6
On the outskirts of Paradise Palms a few tumbled-down huts, side by side, sprawled into the darkness. Further along, standing alone, was the only building of importance.
Over its arched doorway, a sign flickered against the night sky. Forty-six.
I had parked the Mercury convertible in a vacant lot some way back, and I approached the building cautiously, keeping in the shadows. Through the open doorway I could hear dance music. The shuttered windows revealed chinks of light.
A man moved out of the shadows, came towards me. I stopped, waited, my liand on my gun butt.
It was Hoskiss.
“Hi, G-man,” I said. “Seen this morning’s Morni ng Star?"
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, peering at me. “Yeah, I saw it all light. I bet Killeano’s doing a little thinking.”
“I bet you are too,” I said. “All ready for some relaxation?”
“I’m ready to go in,” he said, eyeing the building dubiously. “But I’d like to know what’s cooking.”
“You will,” I said, “only don’t rush me. How many boys did you bring?”
“Six. That enough?”
“I hope so. Tell ’em to keep out of sight. We may not need them, but if we do, they’ll have plenty on their hand. While they’re waiting they can make themselves useful. I want the telephone in this joint cut off. Can they fix the outside lines?”
“I guess so,” he said. “What’s the idea?”
“I don’t want anyone to tip the cops if trouble starts. We’ll have enough on our hands without a load of corrupt Law busting in on us.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hoskiss said. He sounded worried.
“After the way I handed you those Cubans I think you might exercise a little faith,” I said.
“You’d make a swell salesman,” Hoskiss said, resigned. “I’ll tell them.”
I waited. After a while he came back.
“They’ll fix it,” he said. “Do we go in?”
“We go in,” I said. “You got a gun?”
“Yeah,” he returned. “I hope you have a permit.”
I grinned, walked to the open door, went in.
Inside, under dim lights, was a bar and a dance floor. In a corner, on a yellow and red carpet, an orchestra of four played: a pianist with kinky hair, a sallow-faced fiddler, a nigger drummer and a blond saxophonist. Behind the bar stood a Cuban.
Several couples moved listlessly around the dance floor. The men looked the type you’d expect to find in a joint like this; the girls danced in their underwear. Each had on a brassiere, silk panties, silk stockings and high-heeled slippers. There was a line of flesh on each girl from breast to hip and from one-third down their thighs to their knees. Some of the girls were quite pretty.
The air in the room was torrid, heavy, humid; a combination of human sweat, dime-a-squirt perfume, gin breath. Paper streamers hung from the ceiling like Spanish moss.
We handed our hats to a Chinese boy, and paused to get our bearings.
I glanced at my wrist-watch. It was ten minutes past eleven.
“For the next twenty minutes, you can relax. At eleven-thirty we start work.”
“Look at those dames,” Hoskiss said, gaping. “So this is what the vice-squad calls work. Say, I might even enjoy myself.” He eyed a tall blonde in sheer black silk underwear, who was leaning against the bar, a bored expression on her face. “I don’t suppose I can come to much harm in twenty minutes. Let’s buy a drink.”
“That’s the worst of bringing a repressed type like you to a joint like this,” I said, grinning. “You’re likely to make a meal of it.”
“I’m not blasé, ” he said, heading for the bar.
The blonde watched us come. Her wide, painted mouth smiled. She had good teeth, but when I was close to her, I noticed she had pimples on her back.
“Hello, honey,” she said to Hoskiss as he sailed up.
“Hello yourself, juicy fruit,” he said, draping himself over the bar. “How about rinsing our tonsils together?” He winked at me. “Blondes go for me. It’s my powerful personality.”
“You want to be careful with this guy,” I said to the blonde. “He eats grape-nuts for breakfast every day. You’d be surprised what it does to him.”
The blonde was a little pop-eyed. I guess she thought we were drunk.
The Cuban wiped the counter mechanically, asked us what we would have.
“Let’s start a famine in whisky,” Hoskiss said. “Three triple whiskies, and keep your thumb out of mine.”
The blonde continued to eye us. She couldn’t make up her mind which of us to concentrate on.
“Well, sugar plum,” Hoskiss said, “that’s a nice face and body you’re wearing, but I’d hate to share you with anyone. Isn’t there some frill who’d take care of my boy friend so we can be alone together?”
“Isn’t he big enough to find his own frill?” she asked in a drawling voice. “The joint’s lousy with girls.”
“There you are,” Hoskiss said to me. “Don’t horn in on my discovery. Take a look around. Peach blossom says the girls’ joints are lousy.”
I gaped at him. He was certainly relaxing.
The Cuban shoved the whiskies at us, asked twice their worth.
Hoskiss waved to me.
“This is your party,” he said. He nodded to the Cuban. “My friend will pay. That’s the only reason why I go around with him.”
I slid five bucks to the Cuban. The blonde leaned against me. I smiled. The five spot had decided for her who she was going to be nice to. Hoskiss regarded her sadly.
“You leaning against the wrong man, or did you know?” he said.
“Go bowl a hoop,” she said.
He looked quite cut-up.
“And I thought you cared for me for myself,” he said, shaking his head at her.
She looked at me. “Tell him to go bowl a hoop,” she said. “We don’t want him in our party, do we?”
“The lady wants you to bowl a hoop,” I said to Hoskiss. “Can you oblige her?”
He finished his whisky, sighed.
“Not immediately,” he said, “but don’t let that interfere with your fun. She isn’t the only blonde who’s dipped her head in peroxide. I see a red-head steering my way.”
A red-haired girl came up. She was a trifle plump and her face was heavily powdered and rouged. She had on yellow silk panties.
“Want any help?” she asked the blonde. “Take this cram off our hands,” the blonde said, waving languidly at Hoskiss. “He eats grape-nuts and hasn’t any dough.”
The red-head sniffed. “Haven’t you really any dough, darling?” she asked Hoskiss.
“You bet,” he said. “But I only spend it on red-heads. You’ve arrived at the crucial moment. Have a drink?” The blonde said to me, “Want to dance?” “Go on and dance,” Hoskiss said. “I have my new-found friend to keep me warm.”
I sank my whisky, took the blonde on to the floor. My right hand rested on a bulge of warm flesh above her hip. She turned out to be a good dancer, once I got it into her head that I wanted to dance and not wrestle.
After we’d completed a couple of circuits of the floor, I said, “Who runs this joint?”
Under their heavy coating of blue-black mascara her eyes were surprised.
“What’s it to you?”
“Look, girlie,” I said patiently. “Never mind the cross-talk. I asked who ran this joint. Do you have to make a mystery of it?”
“I guess not,” she said. Her eyes went glassy, blank. I decided she didn’t find me particularly interesting. “Madam runs it. Is that what you want to know?”
“Madam who?”
She sighed. “Durelli. Satisfied?”
“I don’t need to take anything from you,” I said gently. “If you can’t work up a little enthusiasm, I’ll ditch you.”
Her eyes flashed, but she managed to control her temper. “Don’t get sore, honey,” she said. “I want you to have a good tune.”
“That makes two of us,” I said, manoeuvring her so we passed close to Hoskiss. He eyed us over, said in a loud voice to the redhead: “Extraordinary types you get in here. That fellow would look more at home in a cage.” He seemed to be enjoying himself; the red-head too.
“Let’s go upstairs,” the blonde said, suddenly, impatiently. “It’s too hot to dance.”
“Sure,” I said, and we danced over to the door.
I caught Hoskiss’s eye. He looked reproachful.
I winked, waved and followed the blonde out of the room. She ran up a steep flight of stairs, along a passage.
I followed her into a small room furnished with a divan, a cupboard and a carpet.
She stood by the divan, eyed me expectantly.
“You’re not going to be mean, are you, honey?” she said.
I reached inside my pocket, produced three five-dollar bills, dangled them before her.
Her eyes lit up and she smiled. The bored, resigned expression vanished.
“Run along and tell Madam Durelli I want to see her,” I said.
She stared. “What’s the idea?” she demanded, her voice hardening. “Don’t you like me or something?”
“Can’t you earn yourself a little dough without sounding off? I’m offering it you the easy way. Take this and get Madam. Go on, beat it.”
She snatched the money, slipped it into the top of her stocking, went to the door.
“I thought you were a queer fish the moment I saw you,” she said. “Stick around. I’ll get her.”
I sat on the edge of the divan, lit a cigarette, waited.
Minutes dragged by, then I heard a step outside. The door opened and a big. middle-aged woman came in Her lean face was hard, her eyes jet-beads, and her blonde frizzy hair brittle through constant bleaching. She closed the door, leaned against it, raked me with her eyes.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked. Her voice was harsh and flat.
I glanced at my wrist-watch. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven.
“Last night,” I said, “the new Chief of Police knocked off a boat belonging to Juan Gomez. Maybe you read about it in the Morni ng Start"
An alert, suspicious expression jumped into her eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Never mind who I am,” I said. “I’m tipping you off. That makes me your pal. How do you like me as a pal?” She continued to stare at me. “Keep talking,” she said.
“You look smart,” I said, flicking ash on the worn carpet. “I don’t have to draw you a map. Gomez is mad because Killeano knocked off his boat. He’s on his way out here to start trouble.”
She stiffened. “How do you know?”
“I got a fleet of midgets who keep me informed about such things,” I said.
“I think I’ll get someone to talk to you,” she said, a snap in her voice. She turned to the door.
I reached out, grabbed her wrist, jerked her round. Her flesh felt soft, puffy. I didn’t fancy touching her.
“No, you won’t,” I said. “I’m dealing with you. If you can’t take a friendly tip, then the hell with it. You haven’t much time. Gomez will be here any moment now. You’d better get rid of your clients and the girls. He’s bringing his mob.”
She studied me for a moment. “Wait,” she said, went out.
I sneaked to the door, listened, then stepped into the passage.
She was disappearing into a room at the end of the passage as I came out. I went after her, peered into a well-furnished office. She was trying to get some action from the telephone. It didn’t take her long to realize it wasn’t working. Her face gave her away. She was scared.
“Get organized,” I said from the door, “and make it snappy.”
She pushed past me, almost ran from the room.
I heard her on the stairs, followed her. I was only three steps behind her when she reached a door to the right of the foot of the stairs.
She turned.
“Get out of here,” she snarled, breathing hard. “Go in there and amuse yourself; scram, but don’t follow me around.”
I nodded.
“Just so long as you know what to do,” I said, turned and walked back to the main hall. As I passed the open front door, I paused.
Two big closed cars were drawing up by the tumbledown huts. Men spilled from them.
I thought I might as well launch the balloon. I drew my gun and fired three times above the heads of the running men. Then I slammed the front door, shot home the bolts, put my gun back in its holster, and walked into the dance hall.