. Amy followed, stretching and yawning. “I held a cab for you downstairs,” Johnny told her. “Here.”

“Put you' hand right back in that pocket!” the softly slurred accents demanded indignantly. “This ain't no payin' favor!”

He got her out the door finally and toed off his shoes in the hallway. He loosened his tie and, returning to the bedroom, stood beside the bed and looked down at the small body beneath the covers.