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  The big man looked at him and grinned. “If you’ve never tried it, don’t knock it,” he leered. He started to pull the girl toward him again.

  Tears glistened in Pinky’s eyes. She swore at him and lunged for his face with clenched fingers, nails going for his eyes. The big man side-stepped, hit her across the face with the flat of his hand, and knocked her sprawling. She lay there quietly, dress twisted up over her thighs, a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth.

  Stanley walked over and leered down at her. “You oughta try wearing pants, baby. You wouldn’t want to go catching cold.” He laughed loudly at her and turned back to where Liddell had struggled to his hands and knees. He caught him under the arms and dragged him to his feet. “Where’s the stuff you took from Reuter this afternoon?”

  Liddell shook his head groggily and rubbed at the side of his neck. His head rolled forward helplessly.

  Stanley caught a handful of the private detective’s hair and yanked the head up. “Maybe you’d like some more, eh, tough guy?” He slapped Liddell’s head to one side with the flat of his hand and backhanded it into position. “I got all night.”

  Liddell made a visible effort to focus his eyes on the big man’s face. “Don’t leave town, mister,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave town.”

  The big man raised his hand to hit Liddell again.

  “Keep smacking him around like that and he won’t even know his own name,” Joey snapped.

  “Maybe you got a better way?” Stanley growled.

  “Maybe. That kind of guy might talk a lot faster if we muss up that female of his,” Wavy Hair sneered. “Especially if we do it my way.”

  Stanley licked at his lips and grinned. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Joey?” He walked over to where Pinky lay sobbing and pulled her roughly to her feet. “Your boy friend wants to see you, baby.” He pushed her over in front of Liddell. “You got company, tough guy.”

  Liddell’s eyes managed to focus on the girl’s nakedness. He swore fervently.

  “You got something that belongs to a friend of ours. Where is it?” Stanley shoved his face so close to Liddell that the private detective could smell the foulness of his breath.

  The man with the wavy hair walked over behind the girl, caught her arm, and twisted it up behind her shoulder blades. She screamed shrilly.

  “You better tell us, pally.” Stanley grinned. “Joey don’t like girls. Especially pretty ones. He could have a lot of fun with this one.”

  “Tell him, Johnny,” the girl pleaded. “Tell him.”

  Liddell tried to reach for the girl but was slammed back against the desk by the big man. “Where is it?” Stanley growled.

  Liddell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the red smear of blood. “The briefcase. Under my desk.”

  The big man walked around the desk, picked up the briefcase, and deposited it on the desk. He fumbled with the lock for a moment, dumped the contents on the desk, examined them, and nodded to the other man. “This looks like it, Joey.” He dumped the papers back into the briefcase, closed it, and walked around the desk. “I got to hand it to you guys.” He grinned at Liddell. “You sure are tough on TV.”

  He walked to the door and followed his companion out. A moment later the front door to the office slammed.

  The only sound in the office was the sobbing of the girl and the impotent cursing of the man. He tottered from the desk and tried to put his arm around her shoulder. She pushed him away and ran toward the outer office.

  Liddell stood for a moment, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. Then he walked over to the sink in the corner and splashed water onto his face. He was drying his face on a hand towel when the office door slammed open.

  Pinky stood in the doorway, a sweater buttoned up to her chin, her face a white mask in which her eyes stood out like discolored bruises. She threw a key ring at him.

  “I’m finished, Liddell.” She sobbed. “I can’t work for anybody I don’t respect. I thought you were a man, a man who could protect me from rats like that. You just stood there, and let them — ”

  Liddell nodded. “I’ll take you home, baby.”

  “You don’t have to. I can find my own way. I’ll probably be a lot safer.” Her face gleamed wetly from the tears. “Maybe you’d better get somebody to take you home.” She slammed the door behind her. After a moment the outer office door slammed too.

  Liddell threw the towel at the rack and walked back to his desk. He pulled a pint bottle from the bottom drawer and tilted it over his mouth. Then he tugged the .45 loose from its hammock, checked it, and shoved it back. He lit a cigarette, took two deep drags, snubbed it out, reached for his hat, and headed for home and a shower.

  5

  TWO HOURS LATER Johnny Liddell stepped out of a cab in front of the Café Verdín, a chromium-plated spot with a multicolored canopy that extended to the curb. As the cab pulled away from the curb, a seven-foot giant in the full regalia of an admiral made a production of opening the heavy plate-glass doors.

  Liddell crossed the sidewalk and plunged into the dim interior of the night club. He tossed a crooked smile and his hat at the hat-check girl.

  “Lulu Monti or Shad Ryan been in tonight, honey?” He dropped a bill on the counter and picked up a pack of Chesterfields from her tray.

  The hat-check girl did not pause in the act of adding another layer of paint to her already flaming lips. “Not tonight so far, Johnny. Lulu’ll be in, though. Never misses a night with that babe of his working here.” She studied her handiwork in a small pocket mirror and rounded off the curve of her top lip with the ball of her pinky. “Want him to know you’re looking for him?”

  Liddell nodded.

  A two-hundred-pound fashion plate in a midnight-blue tuxedo came up to greet him as Liddell walked through the dining-room beyond. The headwaiter wore a red carnation in his buttonhole and a lazy smile pasted on his lips. His hair was thick and white; his eyes tired and dull.

  “Hello, Johnny. Table or the bar?”

  Liddell considered. “Got a table set back a way, Kurt?”

  The white-haired man nodded. “Anything special on your mind?”

  Liddell shook his head. “Just looking for a couple of guys.”

  Kurt pursed his lips and managed to look concerned. “No trouble in here, will there be, Johnny?”

  “No trouble, Kurt. I’m just shopping for information.”

  The man in the blue tuxedo looked relieved. He snapped his fingers and fussily adjusted his cuffs while he waited for the captain to scurry over. He pulled a menu from under the captain’s arm and motioned for Liddell to follow him. He led the way down three red-carpeted steps and around past the tables that skirted the dance floor. The one he selected faced the bandstand and was set back from the floor and sheltered by a large artificial palm.

  “Will this be all right?” Kurt asked solicitously.

  Liddell looked around, was satisfied, and nodded. He passed a folded bill to the white-haired man. “I’m expecting a guy. If anyone asks for me, shoot them right over.”

  “Anybody in particular?”

  Liddell grinned bleakly. “Tonight I’m not particular, Kurt. I’ll see anybody.”

  The white-haired man nodded and glided off. Liddell watched him pick his way through the tables toward the door, stop here and there at a favored customer’s table to bend over and exchange pleasantries. When Kurt had disappeared up the three steps to the foyer, Liddell waved down a waiter and ordered a bourbon and soda.

  He rubbed his fingers gently over the tender area of his face and neck, attempting to ease the throb. He tried to forget the pathetic figure Pinky had made as she stood before him sobbing. He swore bitterly under his breath and tried to wipe the taste from his mouth with a cigarette.

  The waiter finally showed up with the drink, set it down on the table in front of him, and withdrew. Down on the dance floor, the band blared an introductory chord and the house lights dimmed.
br />   A yellow spot probed through the semidarkness, finally found its way to the backstage door, and picked up the emcee as he pranced out onto the floor. He was tall and thin, had unbelievably broad shoulders, and walked with a peculiarly mincing step. Even from where Liddell sat, his teeth looked too white and too even to be real. He fluttered through a couple of off-color jokes that brought a faint ripple of laughter and sang two nasal choruses of a number never destined to become popular judging by his rendition. Then he raised his hands to cut off the nonexistent applause.

  He gave way to a long line of girls in spangled brassières and satin pants. They scampered around the dance floor, bare legs flashing, bare stomachs undulating. They ran off the stage and were followed by a tall, full-breasted brunette in a strapless red gown. Her voice was throaty and low. The lyrics of her song were blue and off color, but throughout the number she maintained an expression of untroubled innocence. She finished her number to a loud burst of applause, grinned at the wolf calls and whistles, and permitted herself to be coaxed into an encore.

  It was almost twelve-thirty when Lulu Monti sauntered in. The girls were back with different colored costumes, but with the same routines, the same bare midriffs. This time the effeminate emcee was dancing with them, teeth flashing whitely in pretended enjoyment, fooling nobody, least of all the girls.

  Monti picked his way through the tables and stopped at Liddell’s.

  “Wanted to see me, Liddell?” He was thin and wiry. His hair was long, slicked down, chopped off at the end in a duck’s tail. He chewed gum constantly and affected an ever-present smile that failed to change the expression in his buttonlike eyes.

  “Sit down.”

  Monti looked around cautiously, pulled out a chair, and dropped into it. “What’s the play?”

  “I want a make, Lulu. Two guys.” Liddell leaned over and dropped his voice. “Two guns.”

  “Locals?”

  Liddell shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I never saw them before.”

  Monti grimaced. “That might make it tougher, if they’re imported talent. What’d they look like?”

  “One was a nance. Marcelled hair and a gold chain on his wrist. Weighs maybe a hundred and forty. He handled a thirty-eight like he was born with it in his fist. Make him?”

  Monti rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, squinted, and shook his head. “Not from that. How’s about the other guy?”

  “Big, mean. Weighs maybe two-ten, and wears a gray fedora and a blue suit. He was packing a thirty-eight, too, but I got the feeling he’d rather use his hands than a gun.”

  Lulu pounded on his gum with rapt concentration and stared at Liddell. Finally he shook his head. “You’re not getting to me,” he admitted. “Team like that should, only I never ran across them.” He plucked at his lower lips with thumb and forefinger. “Important stuff?”

  “Plenty. It’s personal business.” Liddell grinned bleakly, missing his eyes. “They busted into my office tonight and slammed me around. Roughed up the kid that works for me. I got a real yen to talk it over with them.”

  Monti nodded. “I’ll put out a couple of wires. You going to be around long?”

  “All night. If I leave here, I’ll leave word where to reach me.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” the thin man told him. “I ain’t promising a thing, see? But two guys like that working in harness, that I should be able to make.” He pushed back his chair and got up. “I’ll check you.”

  Liddell nodded and finished his drink. He signaled the waiter for a refill and watched Monti as he disappeared into the semigloom near the entrance. Liddell lit a cigarette and leaned back, added to the fog of smoke that swirled lazily near the ceiling.

  He was on his third drink when a figure materialized beside his table. He looked into the face of the master of ceremonies. From here, he was older than he had looked on the floor; pancake make-up was waging a losing war with the crow’s-feet and lines under his eyes. He had changed to a wasp-waisted tan suit.

  “Are you Johnny Liddell?”

  Liddell reached over and snubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah. Why?”

  The emcee looked around and dropped his voice. “Will you come with me?” He turned on his heel and led the way through the tables toward the backstage door.

  Liddell waited until he was halfway across the room then followed slowly. The emcee stopped at the door leading backstage and waited impatiently. When Liddell reached the door, he caught the man by the arm. “Where are we going, sweetheart?”

  An angry red flush mottled the man’s skin. He wrenched his arm free with an angry shrug. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He turned and flounced through the doorway.

  The glitter and tinsel of the dining-room had no counterpart backstage. The door led to a long, dingy corridor lined with doors, smelling exotically of one part perspiration to three parts perfume.

  They stopped in front of a door decorated with a peeling gilt star. The emcee knocked. “It’s Charles, Ruby.”

  “I’m decent,” a husky voice assured them.

  The brunette sat on a straight-backed chair in front of a cluttered make-up table. Half a dozen snapshots and telegrams were stuck in the molding of a fly-specked mirror over the table. The girl was the dark-haired singer from the floor show. She had loosened her thick black hair and permitted it to cascade down over her shoulders; had exchanged the close-fitting red gown for a dressing-gown.

  “Hello, Liddell.” She smiled, exposing perfect small white teeth set between the fullness of her lips. “Waiting long?”

  Liddell grinned back. “All my life, seems like.” He waited until the emcee had closed the door behind him. Then he pushed the door open a crack and satisfied himself that the man had started down the corridor toward the front of the house. He pushed the door closed. “Not that it’s not pleasant, but what’s it all about?”

  “I have a message for you.”

  Liddell’s eyes dropped to the half-opened robe, to the expanse of breast and thigh it exposed. “From?”

  “Lulu Monti.” The girl made a halfhearted and ineffectual effort to pull the robe around her. “He called me here. Said he couldn’t make it back in time.”

  Liddell pulled over a chair, reversed it, and straddled it, his elbows resting on the back. “What’d he find out?”

  “Nothing good.” The girl got up from her chair, walked over to a closet, and brought out a bottle and two glasses, one of them stained with lipstick. “He found out who your two boys were.” She set the bottle and glasses on the make-up table. “They’re strictly poison.”

  Liddell grunted. “They didn’t act like they were a tonic.” He watched with interest while the girl tilted the bottle over each of the glasses. “Where do I find these guys?”

  The girl looked up and studied him from under half-lowered lids. “I just told you. They’re poison. Lulu says to stay away from them.” She picked up a glass and handed it to him. “That’s why he didn’t come back. He didn’t want to be seen talking to you.”

  Liddell tasted the liquor in the glass and approved. “Who are they?”

  The girl shrugged. “The big guy’s local. His name’s Stanley Kalow. He’s a strong-arm man from the longshoremen’s union. Back in the old days he was an enforcer for the old Purple Gang out of Detroit.”

  “A meatball, eh?” Liddell pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. “Where do I find him?”

  “Union headquarters are over the Harbor Café down on South Street. He works out of headquarters.” She took a deep swallow from her glass and turned the full power of her eyes on him over the rim. “You’re not going up against him, are you?”

  Liddell pulled two cigarettes from his pocket and passed one to the girl. “I’m not looking for his hangout to invite him to a dance.” He held a match and waited until the girl had drawn a lungful of smoke. “How about the other one?”

  “Imported talent, from St. Loo. They call him Joey.” She took the cigarette from between her lips and flicked
a crumb of tobacco from the tip of her tongue with a long nail. “He’s strictly syndicate stuff. Lulu told me to tell you if this guy’s in town, it’s for a hit. He thinks you ought to lay low.”

  “If they were going to hit, it would have been tonight,” Liddell growled. “All the nance did was cover the meatball with a thirty-eight, while he gave me a schlammin.”

  “A what?”

  “A schlammin — a rough-up.”

  The girl took a swallow of her drink and shrugged.

  “Then you’re lucky. But don’t push it. These imported troops are bad medicine.”

  Liddell finished his drink and set the glass down. “Thanks, baby. Tell Lulu thanks.” He dug into his pocket, brought out a roll, stripped a few bills from it, and folded them. “Tell him to have a drink on me.”

  The brunette took the bills and folded them into her brassière. “What are you going to do?”

  “Pay the boys a visit.” He pushed the chair away and stood up.

  The girl ran long, graceful, and incredibly thin fingers through her hair. “You’re quite a man, Liddell.” She wet her red lips with the tip of her tongue until they glistened moistly. “Will I see you again?”

  Liddell watched while the girl drained her glass and stood up. “Where?”

  “I’m here every night. Just tell one of the waiters you want to see Ruby Cowan.”

  “In case I got thirsty during the daytime?”

  Ruby grinned at him. “It’s a rule of the house not to give customers our home addresses.”

  “I’m no customer,” Liddell told her. “That drink was on the house.”

  “You might try the Back Stage Club on Forty-Seventh if you happened to be in the neighborhood. I’m usually there until nine.”

  “A.M.?”

  “It’s not that kind of a club. It’s where I live. Make it in the afternoon. Any afternoon.”

  6

  THE HARBOR CAFÉ was a grimy, brick-fronted two-story building set in the shadows of the Brooklyn Bridge, within smelling distance of the Fulton Fish Market.

  Across the Slip, South Street was lined with ships of all nations tied up at the docks as far as the eye could see. Most of the activity of unloading cargo had stopped for the day, and the only life Johnny Liddell could detect along the broad street was the occasional pier watchman perched on a packing case enjoying a late-evening pipe.