Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

He lit a cigarette, moved the ash tray around to the side of the wing chair and settled down in it to wait out the night.

He listened to his own breathing, the only sound he could hear in the room. At least if Sally wakened she wouldn't be alone…

He awoke suddenly with the gray light of dawn under the shades, a crick in his neck and his left leg disembodied from retarded circulation. He looked instantly to the bed-Sally's slight figure was sitting bolt upright in its center, her blanketed knees drawn up snugly and clasped in her arms. She was hunched forward with her chin resting on her knees, and she was staring straight ahead of her.

Johnny moistened dry lips; he didn't think he had made any movement upon rousing from his uncomfortable doze, but he could see Sally's head turn slightly to look in his direction. He couldn't see her features in the shadows extending out to the bed from the fingers of light at the windows, but he could see the suspicious quivering of the slim shoulders as his eyes focused.

He grunted harshly and hauled himself upright; he hobbled stiffly to the bed, pins and needles stabbing his awakening leg. He reached down and picked her up bodily, blankets and all, and sat down on the edge of the bed with her on his lap. He could feel the near rigidity of the small body in its state of semishock.

When she finally spoke her tone was flat and expressionless. “I don't th-think I really believed it, until I saw you s-sleeping in that chair.” Her voice roughened; a hand crept out of the blankets and closed tightly on his arm. “Charlie,” she whispered. “Oh, Johnny-why Ch-Charlie?”

“Nobody knows why, or when,” he said quietly. He waited a moment as she cried openly into his shirt front, then placed two fingers under her chin. “You gonna be all right now?” He could feel pressure against his fingers when she nodded affirmatively, and her exhaled breath was a long sigh.

“Stretch out here beside me for a little while,” she pleaded. “If I know you're here, I might be able to rest.”

He lifted her up and slid her back into the bed. Then he lay down alongside her, slipped an arm beneath her and pulled a corner of the blanket over himself. In the half darkness he listened to her ragged breathing ease until she was breathing quietly. His own eyes closed several times, but he doggedly forced them open.

When he was sure that she was asleep he removed his arm carefully and inched himself from the bed. He listened again for the gently regular exhalations and shuffled cautiously to the hallway in stockinged feet. He picked up his shoes and put them under his arm.

He eased open the apartment door and closed it quietly from the outside, listening for the click of the automatic lock. He was on one knee tying a shoelace when he heard the elevator doors opening at the end of the corridor. He rose to his feet and examined the two men who emerged and looked about them a little uncertainly. Then the squat, thickset man in the lead advanced upon him purposefully.

“Say, Jack,” he demanded briskly, “which is Miss Fontaine's apartment?”

“Who wants to know?” Johnny asked him. He recognized the squat man but did not actually know him. He'd seen the darkly lopsided features under the close-cropped black hair around the fringes of the fight crowd for years, but had never heard him called anything except Monk.

“Well, now-” Monk started to bristle, and evidently thought better of it. The uniform, Johnny thought; he thinks I work here. “This is Mr. Hartshaw, an attorney,” the squat man said quickly. “He has an appointment with Miss Fontaine.”

Johnny looked briefly at the tall, cadaverous-looking individual in heavy horn-rimmed glasses and a black Homburg that completed his funereal appearance. The tall man had a manila file folder under his right arm, and Johnny took a casual step forward and snaked the folder from beneath Mr. Hartshaw's arm. By the time Mr. Hartshaw was ready to react, Johnny had the folder open and was reading the single legal-looking document within.

“Hey, you!” Monk exclaimed. His tone was ugly.

Johnny transferred his attention from the folder to Monk. “I don't get it, man. A power of attorney? At six in the morning? With her brother dead maybe four hours?” He looked down at the document. “An' who the hell is Albert Munson?”

“Who the hell are you?” Monk demanded angrily, and sidled closer. “Maybe you need a lesson in mindin' your own business?”

Johnny deliberately folded and creased the paper and slipped it into a pocket. He looked at the lawyer. “You know that the kid had a manager? Isn't he the one to see?”

“I'm tellin' you he's got an appointment with Miss Fontaine!” Monk cut in.

“An' I'm tellin' you… shut up!” Johnny told him grimly, and returned his attention to the lawyer. “Well?”

“Why, ah-I was-it was said-” His high-pitched voice hesitated. “I'm to represent Miss Fontaine.”

“Not today, Hartshaw.” The tall man looked incredulous, and Johnny raised his voice. “Rack it up and drag it outta here, man. You're not representin' anyone. Blow.”

Mr. Hartshaw closed his slightly gaping mouth and stalked off injuredly in the direction of the elevator, turning once to look back over his shoulder en route.

“Now just a minute, damn you!” Menace hung heavy in Monk's rasping tone; his hands were bunched massively as he advanced gloweringly upon Johnny.

“You come right ahead, Monk,” Johnny invited him, moving away from the wall.

The mention of his name stopped the squat man. He licked his lips rapidly. “You know me, hah?” he mumbled. He stood stiffly, obviously reviewing his instructions; then he sullenly unbundled his fists and tramped to the elevator in the wake of the lawyer. Johnny followed him.

“These two are just leavin', Carlo,” he said to the slim, dark-haired operator when the doors opened. The boy looked surprised at the sight of Johnny; he looked hurriedly at his passengers as they entered, and the look changed to apprehension.

Johnny reached in and casually removed a folded bill from the small breast pocket of the operator's uniform. “A five spot,” he said musingly. “You buy cheap, Carlo.” He smiled into the cab at the boy; deliberately he tore the bill into confetti. “Easy come, easy go, huh, kid?” Suddenly he leaned in again toward the good-looking boy, who backed away guiltily, and his voice hardened. “The next time you let someone con you into takin' 'em up here without goin' through the switchboard first, I'll hang you out to dry. Understand?”

The boy swallowed hard. “S-sure, Johnny. Sure.”

“Then run these rats outta here. Hose down the lobby afterward an' cut down on the smell.”

Above the faint hum of the descending elevator Johnny could hear Monk's furious bark. “What in the hell is his name?” Johnny doubted somehow that another five-dollar bill went with the answer. It looked like a poor day for Carlo.

Johnny glanced up at the lobby clock as he pushed his way in through the foyer doors, and his attention was distracted at once by the sight of Detective James Rogers standing, overcoat on arm, to the left of the newsstand. From behind a half-raised paper, he was unobtrusively studying the passengers entering and emerging from the elevators. The detective laid the newspaper down on the counter as Johnny approached him. “Been watching for you, Johnny.”

Johnny's grunt was pure skepticism. “Among others?”

The detective's smile was unabashed. “There's Gidlow. He hasn't shown yet. Otherwise, I'm just practicing.”

“Your no-good partner home feedin' milk to his ulcer?”

“My partner,” Detective Rogers said crisply, “is out on a job of work.”

“Good for him. What's his beef with me, Jimmy?”