Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

She was right on time, her dress a simple black thing that seemed to overflow with her, setting the dark blonde of her hair off to perfection. Just watching her come down those stairs made my stomach go hard and for a few seconds I felt all empty inside and cursed myself for having let the years go by. She had waited. Damn it, she had waited and when I came it was too late!

"Ready?" she asked me.

"Uh-huh. Where to?"

"Well, you said a club . . ."

"Tonight the best. After that it's peanut butter sandwiches."

"The Cherokee is the best."

"Let's go then."

About five miles northeast the shoreline jutted out into a peninsula an eighth of a mile long. Right at the tip the lights from a low, modern building fanned out into the dock area and batteries of spotlights lit up the parking site. Flanking the roadway on either side all the way in were tennis courts, pitch-'n-putt links and two swimming pools. At the very end a sedate neon sign read, Cherokee Club.

Anita said, "How did you know where to go? This has only been up three years."

I didn't tell her I'd been there before checking out the Bannerman credit. "Heard about it in town when I was finding out how much things have changed."

The house was full, and had it not been for Anita I never would even have made the parking lot. Every car there was one of the top three and just as the kid attendant was going to brush me off and catch himself a paste in the mouth, a big guy in a tux came over, saw her and waved the kid away. He threw up a grin and a salute, said, "Sorry, Miss Bannennan, the guy's new here."

"He take the place of the one who got shot?" I said.

"Yeah, and gettin' help ain't easy these days. Punk kids is all you get these days." He stopped and thought a moment. "The other one was knifed, not shot," he added as an afterthought. "Drive up to the door. I'll put your car in Miss Bannerman's usual place."

I slipped the Ford in gear and headed toward the building. "Pretty nice having your own slot. You come here often?"

"Only with Vance. He enjoys the atmosphere."

"He gamble too?"

Anita looked at me sharply, but my face showed nothing. "Very seldom. He's on the conservative side. He prefers investments."

"Good boy."

Inside we got the same preferential treatment from the doorman and headwaiter alike. Before we could be shown to a table a heavyset guy with close-cropped iron gray hair came up smiling, bowed to Anita and gave me a single look wondering where the hell I came from. She introduced him as the owner, Leslie Douglas and when he heard I was another Bannerman the same smile he had for her he gave to me. Old suit or not, if I were a Bannerman I had to be loaded, I guess.

The dining room lay like a horseshoe around a dance floor, butting a stage where an eight-piece band played quiet music. There were two bars, one catering only to the men, with the casino area taking up the entire second floor. The layout was professional. Not the loose Vegas or Reno attitude that would take anybody's nickel, but more on the Monte Carlo style, catering to a single class. Big Money. I felt as much at home as a cat in a dog kennel.

For two hours we drank, talked and danced. For two hours we were those kids again laughing about the things that had happened because now they were pathetically funny. For two hours I lied to her about all those years in between then and now because I didn't want her to know. And for two hours we were in love like nothing before and we knew it.

But there was nothing we could do about it. She had the Bannerman pride of honesty and I had the sense to keep my mouth shut even though I felt like exploding.

At five minutes to midnight she excused herself to go to the powder room and I waved for another drink. Before it came I saw the big guy edging over to my table, smiling and talking to the others on the way until he reached me. His nose had been broken, he had one twisted ear and under his clothes you knew there were great chunks of muscle that could hurt you bad if he wanted to.

He nodded at an empty chair and said, "Mind?"

"No, sit down. Want a drink!"

"Thanks. I'm on duty."

"Bouncing?"

His shoulders moved in a massive shrug. "It ain't really necessary. I just speak to 'em generally."

"That's the only way."

The guy was getting to something. He waited until I had the drink and leaned back languidly. "You got a rod on you, ain't you?"

"Sure," I said, "but it ain't really necessary. I just speak to 'em generally."

The frown broke into a hoarse laugh and he shook his head. "Like my kid says, you're cool, man."

"Got to be in this business."

"Ain't why I came though. Les told me you was a Bannerman. That right?"

"Sad, but true."

"Couldn't be old Cat Cay Bannerman, could it?"

I looked at him, trying to get his point. I nodded.

"Maybe you don't remember me. I got my face busted up in the ring, but I was different when I was a kid. Petey Salvo's the name. We went to the Ringdale school together."

I let out a laugh and stuck out my hand. "I'll be damned," I said. "Woppo Salvo, the kid who got his head stuck in the fence posts."

"You remember that?" he grinned.

"Hell, yes, like I remember the times you and me had it out in the lots for something or other. It's been a long time."

"Too long." He let his eyes go over my face. "You do some fighting?"

"Some."

"You look it. Stupid racket. How long you gonna be around?"

"Few days, maybe."

"Suppose we get together some time? Plenty things changed around here. You want to meet anybody, let me know."

"Good idea."

Petey Salvo shuffled the chair back and got ready to leave. "When I first saw you come in here I thought I recognized you from somewhere. Guys I get to know are the ones shouldn't be here so I was gonna heave you until Les give me the nod. Then I figured you was like a bodyguard to Miss Bannerman."

"She need one?"

"Her? Hell, she's the only decent one. It's those kids who are bums. The night Chuck Maloney got knifed and everyone got questioned he paid off to get hustled out of here and didn't even get his name in the papers."

I picked up my glass. "Maybe he stuck him."

"Yeah, that'll be the day. Maloney was an ex-marine and had thirty-one fights in the ring and when that powderpuff can close in on him I'll eat his shoes. He's strictly yellow, you know that. I saw a dame beat the hell out of him one night." He stood up and held out his hand again. "I'm around all the time. Look me up."

"Sure will, Petey."

"Stay for the next show. Real specialty number. Chuck Maloney's wife is doing a strip. Les gave her the job to kinda help things along for her. She used to do a circuit in the east and swings pretty good."

"I'll catch it."

Anita came back then, saw Petey leaving and said, "Company?"

"We used to go to school together, Ringdale P. S. where the Bannermans joined the hoi polloi to have the democratic flavor infused into their veins."

The lights dimmed then and a spot hit the dance floor. From the band came a sharp chord that was sustained until the M.C. came out with a hand mike and got everyone's attention. His announcement was brief . . . the Cherokee Club was about to offer its feature attraction for the evening, a blazing redhead who had set fire to stages all over the country and was persuaded to visit the club for a two week showing. And introducing, Irish Maloney and her drumbeat rhythm!

The bongos and the base started their beat, were joined by a single clarinet and out of the wings came the redhead. She was good, no doubt about that. She had crazy muscular control of every part of her body and could start a ripple going in her thighs that worked its way up her belly to her breasts and undulate back down again. She stayed there working the perimeter of the floor with her body inches away from gaping eyes for a full half hour until the drums gave out and she ran off in a wild burst of applause from everyone in the room.