Doom Service

CHAPTER IX

Johnny stepped off the service elevator into the deserted, semidark lobby and intercepted Paul's warning nod in the direction of the switchboard. A quick glance took in the two men standing by the low wooden railing, and Johnny accelerated to a low-slung trot. At the sound of his approach both men faced about hurriedly, and, as he pulled up in front of them-not quite sliding to a stop-he could see the apprehension on Al Munson's fat face and the anticipation on Monk Carmody's battered one.

“Somethin' we can do for you two?” Johnny demanded as neither spoke. His glance slid off beyond them to Sally's slim figure crouched over the switchboard, the small face white and anxious, and his tone hardened. “You two been botherin' this girl?”

“Of course not! Ask her!” the fat press agent replied hastily.

“I'm askin' you,” Johnny said grimly, and shifted the position of his feet as Monk Carmody advanced a step.

“Whyn't you butt out, Killain?” the squat man demanded vibrantly. “We came over here to talk to her. That leaves you nowhere, see? I'm tellin' you to pack it in.”

“You're tellin' me,” Johnny repeated gently. He exhaled and came up on the balls of his feet. He was leaning in Monk Carmody's direction when Al Munson stepped quickly between them.

“Let's not lose our heads, now,” the pasty-faced man urged. “This is a business call.”

“At 2:00 a.m.?”

The publicist's smile was pallid. “I couldn't truthfully claim to be enjoying it myself. Its necessity is dictated by the young lady's persistence in not speaking on the phone, not answering the door-” His smile died. “It's an attitude I can't say I appreciate when time presses.”

Johnny's stare had shifted back to Sally. “I must be neglectin' my homework,” he said softly. He looked down at the misery in her soft brown eyes as he addressed her directly. “There's a reason I didn't get to hear about these guys workin' out on you?”

He could see her swallow hard. “They said-”

“I'm sure he's not really interested, Miss Fontaine,” Al Munson interposed smoothly. “As I indicated in the one conversation you permitted, my business is with you.”

“Your business!” Johnny said deeply. He reached out and took a double handful of lapel on Al Munson's overcoat; Johnny's hands moved, and the fat man's feet slid sideways on the polished floor. “Your dirty, stinking business-”

“Here, now!” Al Munson exclaimed jerkily. “Don't be a fool!”

“Shut up!” Johnny said between his teeth. He pivoted slightly to keep the fat man's body between himself and Monk Carmody. “You tried to bull her into keepin' me out of it, right?”

“What do you think you're settling like this?” the publicist asked hurriedly, and Johnny's grip slackened. Munson took a tentative backward step, and Johnny reluctantly released him. “That's a little better, Killain,” the press agent remarked, readjusting his coat. “Now let's pretend we're adults. If you persist in sticking your nose in this, let's go some place where we can talk privately.”

“Right behind you,” Johnny said shortly, and nodded at the door under the arch of the stairway to the mezzanine. “The bar's in there, an' it's closed for the night.” He looked at the glowering Carmody. “Lead the way, sawed-off.” In the bar the night light shed a soft radiance over booths and tables, but darkness predominated. Shadows bulked larger than actual objects as Johnny faced the two men, keeping them both in front of him. “All right, Munson. Let's hear something that makes a little sense.”

“Does money make sense, Killain? One hundred eighty-nine thousand dollars?” At Johnny's silence he chuckled. “You didn't think we'd let it go without a whimper, did you? I'm here to see about picking up the pieces.”

“It's your money?” Johnny asked carefully.

“Let's say it's a slush fund to which several people have contributed. Through Gidlow's stupidity it's been made unavailable to us temporarily. I'm sure Miss Fontaine would be the first to admit that she has no real claim upon it. We're prepared to settle a satisfactory lump sum upon her for her signature upon a release. You see, it's all really quite simple.”

“An' just how much of the boodle do you simple souls think you'd recover if she signed the release?” Johnny asked curiously.

“We've explored that factor. Even after a rather complicated inheritance tax formula-”

“Let me be the first to give you the bad news,” Johnny interrupted him. “Internal Revenue has staked out a prior claim.”

Even in the poor light he could see Al Munson's eyes narrow. “Internal Revenue?”

“The same. They come by to warn Miss Fontaine not to buy any yachts, because they were goin' to go to court prepared to maintain that the boodle was one-year undeclared income, in which case there's not enough left for anyone to fight over. Right?”

Al Munson spoke thoughtfully into the little silence. 'That can be contested in court.”

“Who's gonna contest it? You?”

“Miss Fontaine will contest it. A good lawyer-”

“You're off your rocker, Munson!” Johnny snorted. “Why should she buy herself a jackpot like that for whatever you feel like givin' her, when all she's got to do is sit tight an' the apple drops in her lap? Internal Revenue's already hinted they'll do the right thing in return for co-operation.”

“Nice of them,” Al Munson said drily. “You can't be as stupid as that last remark sounds, Killain. Perhaps I haven't made it sufficiently clear that I'm just a spokesman in all this. The people whom I represent are not going to look with favor upon such an attitude, I assure you.” Heavy irony flavored his tone. He continued with assurance. “I think Miss Fontaine will co-operate, and not with Internal Revenue.”

“Listen, wise guy-where d'you think you'd wind up if she repeated this conversation to Internal Revenue?”

“She hasn't heard this conversation,” Al Munson replied evenly. “For Miss Fontaine's sake I wouldn't like to think that Internal Revenue learned about it in any other way.”

Johnny's shoulders came off the booth with a jerk. “Munson, I'll-”

“Think it over, Killain,” the publicist interrupted, and waddled to the door. Monk Carmody followed, after favoring Johnny with a complacent leer, and when Johnny walked slowly into the lobby they were gone. He went directly to the switchboard.

“They been bangin' at you every day without my knowin' it?” he asked Sally tightly.

She nodded miserably, brown eyes brimming. “I s-should have told you.”

“Damn right you should have told me, an' the next time you don't your fanny'll catch a real heartburn. I got to know what they're up to if I'm goin' to spoke their wheel.”

“Johnny?” It was scarcely more than a whisper. “Let's give them the bankbook. I don't want it. Honestly. Let's give it to them and get rid of them.”

“It's not that simple, Ma,” he explained patiently. “You're the only one with a claim to it now. You couldn't give anyone the book without givin' 'em a headache they don't want.”

“Then what on earth do they want?” she said, cross-examining him.

“Pie in the sky,” he said tersely. “Forget it, Ma. Just let me know if they bother you.”

“But what can you do, Johnny?”

“I can say 'Tut-tut, boys. Naughty-naughty.' ” He grinned at her. “The way I'd say it I think it might make an impression.” He sobered at sight of her serious expression. “Don't worry about it, see? Everything's gonna be fine.”

“I want to know what you're going to do, Johnny.”

“Who the hell knows? You know me-just rock along, an', if you can't see the ball carrier, just put a good stiff block on the interference. Somethin'll drop.”

“Probably you,” she said apprehensively. “I still think-”

“Your career's not in thinkin', Ma. I'll bear witness.”

“Please be careful, Johnny?”

“My pleasure. You hop back on the board now. I'm gonna skip upstairs an' irrigate my thought processes with a dollop of bourbon.”

“You mean you're going to try to slip out of here without my knowing where you're going or what you're up to.”

“You wound me, Ma. Deeply. I need that bourbon now.” He crossed the lobby to the service elevator and waved to the watching figure before sliding the bronze door shut in a crash of metal.

In the icy darkness of the street doorway a slim shadow moved in beside Johnny and tapped him on the arm. “Out for a constitutional?” Detective James Rogers inquired briskly.

Johnny slowly dropped his hands. “I already told you about that caper, Jimmy. You're buckin' for bridgework.”

The slender man regarded him impassively. “Nice night for a stroll,” he said reflectively, and passed a hand through their combined breaths whitening the air. He glanced across the street at the imposing pile of the apartment building that towered upward into the night sky, with only occasional pinpoints of light dotting the angular surface, and his voice, when he spoke, was official. “You have no business here, Johnny.”

Johnny pointed with a shoulder across the street. “You bodyguardin' Turner now?”

“I'm conducting an investigation,” the detective said evenly. “Without your help. In case the point should come up.”

“That's a little different than the noise you were makin' a while back.”

“Don't make me ask myself if I made a mistake. What are you doing here?”

“This guy's pushin' Sally around,” Johnny said obliquely.

“Turner? I haven't heard a word to that effect.”

“Maybe I could get him to call up an' let you know. Or take an ad in the paper. Make a little sense, will you, Jimmy? I caught a couple of them over at the place tonight because she wouldn't answer her phone any more.”

“You reported it, of course.”

“I'm reportin' it now,” Johnny said easily.

“Fortunately you knew right where to find me,” the sandy-haired man remarked sardonically. He hunched his shoulders together beneath his overcoat. “No sense standing here freezing to death,” he said abruptly. “Come on.”

Johnny walked along beside him the two blocks to an all-night Java mill, and with mugs of coffee on the table between them the detective's inspection of Johnny became more preoccupied. “How do you get to spend so much time off the job during working hours?” he asked.

“You with Wages and Hours now?” Johnny answered. He sugared his coffee liberally. “I got a good crew over there. Five of us do eight people's work, an' we been doin' it a long time now. Nobody peeps at what goes on on our shift, brother. It'd cost them money, an' they know it.” He took a sip of the scalding coffee. “You clockin' Turner's workouts now?”

“You know better than to ask me that. What happened over at your place tonight?”

“Munson and Carmody showed up to talk to Sally. I kind of changed their minds.”

“Galahad in full armor, by God. What did they want?”

Johnny made his grin sheepish. “I made a mistake. I run them outta there so fast I never did get to find out.” He hurried on past the slender man's disbelieving stare. “I was a little late catchin' up to the fact that they'd been worryin' her. They'd made the point they'd take a little interest in me if she let me know. She thinks I'm the delicate type.”

“How much are you holding back this time?” Detective Rogers inquired casually.

Johnny stared. “This time?”

The slender man absent-mindedly sugared his coffee for the second time, tasted the resulting syrup and pushed it aside. “Carlo Petrillo made a statement to the effect that you had run Carmody and a man he didn't know away from Miss Fontaine's apartment early in the morning on the day that Roketenetz was killed.” Hazel eyes studied Johnny. “I don't seem to remember hearing about that from you.”

“Oh, that-” Johnny shrugged. “Things happened so fast right after that it slipped my mind. I thought of it a couple of times since, but it didn't seem important enough to bother you with.”

“We'd like to be the judge of that. Who was the other man?”

Why hasn't he asked Carmody, Johnny wondered, and immediately caution inserted, Perhaps he has. “A lawyer,” he said reluctantly. “Name of Hartshaw. He showed up with a power of attorney for her to sign.”

“And this wasn't important enough to tell me about!” the detective rasped. “Before anyone knows Gidlow is dead a power of attorney is given to the girl to sign away her interest in her brother's estate. In whose favor was the power of attorney drawn?”

“Al Munson's.”

Detective Rogers leaned back deeply in the corner of the booth and half closed his eyes. “Al Munson. Now isn't that interesting? Care to change your story about what happened at the hotel tonight?” His eyes opened wide as he asked the question, but Johnny sat mute. “All right!” the slender man snapped. “I'll save you the trouble. Munson was over there tonight with the same kind of pressure, and he's shutting you up by threatening Miss Fontaine.” The eyes narrowed again. “And, knowing you, you're probably planning a move of your own. Don't try it!”

“Ahhh, get another record, Jimmy,” Johnny said disgustedly. “What the hell are you gettin' done except sweepin' the streets with your pants cuffs over at Turner's?”

The detective's tone was emphatic. “You heard me. You're going to get in trouble. Stay away from this case. Stay away from Turner.” He stood up and buttoned his overcoat rapidly.

“I hope I'm not wasting my breath.” He pulled his hat down hard with both hands and walked out the door.

The crowd sound in the Rollin' Stone Tavern was something you had to hear to believe, Johnny reflected as he passed through the wide front door into the uninhibited din of upper register voices and heavy laughter. He reached a notch deeper for his own voice as he moved to the near end of the bar, where the red-faced proprietor was lounging bulkily over a cup of coffee. “Don't spare the horses, Mick,” Johnny greeted him. “I've had a tough night.”

Mickey Tallant nodded and poured liberally. “Manuel was askin' earlier if you'd been in.” The Irishman's glance ranged the low-ceilinged room. “Don't see him now. Guess he went out again.” He looked at Johnny speculatively. “You two gettin' buddy-buddy?”

Johnny raised his glass halfway, then lowered it again. “Speakin' of buddy-buddy, what do you know about the gambler Rick Manfredi?”

“You're not thinkin' of hookin' up with him?” Honest alarm was in the heavy voice.

“Why not?” Johnny asked curiously. “He's got a rep as a square gambler. I checked.”

“Square gambler he may be,” Mickey Tallant said emphatically, “but let me tell you about Rick Manfredi. Square with his friends he's not, an' I know what I'm talking about. He's got a cute little gimmick for his friends with money. He'll get up on your blind side one day an' say, 'Johnny, you've got a little spare change right now. Let's throw in fifteen or twenty apiece-' an' it's thousands he's talkin', mind you-'and back a little action. I've got a few angles; let's see if we can run it up into a little something.'“ The Irishman glared indignantly. “Then he'll take the forty thousand bank, an' he'll tell you now we're doin' thus an' so-we laid eight grand to five on this fight, an' we took seven and a half to ten on that one. Only when he knows somethin' he actually goes the other way. He takes the five to eight, an' he lays the ten to seven and a half. So the bank blows fifteen five, half of which is yours, but Mr. Manfredi just takes it out of one pocket and puts it in another. He might keep you alive six months, but sometime before you go clean he'll suggest bustin' up the partnership because of the run of bad luck, but meantime he's got two thirds or better of your money.”

“Sounds like he'd run out of friends right often,” Johnny suggested.

“You might get to thinkin' you were bein' taken, but what could you prove? He'll let you out any time you ask, an' blame it on the tough luck you've run into as a team. You'd be surprised the wise guys go for the idea of bein' a gambler's silent partner.”

“You sound like you were a little close to the subject, Mick.”

“My brother,” the tavern owner admitted sheepishly. He straightened and swiped with his rag at the top of the bar. “You'll never see Manfredi in here!”

“But he's a square gambler,” Johnny said thoughtfully.

“Which means he's never been caught at anything. I don't like the cut of his jib, an' I told him so!” Mickey Tallant boomed belligerently. He moved away down the bar at the sound of a coin tinkling on glass. “Keep your hands in your pockets if you do business with him,” he called over his shoulder.

Johnny smiled. He picked up his drink again and downed half of it; then he turned to run his eye up and down the booths across the room. Two-thirds of the way up the line he paused at sight of a shrewd-faced, wiry-looking man leaning forward in earnest conversation with a companion Johnny couldn't see. The man looked familiar, but Johnny couldn't place him. He caught Mickey Tallant on his next trip by and nodded at the booth in question. “The little guy, Mick, in the booth in line with the guy with the beard. Who is he?”

The Irishman needed only one look. “Dave Hendricks. You know, the fight judge.”

“Fight judge-” Johnny began doubtfully. Hendricks, he thought. Hendricks. Sure, the guy Ed Keith had introduced him to in the Chronicle office. But that introduction… He turned back to Mickey Tallant alertly. “How come I got a knockdown to him the other day that put him down on Seventh Avenue?”

“Maybe because he is,” the tavern owner replied equably.

“You know anyone makin' a livin' judgin' fights? Dave runs a dress shop down there. Owns it, I think. Dave's a regular in here.”

“He judge that fight the other night?” Johnny asked the Irishman, and wondered why he asked the question even as he did.

“Damned if I know,” Mickey Tallant answered. “I didn't see him, but then I never paid any attention. He could have. He only works a card in every four or five, though.”

Johnny's eyes had returned to the booth. “Who's with him?”

“For God's sake!” Irritation died out in the heavy voice as the Irishman sighed, fumbled in his shirt pocket and looked up toward the front of the bar at the cash register. “Wait'll I get my glasses.”

“Never mind,” Johnny decided. “If I sit down, send a round over, Mick. Whatever they're drinkin'. Bourbon for me.” He crossed the room in his swaying shuffle and appeared beside the booth before either man had noticed his presence. He recognized the second man immediately as the pink-cheeked little doctor whom he had first seen outfacing Lonnie Turner in his own office. “Hi, Doc,” he said casually. “Buy you a drink?”

Dave Hendricks sat back abruptly, his expression confused, but his companion spoke up at once. “You certainly can, if I can buy one back. Sit down, won't you?” Johnny eased into the booth alongside the doctor so that he could watch the face across from him. “First time I've been here,” Dr. McDevitt continued with an amused smile. “Dave's been holding out on me. Extraordinary place. I feel as though I've been missing something.”

Johnny was watching Dave Hendricks' puzzled effort to place him. “Chronicle office,” he said briefly. “Ed Keith.”

The wiry man's face cleared. “Sure. I remember.” The frown reappeared. “Kil-Kilcoyne?”

“Not bad. Killain.” Johnny paused as the waiter appeared with a tray of drinks, speedily dispensed them, nodded at Johnny and departed. The other two lifted their glasses to him slightly. “You work that fight the other night?” he asked Dave Hendricks. “The Roketenetz fight?”

The shrewd eyes narrowed, then widened. “No, thank God,” the wiry man replied breezily. “That's one clinker I missed. For a couple of days I was congratulating myself I'd missed a commission appearance, but it doesn't look like there's going to be anything like that now. You see the fight?”

“I saw it.”

“A real job of work.” Dave Hendricks spread his hands, palms up. “I was sure glad I wasn't workin' it.”

“I worked it,” Dr. McDevitt said gravely, and Johnny looked at him in surprise.

“Phil was the commission doctor,” Dave Hendricks explained.

“It's water over the dam now, of course,” the pink-cheeked man said slowly, “but as a matter of fact I came as close as I don't know what to stopping that fight in the second round when the boy received that slash over the right eye-Johnny drew a long breath. “Not second-guessin' you, Doc, but a hell of a lot of things might've been different if you had.”

“Hindsight, of course,” the doctor agreed. “The fight was a big step up for the boy, and unconsciously I may have leaned over backward to give him his chance.”

“Only he never had a chance,” Johnny said bitterly.

“That seems to be the consensus-”

“Johnny! Telephone!” Mickey Tallant bellowed from the bar.

Johnny excused himself and walked over to the telephone beside the register. “Yeah?”

“It's Paul, Johnny. I'm a little jammed up here if you're not tied up.”

“Be right there.” Johnny returned to the booth and the two men. “I'll have to take a rain check on that other drink, Doc. Time to start makin' a noise like a working man.” Was it his imagination, or was there a look of relief on Dave Hendricks' face? “See you both around.”

On the way to the door he stopped in front of Mickey Tallant. “Tell Manuel to call me at the hotel,” Johnny said, and the Irishman nodded. It was time to have a little talk with Manuel about Rick Manfredi, Johnny felt. Somebody had to be wrong.