Doom Service

CHAPTER XIII

At the apartment Sally greeted him with a quizzical expression as he slipped out of his coat in the hall. “Well, man?” she queried, hanging up the coat in the closet. “You said afternoon. Where I come from we'd call this evening.”

“I said 'maybe,' too,” he pointed out. “Congress is just gonna have to legislate a few more hours into the day.” He walked into the living room and dropped down in his armchair with a sigh.

“You sound as though it'd been a hard day at the office,” Sally jeered, the corners of her generous mouth curving upward. “What held you up?”

“The alarm didn't go off,” Johnny told her blandly.

“That's the trouble with those strange bedrooms,” she answered thoughtfully. “The alarm never does act like your own.” The smile expanded as she sat down on the arm of his chair. “I wonder why no one's ever done a thesis on that interesting subject?”

“Hush yo' mouf, Ma,” he directed her amiably. “You know I always trot right along home to you.”

“With your shirt tail out,” she gibed, and burst out laughing as he looked down instinctively. She tangled a hand in his thick, unruly hair. “Mr. Killain, you are really something.”

He pulled her from the chair arm into his lap, sliding an arm about her. “You're not so bad yourself, midget.” The little silence was comfortably unstrained.

“I had a telephone call,” she said finally.

He tried to see her face as she lay with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. “Who from?”

“He said it was Mr. Quince.” Her head came up and the brown eyes met his steadily. “But it wasn't. It was the fat man who came over to the hotel that night with the other man.”

“Al Munson,” Johnny grunted. “What'd he want?”

“When he thought he'd convinced me he was Mr. Quince, he asked me what my next move was going to be.”

Johnny sat quietly, but he could feel muscle tension deep within himself. “So what'd you tell him?”

“I told him nothing had changed since you talked to him, and that the status was quo.”

Johnny released a little breath. “I could get you a job in the State Department tomorrow on the strength of that answer, Ma. That was a little bit of all right.”

“You should never try to fool a telephone operator about a telephone voice,” Sally said complacently.

“I wonder how they found out it was Quince doin' the bloodhound bit,” Johnny mused. “'Course, I guess if Turner thought it was important enough to find out what was goin' on in that office, he could spread enough grease so there wouldn't be too many secrets.” He looked up at Sally, who was studying his face. “I was over there today, Ma. Turner's. They're waivin' all claims. You're an heiress.”

“What's the catch?” she asked warily.

“No catch. They just decided for good an' all they can't stand the noise that goes with puttin' in a claim check. Turner laid it on the line. He's ready with the damnedest story you ever heard if the Internal Revenue boys get back to him, but he'd much rather they didn't. By inference, if they don't, what's left is yours.” He grinned at her. “That leaves Turner worryin' about a double cross. He had a man on me today I gave a hot-foot, an' the call to you was just another checkup. Maybe he'll sleep tonight after the answer you gave him.”

“Do you think I should keep quiet?” she asked in a small voice.

“I sure do,” he replied promptly. “I'm a practical man, I hope. Even after the chop you should wind up with a little better'n forty grand. That'll keep me in a lotta bourbon.”

“Yes, but what do you really think?” she persisted. “Morally, I mean.”

“Who's got morals? Not me. Not you, in this case, or you're outta your mind. Internal Revenue is gettin' theirs, aren't they? The only way they could get more is penalties on Turner if they could get him on criminal intent, but his gimmick's so good he'd keep 'em tied up in the courts for years if they went after him. I doubt they could get a conviction.”

“What was this gimmick?” she asked with interest.

Johnny ran through the story Turner had given him for her. “Thinkin' it over afterward, though, it seems to me that the real hook in Internal Revenue's mouth is that just as long as those checks are outstanding, uncashed, there's quite a point involved as to whether they're actually income at any level. The legal eagles would have a field day.” He jabbed her lightly in the ribs with his left hand, and pretended to wince. “Those bones, Ma! At least you can pad them a little with the forty big ones.”

“I could get Charlie a nice stone,” she said wistfully, and dropped back down on his shoulder. “Charlie-” Her muffled voice died away.

Johnny sat in silence. It seemed like such a long way back to the towheaded, crew-cut fighter, but the whole thing had springboarded from that fixed fight. Whoever had fixed the fight originally had probably had Charlie Roketenetz killed. On the other hand, regardless of who had fixed it in the first place, when Rick Manfredi had refixed it he could easily have decided that it was the best part of wisdom to do the same thing. And, if he had used Jake Gidlow as his intermediary, that would account for what had happened to Jake.

The second telephone call from Gidlow's room was the key to the whole thing. The police had the answer, but they were surely taking their time about doing anything about it. There had to be something funny about that telephone call, the deep, dark silence that persisted about it. The police…

Johnny sighed without realizing it, and Sally's head lifted again. “I forgot, Ma. I got to run over to the precinct station house.”

“For what?” she asked in alarm.

“Just to look at a few pictures,” he said lightly. He smiled a little unwillingly as a thought occurred to him. “'Course, there could be stereophonic sound to go with 'em if Cuneo's there.”

“You won't be long?”

“I shouldn't be. Throw a few eggs at the fryin' pan in about an hour, okay?” He picked her up and sat her back down on the arm of the chair. “You be good till I get back.”

Her indignant sniff followed him out to the hall closet, from which he retrieved his coat.

He ran lightly up the worn white steps of the weather-beaten red brick building and turned left inside after nodding to the incurious uniformed patrolman at the inner door. He walked briskly on oil-darkened wooden floors to a head-high desk presided over by a burr-headed man whose red hair was laced with gray.

“The name's Killain,” John told him. “I'm supposed to look at pictures in your file.”

“Pictures we've got,” the man behind the desk agreed. “What classification? Breaking and entering? Armed robbery? Safe cracking? Using the mails to defraud? Shoplifting? Bank robbery? Arson? Pickpocketing? The confidence game?” He ticked them off rapidly on his fingers. “If the offense was sexual, that's a different department.”

“Assault,” Johnny informed him. “A piece of pipe.”

A pencil poised over a notebook. “Time and location of assault? Investigating officer?”

“This mornin', in back of the Cortez Apartments. Cuneo investigated it.”

The pencil pointed back down the corridor through which Johnny had just come. “Gilligan's your man. Second door back that way.” His hand was groping for the phone as Johnny turned away from the desk.

Behind the second door Johnny found a room cluttered with small desks, large filing cabinets and a cheerful, blue-eyed extrovert in a pin-stripe suit. “Sit down, sit down,” the extrovert invited hospitably, eying Johnny and pointing to the largest desk. “I'm Gilligan.” He attacked the files energetically, dumped a big double handful of file cards on the desk before Johnny and returned to the cabinets for more. “The desk said you wanted the heavy characters.” He looked over at Johnny fleetingly. “You must have a hard head if you're still walking around after tying into a piece of pipe.”

“I got just the back of his hand when he flew. A friend of mine got the load.” Johnny looked dubiously at the pile of cards and lifted off the top one. He studied the picture in the upper left corner and the neatly typed information beneath — name, known aliases, last address, arrests, convictions, known associates and technique. “How the hell do they stay outside when you've got them under the gun like this?” he asked in surprise.

“Not all of them are out,” the bustling Gilligan informed him, returning with another stack of cards. “Once they're in there, they stay in until the undertaker seals up the casket.” He pulled up a chair opposite Johnny, put his feet up on the next desk and slid down onto the final eighth of his spine. “If you've any questions, fire away.”

Johnny turned cards silently. For the first few he glanced through the typewritten information on each one, but after a dozen or so he turned cards and just looked at faces. A man would be hard put to imagine this many lowering countenances in the city, he reflected, with a single common denominator-menace.

He looked up suddenly from one card to find the shrewd blue eyes across the desk steadily upon him; while appearing to be in a soporific trance, Gilligan had not missed an expression upon Johnny's face during the card-turning. Johnny grinned at him and flipped a card into his lap. “Thought you said you retired 'em when the undertaker got them. Jigger Whelan's not around any more.”

“That right?” Gilligan squinted at the card. “Whelan. I don't remember. What happened?”

“He lost a right-of-way argument with a hit-and-run artist a month or so ago. Jigger was on foot.”

Gilligan nodded and made a pencil notation on the card. “It takes us a little longer to catch up with that kind of exit. We don't expect it of our clients.” He smiled faintly, and Johnny returned to the diminishing stack.

A door at the side of the room opened, and Detective James Rogers entered. He looked tired, and his suit was in need of pressing. He nodded to Gilligan and addressed Johnny. “I heard you were here. Step across the hall before you leave and see the man.”

“He wants his shoes shined, maybe?” Johnny inquired.

“Don't go giving me a harder time than I'm having where I just came from,” the sandy-haired detective warned him. “I could always lose my temper.”

“Maybe you don't lose it in the right places,” Johnny suggested. “Sympathy's in the dictionary. Right next-”

“I know what it's right next to,” Detective Rogers replied wearily. “Just walk across the hall like a good little boy when you're finished here.” The hazel eyes considered Johnny bale-fully. “Remind me to talk to you sometime, too, about using my name to get a private eye off your back, will you?”

“You'd be surprised the influence you have, Jimmy.”

“Over some people, maybe.” The slender man's tone was ironic. “We'll be expecting you.”

Gilligan looked at Johnny curiously when Detective Rogers had departed. “I wouldn't think there was much of a future butting heads with Rogers,” he said mildly.

“He discounts the source,” Johnny replied briefly, and resumed turning over cards. When he finally reached the bottom of the stack, he stretched lengthily and looked up to find the blue eyes questioning him. He shook his head negatively. “He's not in there.”

Gilligan looked disappointed. “You sure you'd know the man?”

“That man I'd know,” Johnny answered softly.

Gilligan's glance at him was sharp, but he picked up the cards without comment. “They're probably waiting for you,” he said from the file. “You'd better get on over there.”

“Isn't it funny that everyone's in a hurry but me?” Johnny remarked, but rose reluctantly from his chair and moved to the door. After the day he'd had he didn't particularly look forward to locking horns with Joe Dameron. In Johnny's present razor-edged near-depletion, he knew his own temper well enough to know that the infighting could get out of hand quickly.

He knocked on the door across the hall and, when he heard nothing, knocked again. He tried the door when there was still no sound from inside. It was locked, so Johnny turned and walked back to the squad rooms where a plump detective with round eyes known on the Broadway perimeter as Owly sat by the phones.

“I was supposed to see Dameron,” Johnny said to him.

“They just went out, him and Rogers,” Owly replied.

“I can just barely stand missing him,” Johnny said with relief. “Just barely. See you later. He knows where to find me.”

On the street he looked up at the leaden skies. It was blusteringly cold, and it looked like more snow. It suited his mood. He set off toward the hotel.

Johnny gave a dum didididada dum dum knock upon the door of Stacy Bartlett's apartment and shoved the corsage box he carried behind his back. He was early, and, as a moment passed with no response, he speculated uneasily upon the possibility of having caught her in the shower. He was relieved when the door opened. “H'ya, kid,” he greeted her lightly, and maneuvered inside with his box still behind him. “All set to paint the town red, white and purple?” She walked ahead of him into the living room. “Your-” He broke off as he caught sight of her averted face, creased with tears, and eyes reddened and swollen. “What the hell's the matter, Stacy?” he demanded, his voice rising.

“N-nothing.” She turned her back to hide her face.

“Nothin'!” he snorted. “You look like it's nothin', all right.”

“D-don't look at me,” she pleaded. “I sh-shouldn't have let you in until I p-pulled myself together.”

“Somethin' wrong at home?” he asked quickly.

“N-no.” She knuckled her eyes frankly, took a deep breath, faced about and tried to smile at him. “Aren't I an awful b-baby?”

“So tell me about it,” he invited.

She turned again until her face was in profile and he couldn't read her expression. “I lost my j-job, that's all.” She struggled to hold her voice steady. “I don't know why I'm c-crying about it. It just-it just came as a s-surprise.”

Johnny felt winded. He had run up the scale on a dozen things, each succeedingly worse. Still, what's worse to a twenty-year-old going it alone in a strange town than losing her job? “Look, kid,” he began awkwardly, then stopped because she had noticed the position of his arm.

“You brought me something?” she asked with an upturn in her tone. She moved to him quickly and tugged his arm into view. “Oh, a corsage!” she exclaimed at sight of the box.

“Don't open it!” he said quickly, trying to withhold it from her.

“Certainly I'll open it!” she replied stoutly, capturing it between both hands and pulling the pale yellow ribbon to one side.

Johnny placed a big hand firmly on the box's cover. “Don't open it, Stacy,” he said again. “It was a gag, a damn fool gag. It's not funny any more-”

She removed the hand as firmly as he had placed it upon the box. “Don't be silly,” she told him. “I want to see.” She removed the lid, parted the tissue, started to giggle, choked and gasped for breath as Johnny pounded her on the back. “A s-skunk cabbage!” she said when she could say anything.

“Me and my timely damn sense of humor,” Johnny said savagely. “I wanted somethin' to remind you of the farm. Spent twenty-five minutes findin' one small enough to fit in the damn box.”

“I love it!” she said quickly, and held it up to her shoulder. “I'd have worn-I will wear it tonight!” She marshaled up a deep breath. “I guess the world hasn't come to an end just yet, has it? And in the circumstances this is-this is appropriate.”

“Will you cut it out? You said it yourself-it's not the end of the world. There's plenty of better-”

He paused at the deliberate shake of the blonde head. “I think perhaps my father was right, Johnny. Maybe I am a country girl. I haven't had time to really consider it yet, but-” Her voice trailed off. When it resumed her voice was firmer. “I'll think it over, but I don't believe I want to line myself up for another letdown like that right away.”

“Turner let you go right out of hand?”

She nodded. “Inefficiency, he said.” She said it casually, but he could see her hands.

“Inefficiency, hell!” Johnny exploded. “It took him four months to find it out? This thing is all my fault.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Your fault?”

“Sure it is. Someone heard you makin' that call to me about the tail Turner'd put on me. It has to be that.”

“Do you really think so?” She sounded almost hopeful. “I wouldn't feel nearly as badly-”

“I know damn well so,” Johnny said emphatically. He looked at the tall girl. “I should've had more sense than to let you put yourself on a spot like that when you had a livin' to make.”

She colored lightly. “That was up to me, wasn't it? Anyway, it's a much more comforting reason than the other, and it helps to explain a couple of remarks I couldn't understand. I'm really-” She looked out into the hallway at the sound of a solid knock at the door. “The dry cleaner's delivery boy, I expect. That's why I'm not ready, and that's what you get for being early. Along with a sob story.”

She picked up her bag from the couch and walked out into the hall, and Johnny could hear the surprise in her voice when she opened the door. “Yes?”

“Surprised, doll? I brought the stuff over from your desk.” Johnny's scalp tightened at the sound of Monk Carmody's throaty rasp. “Turner thought it might be a little embarrass-in' for you to come back over to pick it up.”

“Well-thank you. I'll put them-” Listening, Johnny could hear the click of the door lock and the change in Stacy's tone. “Will you kindly open that door? And do you have to stand that close to me?”

Johnny came forward on the balls of his feet and came out of his jacket in one smooth-flowing motion. He threw it at the couch.

“Turner's not behind you now, doll,” Monk husked from the hall. “Turner's mad at you now. I been waitin' a long time-”

Johnny was already in motion as Stacy's tensed voice interrupted the squat man. “Will you please-let go of my wrist?”

“Ahhh, come off it!” the heavy voice rasped.

“Johnny!” Stacy cried out, and Johnny loomed up in the doorway at Monk's back in time to see the tall girl go to her knees, her wrist bent awkwardly in the cruel grip. Monk released the girl and whirled in the same instant, the dark face slack and sick-looking for an instant, then immediately taut and dangerous.

“You meddlin' bastard!” Monk growled bitterly. “You had to be here. I'll give you a little of what I owe you, mister.” He charged, head down, arms flailing, elbows flying. A fist stung Johnny's ear, and an elbow caught him in the throat as Monk's weight and impetus toppled him backward. They went floorward with a crash that shook the whole apartment. Johnny reached up hungrily from beneath and encircled the thick-set body in his arms. His veins felt like molten lava. Ignoring the pounding hands, he applied the constriction with every ounce in him, and Monk stiffened and groaned. Johnny was barely conscious of a burning in one ear as he worried the burden in his arms in a side-to-side movement until it screamed like a stricken horse for seconds before it went limp.

Johnny clawed himself savagely up to his knees. He picked Monk up and smashed him at eye level into the wall, picked up the sodden mass that rebounded within range of his reaching hands and smashed it again.

He was reaching for Monk again when he heard a thin, piercing edge of sound he dimly associated with Stacy, and then a great white light flared brilliantly and he pitched forward into a retreating darkness.

Detective James Rogers strode into the emergency room to find Johnny sitting stripped to the waist upon the examination table. “Well, he's alive,” he said bitterly. “No thanks to you.”

A white-uniformed intern approached the table, needle and catgut in hand. “Give me a minute with that ear, now,” he announced with professional cheeriness, “and we'll have it as good as new.”

Johnny bowed his head, and the room became silent. When the intern stepped back Johnny looked at the watching detective. “How's the girl, Jimmy?”

“About out of her mind,” the sandy-haired man replied tartly. “What the hell would you expect? You scared her worse than Carmody did. She got the door open finally and ran screaming down the hall, and a couple of the neighbors ran in and beat you off what was left of Monk. And a damn good thing, or I'd be taking you in for at least manslaughter. As it is, only that bruise on her wrist stands between you and an aggravated assault charge.” He turned as he saw that he had lost Johnny's attention.

Stacy Bartlett stood in the emergency room doorway, a hospital robe thrown over the shoulders of her dress. She walked directly to Johnny. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Her usual fresh color was missing, her features were haggard and the soft lips were bloodless. “I'm staying here tonight,” she continued conversationally, and Johnny nodded. “Tomorrow I'm going back to the farm. You remember you said once that I might not care to gear myself up to the tough set of circumstances in this town, as you put it? I don't, any more.”

“I messed things up for you, kid. I really did.”

“Don't feel that way, please.” She extended a hand gravely, and he took it. “Thank you,” she said again. “For everything.”

When she had gone it was some seconds before Johnny reached for his undershirt and eased it on over the bandaged ear. He slid off the table and picked up his shirt as Detective Rogers resumed his irritated monologue. “I don't care what this Carmody is, Johnny, I've told you time and time again that things like this are going to get you in-”

“Ahhh, bag it, Jimmy,” Johnny said shortly. He worked his jacket on carefully over his shoulders. “Who'd miss the sonofabitch?” He moved toward the door. “Or me, either?”