Doom Service

CHAPTER VIII

Johnny's cab pulled up before the lighted canopy at the entrance to the Cafe of the Three Sisters as Consuelo Ybarra came hurriedly out of the door. “Hey!” he called after her as she started up the street without noticing him, and she glanced impatiently over her shoulder but waited while he paid off the driver and joined her. He pointed to the cloth coat over her street-length dress. “Where's all the fine feathers tonight?”

“I asked off.” She gestured at herself with a gloved hand. “Cinderella returns to the fireplace.”

He examined the ringed dark circles beneath her shadowed eyes. “What's gnawin' on you, kid? You look like an accident huntin' up a lawyer.”

“I'm tired.” She flared suddenly with more of her usual spirit. “Tired of being unlucky!”

Johnny cocked an eyebrow at her. “You're unlucky?”

“Desperately,” she said harshly. “All my life. Everything I attempt. I involve all my friends, and drag them down with me. I should be burned at the stake.”

“Why?”

But she as quickly withdrew. “It is not important.” She nodded at the door behind them. “Manuel is at the bar.”

“I didn't come to see Manuel.”

“I hope you didn't come to see me.” Her tone was grave. “I'm not proud of the other night, you understand. I haven't known men of your force of will, but I do not excuse myself. It is my penance that Christian lady and female animal are in too delicate a balance in my nature. I have much need of self-control. You hit an exposed nerve, but it will not happen again.” The classical features were almost school-girlishly solemn. “If you'll excuse me, I'm on an errand,” she continued. The full-lipped mouth twisted bitterly. “Of mercy, its necessity created by my greed.”

“I'll go with you,” Johnny said easily, and took her arm. “We need a cab?”

Angrily she flung off his hand. “Did you hear me? I won't have you trailing after me like a bitch in heat!”

He recaptured the arm, firmly. “Simmer down, kid. I don't need you in bed to like you. There's a difference.”

“There is a difference,” she admitted tiredly. “And I hope, if I had not sensed it, there would never have been the other between us.” She smiled at him somberly. “It's a cushion to bruised nerves to believe it, anyway.” She waved a hand ahead of them down the dark street. “I'm visiting the small hospital the mission sisters maintain. If such a place doesn't dishearten you, it's true I'm tired of my own company. We won't need a cab. It's only two blocks crosstown.”

She took his arm, and they walked in silence. The streets were quiet, the gutters filthy, the shop windows behind heavy steel grilles. In such a neighborhood, Johnny reflected, menace was a part of the atmosphere.

On the stone steps of the hospital building Consuelo took the lead, and inside the heavy doors Johnny's nostrils automatically tested the antiseptically deadened air. He followed left through the first door; the room was a small chapel, with tiers of candles burning quietly on low stands behind a wooden railing. He stood awkwardly as the girl knelt and, producing a coin from her bag, placed it in the offertory box. She lighted a candle, remained on her knees a moment with bowed head, then arose. They were in the outside corridor again before she spoke in the lowered tone the building seemed to require. “The hospital is so small that visitors are supposed to come singly, but I don't believe the sisters will question your being with me.”

He was beginning to second-guess himself on this trip; these places were just too damn depressing. “Who we gonna see?” he asked her as they passed half-open doors with silent rooms beyond. Consuelo turned toward the stairs.

“My uncle, of course,” she replied, surprise plain in her voice. She stopped in the middle of the stairs. “You didn't know? Rick said-” She looked doubtful an instant, then shrugged. “Never mind. Come along.”

He followed her up the circular, marbled stairs. In the upper hall white-faced sisters in whispering dark robes passed them on silent feet, and the fragmented murmurs of conversation that came to Johnny's ear from the partly opened doorways were all in Spanish.

The room that the girl turned into at the end of the corridor was like all the other rooms Johnny had glimpsed-boxlike, white-walled and dimly lighted. A plump sister rose from the single chair beside the high bed. “He is no worse,” she said gently in Spanish in answer to Consuelo's inquiring look. The calm, authoritative voice was not hushed, but it made no real impact upon the hospital quiet. The sister's glance took in Johnny at the foot of the bed, then returned to Consuelo. “If he should awaken, do not tire him.”

“ 'If he should awaken, do not tire him',” the girl repeated woodenly in English when the nun had left the room. “Three days in a coma, but I am not to tire him. He is no worse, which means he is no better.” She drew off her gloves, and her hands grasped each other with an intensity that whitened the knuckles.

She sank down after a moment into the chair the sister had vacated, and, from the end of the bed where he stood, Johnny looked down upon a shock of white hair upon the pillow and a hawk's nose above bloodless lips-and suddenly he understood a number of things. The man in the bed was Terry Chavez, who had been Charlie Roketenetz's trainer. And, by her own admission, Terry Chavez was also the uncle of Consuelo Ybarra.

He looked at the girl, who was trying to repress tears. “The way I heard it, this wasn't supposed to be serious.”

“He was improving, at first.” Her voice was only a murmur, and her lips drew back suddenly from even white teeth. “It was supposed to be a beating, a warning, but one blow too many or too heavy-” She gestured at the bed. “It's my fault.” He could see the flare of her nostrils as her voice strengthened. “I will swear an oath-if he dies, I will kill a man, and the man will not enjoy it.”

“Who's on your list?”

“Never mind.”

Johnny considered the firm lips and the small, stubborn chin. “Chavez knew the kid was going to dump the fight?”

She nodded. “It worried the boy, but of course it was one thing with which my uncle could not help. My uncle told Manuel. I overhead them discussing it as a matter of professional interest.” Her lips curled in self-scorn. “It took me to suggest that we get Rick Manfredi to capitalize upon it for us. It seemed so easy, since Rick would do as I asked, but from that point on everything that possibly could went wrong.” Her voice sank wearily. “The fight was supposed to end in the fourth. Nobody knows what happened, but they think now that the fighter was out to prove to himself that he could have won if they'd let him. He would go in the fourth, all right, but for three rounds he would fight. At the very end of the third round he very nearly knocked the other man out, and all through the next round had to almost literally carry him, with no chance to lose as he had been supposed to do. It was the sixth before he could find a way, and then very clumsily. It was too late for Rick's money, and the money which had fixed the fight. The fixers suspected Rick's knowledge and, I assume, backtracked from him to me and then to my uncle, who was beaten as a warning- Oh, I've made a fine mess of things!”

“They could come lookin' for you,” Johnny observed.

“God help the man who tries it,” she said soberly.

“All that remark proves is that you haven't wised up very much as to the kind of the people in this operation,” he told her impatiently.

“And all that remark proves is that you haven't wised up very much, as you say, to the kind of people I am.” She rose abruptly to her feet. “See if you can find the sister and bring her back. I can't do him any good here. It tears me inside to see him lying there, knowing it's my fault.”

From the doorway he could see the frozen intensity upon the beautiful face as she hovered over the bed. Maybe you've been underestimating the dynamite in that package, Killain, he thought to himself as he walked down the corridor in search of the nun. It might pay you to add a dimension or two to your thinking about Consuelo Ybarra.

On the way through the hotel lobby to the foyer, Johnny was buttonholed by Marty Seiden, the nattily bow-tied, red-haired, middle-shift front desk man. “Telephone, John,” he called from behind the registration desk, and Johnny grunted acknowledgment and swerved to the bank of house phones.

“Yeah?”

“Johnny? Can you come over to the apartment?” Sally's voice pumped adrenalin through his system momentarily until he realized that she sounded more puzzled than alarmed. “I wish you'd talk to this ridiculous man. He seems to think-”

“What ridiculous man?” Johnny interrupted her. “How'd he get in?”

“Why, I let him in, naturally. He's from the Treasury Department.”

“He's from what?” Actuality was so far removed from his fear that he felt winded. “You gone an' set up a printin' press in the bathroom?”

“Silly, he's from Internal Revenue. He's-”

“Oh, oh,” Johnny said softly. “I'll be right over.” He whistled a tuneless little air as he replaced the phone and resumed his interrupted progress to the street. Internal Revenue. Sure didn't let any grass grow under their feet…

“This is Mr. Quince, Johnny,” Sally said. “Mr. Killain, Mr. Quince.”

Johnny shook hands with a balding man in a conservative blue suit. “You heard correctly, Mr. Killain,” the man said drily. “The name is Quince. Malcolm. And it's not an alias. A name for the job, wouldn't you say?”

“I'd say,” Johnny agreed. He didn't even try to repress his smile, and Mr. Quince gave him a small, neat smile in return. Mr. Quince was small and neat in all departments, including his paunch. “You must be an authority on wisecracks on the name an' the job.”

“It has one advantage,” Mr. Quince remarked philosophically. “People don't forget me.” His examination of Johnny was quick and thorough. “You represent this young lady legally?”

“God forbid!” Johnny protested. “You wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy. I-advise her, let's say.”

“Then let's bring you up to date upon a matter concerning which she could use some advice,” Mr. Quince said briskly. He opened the briefcase at his feet and took out some papers, then removed his glasses from the case in his breast pocket and slipped them on. “I refer to the legacy which in the probate court's due process will be turned over to Miss Fontaine.” He straightened his glasses with one hand, his tone apologetic. “You understand that much of what I have to say is at the moment tentative, due to the lack of time for a more complete investigation on our part, but my superiors thought it best that I have this little talk with you before your hopes-or plans-crystallized.”

He had looked directly at Sally during this little speech, and she shifted restlessly. “You mean I'm not going to get it?” she asked.

“It's impossible in any event that you will receive it in its present form, of course,” Mr. Quince said carefully. “If there were no other considerations at all, the fact of an inheritance tax-double, in this case, since both the Gidlow and Roketenetz estates in turn would be affected-would materially reduce the amount of the legacy.”

“By how much?” Johnny broke in.

“In an estate inheritance situation there is an automatic exemption of sixty thousand dollars. The tax rate upon the passing of the property solely to Roketenetz would be in the neighborhood of twenty per cent. Upon its repassing to Miss Fontaine, the same exemption and tax rate would apply, but as an offset there would be a carry-back credit due to the successive deaths falling within a two-year period.”

“But the bundle gets nipped twice,” Johnny reflected. “Two twenty per cent chops, huh?”

“With the exemptions and the carry-back credit, not that severe in the aggregate,” Mr. Quince said cautiously. “But before either of you starts indulging in mental arithmetic, please remember I said that would be the case if there were no other considerations. Unfortunately, there are.”

Johnny winced. “I can feel it comin'. Uncle wants to know where the bundle came from.”

The tax man nodded. “Exactly. Neither Gidlow nor Roketenetz ever paid taxes upon any earned sums that could normally lead to the accumulation of such an amount.”

Sally appealed to Johnny. “I told him Charlie never had any money like that!”

“On the basis of a hurried preliminary investigation,” Mr. Quince pronounced majestically, “we're prepared to accept that statement.” He paused to smile briefly at Sally. “But that simply takes us back to Gidlow, and there we have complications. He had been to the tax wars before and, from our point of view, unfavorably. He had never paid taxes upon any part of such a substantial sum of money, and in view of his past tax record we feel that this is undeclared income. Consequently, pending some subsequent development that would prove the money had been acquired over a period of years, we're prepared to go into court and maintain that the entire amount is taxable as one-year income.” He paused for breath.

“What's the damage on that deal?” Johnny inquired.

“At a hundred fifty thousand and over, the rates are eighty-nine per cent,” Mr. Quince said. “First twenty-five exempt.”

“Ow!” Johnny breathed. He looked at Sally. “Back to pauperism, Ma. At least I can say I knew you when you had it.”

Mr. Quince snapped his briefcase shut, his eyes upon Johnny. “Are you prepared to say at this time, Mr. Killain, what the young lady's attitude is to be in the matter?”

“You mean is she goin' to fight it? The board of directors has to have a little meetin' on that one, Mr. Quince. Maybe we'll arbitrate. If we said we wouldn't fight it, maybe the razor wouldn't cut as deep?”

“Arrangements of one sort or another are not unknown,” Mr. Quince agreed. He permitted himself the small, neat smile. “Let me hear from you when you decide.”

“But I don't want their old money!” Sally exclaimed when the apartment door had closed upon Mr. Quince's conservative blue suit. “I think-”

“Stop thinkin', Ma. Relax. You got to provide for my old age. An', if this guy has his way, you aren't goin' to wind up with enough to keep you from sleepin' nights. Let's roll up the rug on it for now. We'll have the board meetin' later.”

“Board meeting!” she snorted, and squealed as the big hands tipped her into his arms. “Johnny! Stop it!”

“Contrary to the laws of nature, Ma,” he told her placidly. “Hold tight. Here comes the brass ring on the merry-go-round.”

Johnny, finishing off the last forkful of pie and the final swallow of coffee, eased himself back cautiously in his spindle-legged chair. “I take it all back, kid,” he informed Stacy Bartlett, who was busily stacking dishes across the table from him. “You can cook. I could need a little help up outta here.”

“I haven't seen anyone eat like that since I left the farm,” she said, smiling.

“I do that boa constrictor bit to carry me over the lean times whenever I run into grub like yours.” He looked at the tall girl, trim and efficient in her postage-stamp apron, busy on round trips to the kitchenette. “You didn't do so bad yourself,” he accused her. “I'd hate to pay your board bill.”

“You go on inside,” she told him. “I won't be five minutes.”

“Hell with the dishes,” Johnny said lazily, and pointed a finger at her. “You come inside with me an' entertain your company, girl.” He glanced around the tiny dining room, which was actually a niche carved from the living-room floor space. “That couch in there any more solid than these silly-lookin' chairs? With a runnin' start I might make it in there. I might.”

“My furniture is Danish modern,” she said, reprovingly. “You don't furnish a girl's apartment in ax-hewn oak, you know.”

“Oh, I like it fine,” he said hastily. “It's just that with all these sharp edges I don't see how you keep from scarrin' up the nice upholstery-yours, not the furniture's-”

She ignored the remark. “I like it here,” she said defensively. “It's the first time I've had a place of my own. I can't afford it, of course, the place and the furniture, too. I've been looking for someone congenial to move in and share expenses. The bedroom's large enough, thank goodness.” She colored brightly at his look. “Another girl!”

“Now you went an' spoiled it,” he said sadly. “I was right in step till you pulled that switch on me. Didn't any one ever tell you girls are hard to get along with? If you're a girl?”

“I doubt that I'll have any difficulty,” she said drily. “Shall we go inside?”

Johnny groaned eloquently as he eased himself erect. “How about the loan of a shoulder or two to assist in transportin' the body?”

“You're doing all right,” the girl retorted.

“I like that apron,” he said as she removed it.

“Leftover from the curtain material,” she said briskly.

“Sews, too,” he murmured aloud, and surveyed another tide of color rising from beneath the primly necklined dress. “Any money in the bank?”

“I have a job and a mortgage on the furniture,” she replied with dignity, leading the way into the living room. “Does that answer your question?”

“Speakin' of the job, how's it goin' over there?”

“Just fine.” She turned to look at him. “Why wouldn't it?”

“No reason, no reason,” he replied hurriedly.

“Mr. Turner is handicapped, of course, by the loss of Jake Gidlow and Terry Chavez at the same time. Between them they handled most of the fight details. Mr. Turner is having a little trouble getting things lined up. He's been a little edgy.”

I'll bet he has, Johnny thought. “How's Chavez gettin' along?” he asked casually.

“Mr. Munson says he'll be back with us any day now.”

So they don't tell this kid everything, Johnny mused. Or haven't they taken the trouble to find out? Or did Al Munson want Turner to believe Chavez would be back shortly? This Munson, now-

“Aren't you going to sit down?” Stacy asked him, breaking into his train of thought. “And aren't you going to smoke?”

“Couldn't stop me with a gun,” he told her, reaching for his cigarettes. He looked down distrustfully at the wide, backless, short-legged chaise longue and lowered himself onto it carefully.

“You look like the type of man who should smoke cigars,” the tall girl remarked as she seated herself erectly a little distance away.

Johnny inched himself back and forth, trying to get comfortable without placing his back against the wall. “These things take a little gettin' used to, don't they?” he inquired. “Not that I'm knockin' your furniture, now,” he continued hastily. “Cigars? Cigars are all right, but too many times you're in a place where you can't get 'em easy or at all.” He waved the cigarette pack in his hand. “Some kind of weed you can generally get most anywhere. Cigarettes can be pretty lousy, just so they burn. This couch here is stuffed probably with better makin's than some of the stuff I've set fire to in my face in my time.” He was aware she was watching his struggles with the couch from the corner of her eye. “I think I need a Western style saddle with this thing. Or a set of spurs.”

She giggled softly. “You're doing fine.” She folded her hands in her lap. “My father smokes cigars. He says that three things come most naturally to a man's hand-a cigar, a drink-” She stopped and turned rosy.

“-and a woman's behind,” Johnny finished for her. He nodded soberly. “I've heard that sayin'. We'd get along, your old man 'n me. He run the farm?”

“Yes, if you mean he operates it. We're tenants.”

“You say that present tense. You're a city girl now, remember?”

“My father doesn't seem to think so,” she said seriously. “He's letting me try my wings here, but he bet me I'd be back in a year.”

“He could be right,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “It's a hard-boiled set of circumstances in this man's town, baby. You might decide you didn't want to take the trouble to gear yourself up to it.” He took a deep, satisfied breath, exhaled slowly and half rolled on his side in Stacy's direction.

“The dishes will only take me a few moments,” she said at once, starting to rise.

“Hell with the dishes,” he said for the second time, and reached lengthily and caught her hand. His strength dropped her effortlessly back on the couch within the circle of his arm, and the feel of her big-bodied softness against him was like a match to carbon.

“That's enough of this-foolishness!” she exclaimed when she could get her breath. “Let me up out of here!”

He nuzzled gently at her white neck, and he could feel the shiver that ran through her. “Remember I said you could give me the ground rules when I got up to bat?” His voice was a deep river; he slowly tightened the pressure of the arm about her. “We playin' college or pro rules, baby?”

“Kindergarten!” she said breathlessly. “And don't expect to graduate too quickly!”