She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

Chapter XIV

Sam Black said gloomily, “While you were impressing on those guys what Bix Lawson would do if he ever caught up with them, I kept wondering how he’s going to feel about us.”

“Who cares?” Ross said.

“I do. You think he’s going to pass off as a childish prank having three of his clubs wrecked?”

“Do you think I should have shrugged off having my one and only club wrecked?”

“I suppose not. But we might have settled for tit-for-tat and only messed up one.”

The gambler regarded him curiously. “A few hours ago you were all set to blast your way through his encircling army and pump him full of bullets.”

“A few hours ago I was mad. Now we’re more than even. He’s going to blow his top sky-high.”

“I imagine,” Ross said cheerfully.

“You haven’t got any sense,” Black complained. “Bix could raise twenty-five guns with a snap of his fingers. And our side? You’ve got a gun permit and I’ve got one. Period. That’s twelve and a half guns against each of us. I’ll be generous and let you have thirteen. I’m not about to go up against twelve guns alone. My heater only holds eight shells, with one in the chamber.”

“Start carrying an extra clip and practice fast reloading,” Ross suggested.

“Haw! And what do we do when Syndicate guns descend on us, too? Start aiming Oscar and the waiters and the cocktail hostesses?”

“You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough, Clancy. If the Commies passed at you, you’d declare war on Russia and expect me to handle Communist China. I’m going to see Sol tomorrow.”

“Sol Levine, the pawnbroker?”

“Uh-huh. I’m going to buy me two submachine guns and practice firing with both hands.”

“Go on home and go to bed,” Ross said.

“Home?” Black said with raised brows. “I want to check on the damage done to the club.”

Ross gave him a disgusted look. “The place will be swarming with cops by now. The first thing they’d ask if you walked in would be how you knew there was a bombing. Even the idiots they recruit for the local force would know you don’t customarily drop by for routine checks at five in the morning. I’ll go back to the club alone.”

“What makes you think they won’t wonder about you?”

“I live there,” Ross said patiently. “Remember?”

“Oh,” Black said. “Excuse me. It’s been a long day and I start to get stupid when I’m tired. I guess I’d better go to bed. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Ross said, and headed for his Lincoln.

Black crawled into his Cadillac.

There were police all over the place when Ross returned to Club Rotunda. He came in by the alley door after parking his car in the club parking lot, and found the first floor ablaze with light. Sergeant Amos Morton, his nose plastered with adhesive tape, both eyes blackened, was in charge of the investigation.

When the sergeant spotted Ross in the center of the room surveying the damage, he came over and stood in front of the gambler with his hands on his hips and his eyes glittering.

“Morning, Amos,” Ross said mildly, fixing his gaze on the nose bandage. “I heard you had a little accident.”

“Other accidents will happen to other people before I forget it,” the detective said through his teeth. “Where you been?”

“Out. What happened here?”

The sergeant glanced around, and the wreckage he saw improved his spirits. “Somebody must have tossed a grenade,” he said with a barely concealed smirk. “The night watchman from the office building next door heard the explosion, came to investigate and called in. Any idea who would do a thing like this to you?”

Ross shrugged. “I couldn’t imagine.”

“Probably some out-of-town mob,” Morton said, beginning to enjoy himself. “But don’t you worry. We’ll do everything possible to catch the bomber.”

“I never worry,” Ross told him.

The damage was as extensive as Ross had expected. Aside from the wreckage of tables and chairs, three panels of the glass bar were cracked, two huge wall mirrors shattered, the baby-grand piano on the orchestra stage damaged, several drapes shredded beyond repair, and the back bar was a shambles of broken bottles and spilled liquor. There was some consolation in the fact that the major part of the loss was covered by insurance, however. And there was further consolation in the knowledge that the three clubs of which Bix Lawson was part owner must be in much the same condition.

Ross said to Morton, “If you don’t need me for anything, I’m going up to bed. I suppose you’ll want me to stop down at headquarters later on to make some kind of statement.”

“Sure,” the sergeant said indulgently. “Get a little sleep. This afternoon will be all right. Say one p.m.”

It was nearly five when Ross got to bed. He slept till noon, had a combination breakfast and lunch in the downstairs kitchen by making himself a Western sandwich, and came out into the dining room to find Sam Black there with a slim, effeminate little man who wore a white neck scarf and a beret.

Black introduced the man as Monsieur Lee DuBarry, the noted interior decorator.

“I thought that as long as so much had to be repaired, we might as well do the place over completely,” Black said.

As Ross pretty well left the policy of the downstairs club to its manager, he merely shrugged. “Any idea how long it will take to get back in operation?”

M. DuBarry fluttered delicate fingers in the direction of the most extensive damage. “A week at least merely for the construction contractor, Monsieur. I do no building or repair work, or course, but I will consult with the contractor to make sure things are rebuilt in a manner conforming to my over-all plans. Then a week at least for redecorating.”

“We’ll be closed down two full weeks?” Ross said.

M. DuBarry drew himself up to his full five feet four. “Monsieur could probably get paint splashed on the walls in two days, but you have come to Lee DuBarry. When I finish, Club Rotunda will be the showplace of St. Stephen.” He snapped his fingers. “There will be no such thing as competition.”

Ross regarded the little man curiously for a moment, then said to Black, “Do whatever you think necessary. I have to go downtown and make a statement about the bombing.”

“All right,” Black said. “I’ll be here if you need me. Incidentally, I called Oscar to phone all the employees and tell them they’re temporarily laid off, with pay. Okay?”

“Sure,” Ross said, with a gambler’s total indifference to expense.

When he walked out, M. DuBarry was skipping about the room and gesticulating with his delicate hands as he expounded his plans to Black.

There was a long black sedan in the no-parking zone in front of police headquarters. A man sat behind the wheel and another sat in back. Ross recognized both as torpedoes employed by Bix Lawson, which meant that Lawson and his inevitable bodyguard must be inside the building.

Under ordinary circumstances the racketeer traveled around town under the protection of only Vince Krzal, who doubled as his driver. It amused Ross that Lawson held him in enough esteem to have tripled his protection since declaring war.

Entering the building, he took the elevator to the third floor and walked down the hall to a door labeled: DETECTIVE BUREAU. This led into a large room with a counter along one side behind which sat the desk detective. There was also a switchboard operated by a policewoman. Several doors gave off of this room to the various divisions into which the detective bureau was divided.

Waving hello to the desk man, Ross entered a door on which was lettered: HOMICIDE, ARSON, VICE, GAMBLING AND NARCOTICS. As long as this title was, Ross knew that it represented only a fraction of the responsibilities delegated to what was generally known, for the sake of brevity, as the homicide division. Lieutenant Niles Redfern had once told him that his division was responsible for the investigation of twenty-eight separate crimes, including such diverse offenses as bigamy, kidnaping and wife beating.

The theory was, Redfern had explained, that any crime which conceivably could lead to murder should be assigned to homicide so that the division would be in on the ground floor in case murder developed.

The squadroom was about thirty feet long and eighteen wide, and was filled with long tables on which stood extension phones at spaced intervals. Several detectives were talking on phones, others were writing up reports; at two tables detectives were questioning either suspects or victims. A low hum of conversation filled the room.

On one side of the rearmost table Lieutenant Niles Redfern and Sergeant Amos Morton sat facing the door. On the opposite side sat Bix Lawson and his lanky bodyguard. Redfern had an open file folder before him.

“Afternoon, Clancy,” the lieutenant said as the gambler approached. “You’re just in time to get in on this. Bix had three places bombed last night—”

“No kidding?” Ross said, seating himself on the wooden chair next to Lawson. “Much damage, Bix?”

The racketeer scowled at him. “Enough.”

“You work around the clock?” Ross asked Amos Morton.

The thick-featured detective scowled also. “I’m not on duty. The lieutenant called me in to sit in on this little conference.”

“Oh. How’s the nose?”

“It’ll mend,” Morton said through his teeth.

Redfern broke up the dialogue between the two by saying, “Lawson says he has no idea who bombed his places, Clancy. You have any theories?”

Ross glanced at Morton. In a bland tone he said. “Sergeant Morton suggested last night that it was probably some out-of-town mob.”

Redfern looked at the sergeant. “You didn’t mention that theory to me.”

“It was just a guess,” Morton said sullenly. “I hadn’t heard any rumors of anybody local pushing Ross, so I just assumed some out-of-town mob might be trying to muscle in.”

Redfern looked from Lawson to Ross. “Either of you had any threats from anybody?”

Lawson shook his head and Ross said, “I haven’t even talked to any out-of-town gangsters in the last few days.”

Redfern glanced at him sharply, wondering if the gambler was merely being flippant, or had specified “in the last few days” because of his noted reluctance to tell an outright lie. He said, “If just one place had been bombed, I might think some disgruntled patron who dropped a bundle took that way to get even. But with four, I can’t buy that. This has all the earmarks of a concerted effort to drive all local... ah... night clubs out of business.”

“You don’t have to be so delicate,” Ross said “You’ve always suspected I run an upstairs casino, even though you never find any evidence of it when you drop around. And everybody knows Bix has a finger in several.”

Lawson gave him a cold look.

“All right,” Redfern said. “I’ll be blunt. This looks to me like an all-out attack on the local gambling racket. Now, out-of-town mobs don’t move in and start tossing bombs without first trying to shoulder in through negotiation. Some deal must have been offered and refused by both of you.”

“How do you know Bix and I didn’t throw bombs at each other?” Ross inquired brightly.

“It occurred to me,” the lieutenant said in a dry tone. “But I have a lab report here.” He tapped the open folder. “They recovered enough fragments to partially reconstruct the bombs. They were all World War II grenades of the same type. And the serial numbers ran concurrently. I’m satisfied the same person or persons threw them all. Either of you want to tell me who’s been pushing you?”

“Nobody’s been trying to muscle in on me,” Lawson growled.

Ross said, “I’d be inclined to guess it was some patron who had dined at Bix’s places, but he wouldn’t have included the Rotunda. Our food’s edible.”

“You should be on TV,” Lawson said heavily. “I can’t tell you a thing, Lieutenant. Do I have to sit here and listen to this comedian, or can I go now?”

Redfern sighed. “Go ahead. You’ve obviously decided to handle this without the help of the police.”

Bix Lawson and Vince Krzal rose to their feet. Lawson said, “I’ll let you know if I get any leads, Lieutenant,” and walked out followed by his silent bodyguard.

“I’ll bet,” Redfern muttered. “You want to tell me anything, Clancy?”

“Anything I told you, I’d have to make up.”

“Then get the hell out of here, too,” the lieutenant said wearily. “I don’t know why we need cops in this town. Nobody wants to use their services.”

“Why, there’d be traffic snarls all over town without you fellows,” Ross said, standing up. “See you around, Lieutenant. Amos, did you ever find that girl you were looking for?”

Sergeant Morton merely glowered at him.

The gambler walked out.