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Grave Danger Page 4
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Page 4
Liddell walked into the Harbor Café and leaned against the bar. It apparently didn’t get much of an evening play, despite the fact that the union hall occupied the second floor of the building. A bored bartender stood at the far end of the bar polishing glasses with a damp rag, listening with half an ear to the woes of a faded and slightly blowsy blonde who alternately sipped at her beer and dabbed at her damp nose with a gray-white handkerchief.
The bartender nodded to Liddell and took his time about finishing the glass in his hand. He took a last puff on his cigarette, balanced it on the upturned end of a glass, and shuffled down to where he stood. “What’ll it be?”
“Hickory and water,” Liddell told him. He looked around the place while the bartender reached for a bottle from the back bar and produced a glass and some ice from under the bar.
A row of booths lined the back wall; at the far end of the bar a telephone booth seemed to be standing watch at the foot of a flight of stairs leading to the upper floors.
The man behind the stick poured a generous slug of the bourbon into the glass and softened it with a touch from the water pitcher. He slid it over in front of Liddell. “Looking for someone?”
Liddell shook his head. “Nobody in particular.” He dug into his pocket, came up with a bill, and dropped it on the bar. “Stanley been around?”
The bartender screwed his face into a puzzled frown. “Who?”
“Stanley Kalow. Works upstairs in the union office.”
The man behind the bar sucked at a tooth, thought about it, then finally shook his head. “You couldn’t prove it by me, mister. Anyhow, there ain’t no one up there this hour. You better come around in the morning.”
Liddell added another bill to the bar. “Wouldn’t have any idea where I might bump into him tonight?”
The bartender bared the discolored stumps of his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Funny thing about questions. Guys come around here all the time asking them. The river’s full of guys like that.” He ignored the bill on the bar, turned, rang up the drink, and dropped a quarter in front of Liddell. Then he picked up his polishing rag and a glass and seemed to lose interest in the private detective.
After a moment he worked his way down the bar to where the blonde sat damply patient. He leaned across the bar and whispered to her. She stole a look in Liddell’s direction, struggled off her bar stool, and walked unsteadily in the direction of the phone booth in the rear. Liddell gave no sign that he noticed, fumbled in his pocket, and brought out a cigarette.
He was on his second drink when the door opened and two men walked in. One of them, fat and coatless, with dark dried crescents of sweat under his armpits, looked to the bartender. The man behind the stick nodded.
The fat man walked over to where Liddell stood and took his place at the bar beside him. His companion, a redheaded man of less than thirty, with sloping shoulders and long, dangling, apelike arms, took up his position on Liddell’s far side.
“Hear you’re looking for someone, Mac?” the fat man wanted to know.
Liddell turned his head and studied him. Damp wet hair was pasted to the man’s forehead. His eyes were expressionless black disks countersunken in pads of discolored flesh. His lips were thick, gleaming wet, with small bubbles forming in the center as he talked.
“You’ve got good ears,” Liddell told him.
“He’s a beauty lover, Julian,” the redheaded man on the far side snickered. “He’s queer for ears.”
The fat man ignored him. “You was looking for somebody, Mac?”
Liddell nodded. “Yeah. I was asking if Kalow was around.”
“You hear what the guy says, Condon?” the fat man asked his redheaded companion without taking his eyes off Liddell’s face. “He wants to know is Kalow around. You a friend of Stanley’s, Mac?”
Liddell dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it out with his heel. “We’re bosom buddies.”
The fat man puffed out his lips and blew bubbles. “Any friend of Stanley’s we got to help. Ain’t that right, Condon?”
The redhead mumbled assent.
“What’d you say your name was, Mac?” the fat man wanted to know.
“I-didn’t.”
The fat man grinned. “Now that ain’t no way to act, Mac. Here all we want to do’s help you find this old buddy of yours and you’re going hard on us. He’s bashful about giving us his name, Condon. See who he is.”
Liddell started to turn and felt the sharp point of a knife pressing against his side, just above the belt. Behind the bar the bartender was working hard at being nonchalant, the sweat glistening on his forehead.
The redhead slid his arm over Liddell’s shoulder into his breast pocket and came up with his wallet. He handed it across to the fat man, who riffled through the credentials and snapped the wallet shut with a scowl.
“Who is he, Julian?” the redhead wanted to know.
“A fink. A private eye.” The fat man shoved his face close to Liddell. “What are you smelling around for, Mac? Who sent you here?”
“I told you. I was looking for Kalow.”
Julian slid his hand into Liddell’s jacket and tugged the .45 loose from its holster. “Always go looking for old pals with a heater? Or maybe you just wear this so’s your coat hangs straight.” He hit Liddell with the heel of his hand and nodded at a booth. “Take him back to a booth, Condon.”
The redhead jabbed the point of his knife into Liddell’s side. “Let’s go, fink.” He looked past Liddell to the fat man. “What are you going to do with him, Julian?”
The fat man blew bubbles with his lips. “I don’t know yet. I better get a go-ahead. I’ll see what they want us to do with him.” He dropped Liddell’s .45 into his pocket and headed for the phone.
The redheaded man herded Liddell to a booth and pushed him into a seat. He had his back to the door, his body shielding the long-bladed knife he held in front of him.
After a few seconds the fat man came out of the phone booth mopping at his face with a balled handkerchief. He waddled back to the booth.
“We’re going to take a little ride, Liddell,” the fat man told him.
The redhead licked his lips. “Where?”
Julian shook his head. “This guy must live right. He stands a good chance of walking away from this one.”
The redhead stared his puzzlement. The fat man shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the Big Shot’s orders. What do you want from me?” The fat man nodded to Liddell. “Let’s go, Mac.”.
Both men stood aside as Liddell slid out of the booth. The redhead jabbed the point of the knife into his back. “You first, fink. And I only hope you try something.”
Liddell led the way to the door and waited while the fat man pushed it open. Outside, a black sedan stood at the curb.
“You drive, Condon,” the fat man ordered. “I’ll keep our boy company in the back seat.” He tugged Liddell’s .45 from his pocket and shoved it against Liddell’s back. “Open the door and get in.”
Liddell obeyed and dropped onto the cushions. The redhead kicked the motor to life and half turned on the front seat. “Where we taking him?”
“Uptown.”
The redhead scowled. “Uptown?”
“Look, Condon, I’m having enough trouble with the fink. Don’t you give me none. The Big Shot says take him uptown — take him uptown. And he don’t like to be kept waiting.”
The redhead shook his head and grumbled under his breath. He swung the sedan into a screeching U-turn and headed north on South Street to the East Side Drive. Liddell sat back and watched at the window as they shot past the huge black hulks of the new housing developments that line the Drive, watched the sprawling buildings that constitute Bellevue Hospital, the red-lighted staircases, the subdued lights of the wards.
“Okay if I smoke?” he asked the fat man finally.
“Where are they?”
“Side pocket.”
Julian nodded. “Okay. But when you go for them, just use two fingers. That hand of yours goes in your pockets any deeper, I shoot it off.”
Liddell slid his thumb and index finger into his jacket pocket and fished out a cigarette. He hung it in the corner of his mouth. “Got a match?”
The fat man growled under his breath, dug into his pocket, and flipped a pack of paper matches at the private detective. His face was damp and shiny in the weak flicker of the match as Liddell lit his cigarette. The muzzle of the .45 was pointed unwaveringly at Liddell’s mid-section.
“Any law against telling me where we’re headed?” Liddell wanted to know.
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
Liddell shrugged and subsided. He smoked for a minute. “The little rat Reuter’s a bigger deal than I gave him credit for being.”
“Who?”
“Reuter. He’s the guy that’s pulling all these strings, isn’t he?”
The fat man growled and shook his head. “Make up your mind, will you? First you want to see the meatball, Kalow. Him I know. This other bum I never hear about.” He waved Liddell to silence. “Better you stop talking. Like that you save your breath. You may be needing it.”
The car whizzed by the United Nations underpass, headed for the Fifty-Third Street exit, bore west across town. At Park it swung right to Fifty-Fifth, then bore west again for two blocks. The redhead slid the car to a smooth stop behind a row of cars parked in front of the El Condor. Liddell looked out. “The El Condor, eh? We’re really living it up.”
The fat man jabbed the snout of the .45 into his ribs and motioned for him to get out. “Don’t pull anything, fink. You’re just as dead if I plug you in this trap as you’d be in the Harbor Café.”
Liddell grunted, pulled himself out of the back seat, and stood on the sidewalk
while the two men took up their places on either side of him.
“Take him to the private entrance, Condon,” the fat man muttered.
Liddell shook his head. “Now I’m really confused. What the hell does a guy like Tony Varon have in common with a little crook like Reuter or a meatball like Kalow?”
“You got questions, ask Mr. Varon. Let’s go. He’s waiting.
They crossed the sidewalk three abreast and entered a small unmarked doorway to the right of the crested plate-glass doors to the supper club. The fat man pressed a button inside the door and waited. After a moment an inner door opened and a man in a tuxedo stood there. He looked from Liddell to the other two questioningly.
“Mr. Varon asked to see this guy,” the fat man explained. There was a note of respect in his voice. “His name’s Liddell.”
A scowl of annoyance disturbed the placidity of the newcomer’s face. “I’ll take care of him.” He was soft-spoken, clean-shaven. His hair had receded from his broad forehead, exposing an area of sun-peeled pate. “Will you come this way, Mr. Liddell?” He stepped aside and smiled courteously.
“The Harbor Café is never going to be able to compete with this place,” Liddell told the fat man sadly. “No class.” He stepped inside the doorway, stopped, and turned around. “By the way, as long as you’re not going to need my gun to shoot me, can I have it back?”
The fat man looked from Liddell to the man in the tuxedo. Reluctantly, he produced it and held it out butt first to the man in the tuxedo. “Maybe you better take it.”
The man in the tuxedo took the gun, weighed it in the palm of his hand, and nodded his approval. “A nice weapon.” He snapped out the magazine, dislodged the shell in the chamber, and handed it to Liddell. “It’s not polite to make friendly calls with a gun.”
Liddell snapped the gun into his shoulder holster and grinned. “If I’d known I was going formal, I would have worn my cummerbund.”
7
JOHNNY LIDDELL FOLLOWED the man in the tuxedo to a private elevator set in the rear of the corridor. It connected with the El Condor bar through a small passageway. He had a brief glimpse of a crowd of formally dressed men and décolleté women leaning against a bar. At one end a nationally syndicated columnist was huddling with a recently divorced movie star.
The man in the tuxedo pulled open the elevator door and stepped aside. When Liddell was in, he followed, and slammed the door after him. The cage rattled noisily to a stop at the third floor and the gate swung open automatically. The man in the tuxedo led the way along a balcony that looked down on the main dining-room of the El Condor. A smell of good food, expensive cigars, and imported perfumes wafted up from the floor below where a five-piece orchestra was patiently beating out the rhythms of a complicated rhumba arrangement.
At the far end of the balcony was a door. The man in the tuxedo stopped and knocked. A muffled voice invited them in.
The room beyond was half office, half den. It was a huge room with knotty-pine paneling and brightly colored Indian rugs. There was no overhead lighting, just a few lamps scattered around giving the place a warm and intimate glow.
Tony Varon sat sprawled in a huge leather easy chair, his feet propped comfortably on a small table. He looked up from a book he was reading and waved to Liddell as he entered.
“Well, well. Johnny Liddell. It’s been a long time no see, Johnny.” Tony Varon’s voice showed the results of a determined effort at culture, was soft and suave. He was long, loose-jointed. His graying hair was thick and wavy. He affected a thin, contrastingly dark mustache, and his ready smile plowed white furrows in the mahogany-tan of his cheeks. “Glad you could come.”
“I had a few doubts myself the way that meatball kept jabbing that shiv into my ribs,” Liddell grunted. “What gives?”
Varon’s eyes flicked to the man in the tuxedo. “I don’t think we’ll be needing you, Lou,” he dismissed him casually. “I’ll ring when I want you.”
Lou nodded and withdrew. When he closed the door behind him, it gave the room a peculiar absence of sound, almost like a vacuum.
Varon waved at a chair. “Make yourself comfortable, Johnny.” He laced his fingers across his chest. “How do you like the place?”
“A little rich for my blood. But quite an improvement over the Three Mile Limit Club in the old days.”
Varon nodded. “We’ve done all right. How about you?”
“I’m not complaining.” Liddell dropped into a chair. “You still haven’t told me what this is all about. I’ve got a pretty healthy hunch you didn’t bring me up here to talk about the old days.”
The smile furrowed Varon’s cheeks. “But I did. While I’ve been sitting here waiting for you, I got to thinking about the night you pulled me out of that tough spot on the West Side. Remember?” Liddell nodded. “Vaguely.”
“You saved my life that night, Liddell. I’ve never forgotten it.” Varon reached over, helped himself to a cigar, held one up for Liddell, and drew a shake of the head. “Those were pretty wild days, Johnny.” He bit off the end and spat it at a wastebasket. “A lot of unnecessary killing and maiming.”
Liddell dug a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “And today?”
“We’ve gotten some sense, Johnny. Today we’re in business and we act like businessmen, not like kill-happy hoodlums.” He stuck the cigar in his mouth and touched a match to it. “We’re all one big outfit now, not a lot of small gangs trying to cut each other’s throats. Today, killing is out — unless, of course, it’s unavoidable.”
Liddell nodded. “All very fascinating, but what’s that got to do with me?”
Varon took the cigar from between his teeth, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and studied its firmness. “Don’t make it unavoidable, Johnny.” He looked up at Liddell. “You saved my life once, now I’m trying to save yours. Then we’ll be even.”
“Get to the point, Tony.”
Varon’s lips peeled back from a perfect set of teeth. “All right. The point is that you’re making some people dislike you, Johnny. Important people.”
“Guys like Kalow, for instance? Or Reuter?”
The night-club man looked at him with a hurt expression. “They’re only small fry, Johnny. A meatball and a petty-larceny shakedown artist.”
“Okay, then why all the excitement? I just want to lay my hands on those two characters, and — ”
“It’s not that simple.” Varon brushed a thin flake of ash from his lapel. “You see, Kalow didn’t do that job on you on his own. He was only sent to teach you a lesson.” He looked up. “It looks as though you didn’t learn the lesson, Johnny.”
Liddell considered it and scowled at the gray-haired man. “You sent him, Tony?” His voice was low, cold.
Varon shook his head. “No. The first I heard about it was when Julian — ” he tossed his head in the direction of the closed door — ”the meatball that brought you here, called. He said you were looking for Kalow and you looked like trouble.” He tapped a thin collar of ash into a tray. “I remembered that look from the old days. So I did some checking, and I figured I’d better have a talk with you.”
“Who sent him, Tony?”
“What’s the difference? It was a contract. You stepped on somebody’s toes and you had to get straightened out. Fast.” He dropped his feet from the table, walked over to a cabinet set into the wall, and brought out a bottle and two glasses. “You see, Johnny, it’s like I said. The old days are gone. Each guy keeps what he has and no one moves in. But when he gets trouble, he can call on the syndicate for help.” He returned and set the bottle and glasses on the table. “An organization is no good unless it covers for its members. You know that, Johnny.”
“I see your lips moving and I hear words. But they’re not saying anything. You’re not getting to me. Where would a little punk like Reuter fit into any setup big enough to send out a couple of enforcers to score for him?”
Varon tilted the bottle over each of the glasses, picked his up, and dropped back into the chair.