Blonde Bait

VI

When we dropped anchor in Jacksonville, Florida, it was exactly seven weeks from the time Rose and I had it out in our hut on Ansel's island. The odd thing was, even talking about leaving had been a tonic: the rain had kept up for another few days but we were no longer bored—we argued. But without much heat. Rose tried to make me understand I'd be risking her life by returning to the States and I kept saying she was in the clear—if she had told me the truth.

After a few days we switched sides. I didn't care if we left the island or not. All the gamblers I'd ever known had yanked the rug out from under themselves when they had it made—never knew when they were well-off. I was troubled by the thought that if Rose wasn't telling me the truth, why chance the ideal set-up we—or I—had? But Rose now had a sort of fatalistic outlook, said she had no right to stick me in the islands for the rest of my life and anyway—what was going to happen was going to happen no matter what she did. So, crazy as it may seem, she was the one insisting we leave.

We both agreed on a few precautions. We'd register at hotels as Mr. and Mrs. Mickey Anderson of Tampa and I had cards printed, stating I was in the wholesale shrimp business—along with a few “identification" papers —a phony Lions Club card, and an old novel-of-the-month card I fixed up with ink eradicator. Rose cut her hair short and colored it black, wore plain eye-glasses, and was to dress simply and a bit on the sloppy side. We made a list of the three names Josef had mumbled in his sleep: William Sour, Me-Lucy-ah, and Gootsrat —which sounded like “Good rat.” The first thing we'd do on landing would be to check the phone books for these names. We'd live modestly and never carry or flash much money—leave most of the loot locked up in the Sea Princess. Rose flatly refused to go to Miami but the general idea was to work our way up the coast and then back to the island. We told Ansel we were sailing the Gulf of Mexico and would return in a few months, or sooner.

It was a cold, rough crossing. Rose was so tense every time we even passed a boat flying the USA flag, I felt lousy. But when I suggested we turn back, she said we'd already thrown the dice and had to see what came up. Our first night in Jacksonville we quickly ate in a waterfront restaurant, checked the phone book, and slept for over fifteen hours aboard the boat. Rose acted lovey-dovey and coy, trying to keep me in her bunk, but we finally went ashore in the afternoon. Replacing the oil cooler was a snap. Then we bought clothes and bags, checked into a modest hotel. It was the first time I'd worn a suit and tie in years.

That night we kept to our room, Rose hitting the bottle. But she couldn't get juiced enough to overcome her jitters. The next day we took in a couple of movies, watched TV in a bar, and returned to the hotel to sleep like tops. I awoke first and soaking in a tub of hot water, I decided all this was wrong. Certainly not worth Rose having a breakdown over.

To my surprise, when she awoke Rose seemed very calm. When I mentioned heading back to the Caymans, she said we might as well stay a few days at least and get our fill. We did about all there was to do in Jacksonville, and Rose was in such a sudden good mood she told me the suit I'd bought was a double for an undertaker's helper, and we went into a swank men's shop and bought me a mild sport jacket and slacks. She wore a formless dress that made her look a big hick.

After two days we sailed up to Charleston and then on to Wilmington. In each city we had a ball, especially in Charleston, where we took in the night life, and of course all the movies. Rose seemed at ease. One night in bed she told me I'd been right, all her fear could have been her shocked imagination. Of course we still checked the phone books, avoided talking to people in bars, and didn't live too big. If Rose had lost her tenseness, I had a new bug in my head. Now that we were back in the States, what had I proved—except Rose's cock and bull story had been exactly that? I not only felt I was farther than ever from her real story, but I became nervous if she was out of my sight for a few minutes. I had this feeling that since she thought she was safe, Rose might leave me and go back to wherever she'd come from—to the guy who'd given her the loot. The fact she didn't want to go back to Ansel's made me suspicious.

I told her we'd gone far enough North; we'd had it. I'd given up any idea of going to New York City. I practically insisted we go back to the island. But I had one other idea in my empty head. I was very proud of the Sea Princess, felt she could go anywhere in the world. As a sailor I'd heard what a rough place Cape Hatteras was and I wanted to give it a try. Don't ask me why. I was like a clown trying to see if his car can make a hundred miles an hour and forgetting what a blowout would mean.

We agreed to sail around the Cape to Norfolk, then head back to the Caymans, stopping at coast towns we hadn't visited on the return trip. I carefully checked the charts and the weather, listened to the bull stories fishing boat men told me, and even Rose was fairly excited about trying the Cape. We set out for Norfolk and the ocean off the Cape was so calm I nearly laughed.

We didn't like Norfolk very much. For one thing it was March and so cold we had to buy coats. So after two days we ran up sail again and headed South. We'd about rounded Hatteras with the water merely choppy, when a hell of a storm hit us, knocking the Sea Princess on her beam ends. The lousy storm came out of the Southeast full of sudden fury, snow and sleet. While the radio had warned of a “possible squall,” this was far worse than the hurricane. Waves higher than our mast pounded the Sea Princess badly and Rose was terrified. I was scared dumb myself. I tried going out to sea, afraid we'd hit the reefs and rocks near the coast.

I kept Rose in the cabin while I sat at the wheel with a rope around my chest to keep from being washed over.

The icy water went through my oilskins and I thought my fingers were breaking off as I close-reefed the mainsail. But the storm grew worse; the only thing to do was turn and run before the wind. The battens in the big sail had snapped, and the backstays and rigging were in a crazy dance. I managed to furl the mainsail and even with only the jib up, we went down the wind—and North—like a speed boat. The radio rigging was carried away, the dinghy smashed and yanked off the cabin top.

We went roaring before the wind all night and I was numb with cold. In early morning the jib went to pieces —I didn't know how it had stood up so long. I figured we were far enough at sea to lash the wheel and put out a sea anchor. Anyway, there wasn't anything else I could do. After locking the hatch, I went below. The cabin was a mess; broken dishes and junk all over, Rose in her bunk moaning and screaming with fear. I told her to shut up and had some food and whiskey. I felt human again even if we were bouncing around so it felt as if we were living inside a soccer ball.

I forced Rose to kill a bottle but it didn't knock her out. She crouched in her bunk, stiff with fear. I sat on my blankets, holding on to the bunk, sure we were going to die.

Toward dawn we stopped bouncing—a little. I went on deck and the wind was dying. The rigging was mostly okay and steering by compass, for a change, I headed due West with both engines; thankful we had the power —as I wondered how long our fuel would last—we were still running in a full sea. I started the pumps, happy to find we hadn't taken on much water. The sky cleared and a few planes passed. I made Rose come on deck where she felt better, the raw wind acting like a shot in the arm. Several hours later we crossed the wake of a rusty freighter, watched some sailors calmly waving at us. Perhaps they thought I was a rich yachtsman out for a sail.

We began passing more ships—all of them work boats—soon we saw the coastline. Rose had to make the usual crack about kissing the ground. Within two hours we were tied to a dock in Asbury Park, New Jersey. The storm had blown us that far North. Except for the loss of the dink, the jib, and some shrouds, the boat was okay.

It was a sunny day, but cold, with a thin layer of snow on the ground. Going ashore for lunch, we read in the papers that a “freak" squall had pounded the coast, damaging plenty of boats and summer homes. When I said we had to go back to the Sea Princess, Rose flatly refused. I told her to wait in the greasy spoon. I found a boatyard, arranged for the boat to be hauled out at once, the rigging repaired, her bottom scraped and painted.

We took a room in a cheap hotel. Rose was all for selling the Sea Princess, flying back to the islands and buying another boat there. I told her to shut up—we'd see. We hit the bed and pounded our ears for sixteen straight hours. I was feeling good, cocky. I'd been sailor enough to ride out the storm.

The next few days we hung around the boatyard, I even helped out with the overhauling—I didn't want to be too far from our dough with men working on the ship. The owner of the yard was impressed with the Sea Princess' lines, and of course he could tell, I think, by what came off her keel that we'd been in the Caribbean. Rose spent most of her time in various movies, and at night we took long walks on the cold boardwalk, and then watched TV in some bar. I began working on her, pointing out how well the boat had stood up, that it was really my fault for not paying the radio storm warning any mind, and except for the bouncing giving us a hard time, we hadn't suffered any real damage. The point was we had to sail the Sea Princess back to Ansel's and there wasn't anything to be afraid of.

After a few days Rose was able to laugh at the memory of the two of us lying on our bunks like scared stiffs, and I knew she really admired me for having pulled the ship through single-handed.

When the Sea Princess was back in the water with a new dink and other repairs, all told costing us $569, we decided to stay in Asbury for a few more days. There was another storm on the way. I tied her up to the boatyard dock and locked the cabin. There's little chance of robbery at a private dock, so Mr. and Mrs. Anderson took a room at a hotel and the next day we decided to give Atlantic City a fling. We registered at the biggest hotel we'd stayed in thus far and Rose bought a new dress that clung more to her figure. We had a steak dinner, saw a movie, and then dropped into a good night club. Rose was a bit nervous when we first hit Atlantic City, she'd once worked there, but felt at ease again when she found the club had been torn down and replaced by a small apartment house.

We were sitting in this swank night spot, laughing at a wiseguy comedian who had a sharp tongue. Rose was giving me the lowdown on about what the guy was making and how much the members of the band were paid... when I suddenly felt her thigh stiffen against mine under the table. I turned and she was staring down at the table cloth, her face sickly pale in contrast to the dark frames of her phony glasses, her black hair. She was so pale even the remains of her sun tan seemed to have vanished. I asked, “You sick?”

“Oh, God! Mickey, it's him!”

“Who?” I asked, looking around wildly. “Hon, what is it?”

“It's him... the Federal man who tried to shoot me!”

“Where?” I asked, my guts full of a chill—mainly because I thought Rose was off her head.

“That table over in the corner, by the post. The big guy with the redheaded girl. Oh God, I knew we shouldn't have come to the States!”

“Take it easy,” I said, glancing around casually. I had no difficulty making him. He was staring hard at our table. He was a handsome cuss, well set-up and lean, and with a mean face. He looked like a guy who could handle himself, a nasty joker in a brawl. Younger than me, too. Maybe five or six years since he was the star halfback.

Toying with a spoon I asked a dumb question. “Rose, are you sure?” The way the guy was looking at us told me how sure he was.

“Of course!” Her voice had the shakes.

I pressed her thigh as I told her, “Listen to me: we're going to sit right here and play it cool. For one thing, with your glasses and all, he can't be positive. If he comes over, we're a couple of tourists named Anderson, so don't get excited.”

“No. He's the one... he'll try to kill me!”

For a second I realized how jerky I was acting. What was I getting tense about? Even if this proved Rose's weird story was true, Rose was in the clear. I squeezed her hand under the table—and it was cold as death. “Don't worry. If he starts anything I'll handle him.”

Rose turned and gave me a tight smile—a tender tiny grin that somehow seemed a farewell smile. “No, Mickey, stay put and be careful. Say I'm a pick-up and you don't know a thing about me. I'm going to the head. If he tries to... don't let him stop me. And don't get yourself hurt.”

Before I could argue, or ask what she meant, Rose stood up. Holding her small pocketbook in one hand, she gave me a light, phony smile, and started for the ladies room, which was located just inside the entrance to the club. The fur trimmed coat she'd bought a few days before was still on the back of her chair.

While I was wondering why the speech about going to the can, I saw big boy get to his feet. From different angles he and Rose headed for the same point. I got up and crossed directly toward him. Rose was almost running and he wasn't even watching me.

As Rose reached the few steps leading up into the tiny lobby, I saw his hand go to his back pocket and with the flap of his jacket raised for a split second— he was reaching for a gun in his hip pocket holster!

I raced over and walked into him hard with my shoulder. He stumbled and I went into a little jig I practiced when I was wrestling. I brought my left foot down on his right instep and as he bent over my right knee came up into his stomach. He dropped to the carpet, doubled over. He wasn't out, only numb the way a belly wallop gets you.

I was all one silly grin as I put on an act that it was an accident. A couple of waiters rushed over to us. Rose wasn't in sight. She'd made the ladies room. I bent down as if helping big boy to his feet. There wasn't any doubt about the gun, I could feel it in his back pocket. I wanted to go through his pockets and find out who he was, but the waiters were on us. I gave them a dumb grin and said something about being clumsy. A beefy character, obviously the bouncer, helped me lift him to his feet. People were standing up but the bouncer and the waiters were old hands: before I knew it we were walked into the manager's office. While I was explaining what a clumsy clown I'd been, a cop appeared.

The manager was a smooth baldie in a tux and as he was assuring the cop things were under control, big boy got his wind and flashed a card or something at the cop, then ran limping out of the office. The cop took off, too. I started after them and ran into a solid line of waiters. I asked, “What the devil is this?”

“Now, now, no trouble, please,” the manager said. The bouncer moved closer.

I said, “I don't want trouble but my girl went to the John and she'll wonder where I am and...” I could have bitten my fat tongue. Why did I say Rose was in the can? Could she be hiding in there, waiting?

The cop returned, growled at me, “You, sit down!” He had a firm grip on his night stick.

I sat on the edge of the manager's desk, wondering what to do. For a few minutes we were all silent, then big boy limped in, looking very mad. He held a whispered conference with the cop while glaring at me. The cop told the manager and the rest of the help to leave. The manager said, “Now George, I don't know what this is all about, but the club doesn't want any trouble.”

George, the cop, nodded and ushered him out, then he shut the door and leaned against it, one hand on his holster.

The clammy feeling in my guts said I was in for a beating. A couple of wild thoughts flashed through my mind. In a straight rough and tumble I might take these two. And if they went for their guns I'd be dead. What did Rose expect me to do, stall them? Was she still in the ladies room? Hiding there, or plain sick? Or was she waiting for me outside? Did she want me to clout these...?

Big boy limped over to stand in front of me, hands loose at his sides. “What's your name, mister?” he snapped.

I decided to bluff, do a little shoulder talking of my own. I asked, “Who are you? What is this?”

“I'll ask the questions!” His hands were itching to clout me.

With a calmness which astonished me I heard myself saying, “If you're a police officer I'm asking you to identify yourself.” I glanced at the cop holding up the door. “Officer, this man is carrying a gun.”

“He's a Fed,” the cop said.

“Oh.” I was completely rattled. I was in great shape —I'd flattened a Federal cop! But then Rose's story about the police trying to kill her had been true!

“What's your name?”

“Is walking into you, accidentally, a Federal crime?” I asked.

“I'm asking for your name, mister.”

“My name is Mickey Anderson. I'm a visitor here, stopping at a boardwalk hotel. I don't know what this show of force is about, but I demand the right to phone my lawyer before saying anything else. His name is Jackson Clair, in New York City.” That was the name of a big time lawyer I'd been reading about in the papers.

A slight change came over the Fed's face. Almost politely he said, “Mr. Anderson, I'm only asking for your cooperation, as a citizen. I want to talk to you about the woman you were with, ask...”

“What's she wanted for?”

“I didn't say she's wanted. I merely wanted to chat with her, see if she could give me some information.”

“Chat with her? Is that how you talk to people—by pulling a gun on them?” I asked.

The cop said, “Pulling what gun?”

The Federal man said, “Pulling my gun? Why I wanted to make sure it wasn't loose in my holster. Sitting down and jumping up to.... Did you walk into me on purpose?”

“No sir,” I said, going for dumb. “I was on my way to the John when I saw you touch your holster. I was so busy watching your hand, I guess I didn't notice where I was walking. That's all.”

“Where's the woman you were sitting with?”

“Isn't she here?” I asked brightly.

“She ran out, disappeared in the streets.”

“Yeah?” I hoped the relief I felt didn't show. “Said she was going to the ladies room, so I figured I might as well go myself. Officer, I certainly don't want trouble. I mean, I came here to see the sights and... I got into a conversation with this gal on the boardwalk and one thing became another and I made a date to meet her outside this club. Told me her name is Jane and...”

“Where's she staying?”

I gave out with a silly grin. “I don't know, we didn't have time to reach that plateau.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Me? I told you I don't want any trouble. I know from nothing. Officer, I'm a married man. I've told you all I know about the dame. You want to talk about me, I insist upon calling my lawyer first.”

Big boy hesitated; he didn't quite believe me. Then with a shrug he snapped, “Get the hell out of here! Mister, you don't begin to know how lucky you are. I could put you in jail for assault, for... Get out!”

As I walked toward the door the cop pulled out his notebook. “I'd better take your name and hotel for my report.”

Big boy jumped ahead of me, still limping, whispered something to the cop. He had one hand on the policeman's shoulder, the other opened the door for me. Walking out I saw the cop put his notebook away as he said, “Okay, if that's the way you want it....”

I stood in the night club lobby, looking around—as if waiting for Rose. The manager came over and when I asked what I owed, he told me to forget it—on my way out. Taking my coat from the hat check gal, I asked if she'd please go into the ladies room and see if “Jane” was there. She was a young kid with a doll face and too much make-up. She said, “If you're talking about the big woman, she never went in. She went right out to the street.”

“Are you certain?”

“As I told that detective, I don't keep track of the patrons going to the ladies room. Only I remember her because she was so big and because she left without her coat. That's all I know.”

I dropped a ten buck bill on the counter. “Any idea which way she went?”

“Mister, my eyes ain't periscopes. I'm way inside here, how could I possibly know which way?” She glanced down at the ten spot. “I could have lied and given you a line about she went toward the boardwalk, or away from it But I play it straight.”

“Okay, keep it and the sermon too.”

It was damp and chilly outside. Without her coat Rose would... Where was she? Where could she have gone to? There were a couple of cabs at the curb but I figured it would be a waste of time asking them. Certainly big boy had. Glancing around like a ham actor I strode to the corner, walked a block, and turned down a dark quiet sidestreet full of silent houses. I waited in the middle of the block. I didn't seem to be followed. Turning into various sidestreets I went back to the hotel. I was feeling rather cocky about the cool way I'd handled Mr. Washington. Almost as good as the way I felt on bringing the Sea Princess through the storm. I had to find Rose and get her safely away... and then she was going to tell me the real story behind this cops and robbers deal.

The key was at the desk but I went up to our room expecting Rose to pop out of a doorway in the hall any minute. The empty silence of the room was a letdown. I sat on the bed and lit a cigar. The only thing for me to do was wait. Rose would either come to the hotel or phone. But it was nasty outside and her minus a coat.

I took off my coat and tie and turned on the radio.

But I was far too restless to merely sit and wait. I told myself that whatever mess we were in was her fault—if she'd told me the truth at the start, we never would have left Ansel's island. Or did what had happened at the night club prove Rose had told me the truth? But for crying out loud, if all that stuff she'd given me was true —it made less sense than before. A Fed, a government man who hasn't seen her in at least two years and couldn't have been positive she was Rose, goes after her with his gun ready! What could Rose possibly have done to get that kind of treatment? Would he have gunned her down if I hadn't clobbered him? Or was it an act? Then he let me bluff him with the mere mention of calling a lawyer, and he wouldn't let the local badge make a report. Why? Another thing, he told me Rose wasn't wanted. I'd hate to see this joker in action if she was wanted!

The whole thing didn't make a bit of sense. This Fed knew damn well I hadn't kneed him by “accident.” He could have hustled me down to the nearest jail and beat my brains out—yet he'd been almost polite to me. Why?

I kept chewing it around in my mind and all I came up with was a headache. Even my cigar tasted bad. The radio disc jockey said it was 2:00 A.M. I had to do something beside sitting on my rusty. Suppose Rose was hiding someplace on the beach, waiting for me—and freezing for almost two hours now? But if I left the hotel, how could she contact me? What if I went to the police, loud-talked them—or the Federal agent here, into giving me the whole story of why this joker had gone for his gun on Rose? Or would that bring the house down on us?

Hell, I was wasting time sitting here like a silly jerk.

Two hours gone. Rose could be dead by now or.... No point in losing my head. Rose would figure I'd had to give them the phony Anderson handle and this hotel... and that the place was probably crawling with dicks. But at least she could phone me and say... Say what? I was a fool: if they were watching the joint they were certainly keeping an ear on the switchboard.

I lifted the phone from its cradle to see if it was working. It was. Did a tapped phone sound any different? I saw several phonebooks and it suddenly came to me we'd been so smug we hadn't even checked the Atlantic City book for those names. I went through the book. Nothing. There was a Philly book and a thick New York City one, too.

For lack of anything better to do I checked the Philly book. No William Sour or Gootsrat. Or in the New York directory either. To kill time I went through all the G's and S's in both books. In New York there was a William Saure on West 113th Street and a Willy Sowor on Cork Avenue. I felt excited for a moment—either of them might be our boy and a lead to Rose. But the lonely hotel room gave me the blues again. The devil with whether Rose's story was true or not—where was Rose! Had big boy picked her up? Could she be waiting for me near the night club?

The thing sticking in my mind was—why had Rose told me she was going to the ladies room and skipped out instead? Leaving her coat didn't make sense. If she was going to run, why didn't she tell me so? Didn't Rose trust me any longer? Had she really been using me all this time? Or had she been on her way to the powder room when she saw big boy come after her, and decided to flee on the spur of the moment? But she'd told me to say I'd just picked her up. And one thing I couldn't doubt: Rose had been terrified.

At 3:00 A. M. I couldn't sit any longer. I slipped the desk clerk a five buck bill as I told him, “If Mrs. Anderson phones, or when she returns, tell her I'll either call or be back within an hour. She's to wait or leave a message.”

I knew how it sounded. He let me have a small, understanding smile, as he said, “Of course, Mr. Anderson.”

I was so edgy I wanted to smack the smirk off his thin face. But playing the great detective I returned his jerky grin, added, “I... er... got a big bagged tonight and she turned huffy.”

“She'll get over it,” Mr. Lonelyheart said smugly.

“I'm going out for some fresh air. Give her message, if she phones.”

I walked through the deserted streets to the night club. It was closed and through the glass door I saw a young fellow in old army fatigue clothes starting to clean up. By twisting my neck I could also see the manager at the bar, checking the cash with the bouncer and barkeep. I circled the block slowly, looking for any place where Rose might be hiding. I also kept looking over my shoulder to see if I was being tailed. I tried thinking of a story in case I ran into the local cop, but my mind wouldn't come up with anything. There was a big old house with a glass enclosed porch and a TOURIST sign over the doorway, around the corner from the club. The place was completely dark. I rang the bell a few times.

After a couple of minutes a light snapped on inside and a moment later a guy in an old-fashioned nightgown came to the door. He was about thirty-five and still half-asleep. Long, stringy dark hair seemed to be sticking straight up from his head and the bony legs at the other end of the nightgown were shaking with cold. He was an odd looking guy with a drawn face and a long lantern jaw. He asked, “You ring my bell?”

“Did a tall woman check in here around midnight?”

He blinked and rubbed his arms against his sides. “Nobody has checked in here all month, officer.”

“I'm not a cop. Are you sure...?”

“Geez. You got me out of my bed to ask that? I ought to bust you one on your nose!”

“Skip the tough chatter, you're not built for it,” I said, waving another five dollar bill. “Here, buy yourself some salt water taffy. Nobody checked in at any time tonight?”

He opened the door wide enough to take the money. “I don't know if this is worth getting up for. We ain't had a guest in months. Summertime is when we get people.” He held the bill up to his face, saw it was a five spot. “Anything else?”

“Forget it and sleep warm,” I said, turning away. One thing: in “detective” work, flashing money was better than showing a badge.

I went around the block in the opposite direction and even poked under the boardwalk. I sat on some stone steps and shook the sand out of my shoes, watching the waves breaking, the crests foamy clean and white in the darkness. Away out I saw the dim lights of a ship, a big one. The ocean seemed so safe. I cursed myself for ever being stupid enough to leave the islands, for not realizing we had life in the bag.

I walked back to the club. There was only a single light deep inside the place. I banged on the glass door with a coin. It made an awful racket. After a moment the porter in the army fatigues came up and asked through the door what I wanted. I said I'd lost something in the club. He told me to come back tomorrow afternoon. Pressing two ten dollar bills against the door, I said, “I want to look for it now.”

He hesitated. He had a worn RANGER shoulder patch on his fatigue jacket. It seemed wrong for him to be working as a porter. He also had a sort of holster full of tools hanging from the back of his belt. He took out a big wrench as he unlocked the door with his left hand, told me, “Make it quick, I've a lot of work ahead of me. What did you lose, a lighter?”

“No, a girl,” I said, stepping inside. The sight of my face worried him.

Backing away he asked, “You the guy who caused the roughhouse tonight?”

“Roughhouse?” I repeated, talking fast. “Buddy, my girl ran out on me. She isn't at her hotel and she left her coat here. I think she might be hiding around in the club, in the building. All I want is to make sure she isn't here.”

“And if you find her here, then what? I don't want any trouble.”

A wild feeling of joy raced through me: Rose was here! “Buddy, she wasn't running from me. I think she saw her husband and took a powder. I'm only trying to help her.”

I added another ten to the two in my mitt. He shook his head. Up close I saw he was older than I'd first thought. I told him, “Buddy, if I was here for trouble do you think that wrench would stop me? I worked with a Ranger team in Italy so I know you're tough. But look at my puss. I have a big edge on you in muscle and experience. Believe me: I'm only a guy hunting for a girl, afraid she's in trouble.”

“I'll chance it and believe you. Walk ahead of me, into the club.”

There was a single light on a stand in the center of the small stage. It was a big bulb but didn't seem to give out much light—the club looked smaller than I'd imagined, trashy and drab now. Two waxing machines stood on the tiny dance floor and with the chairs turned upside down on the tables, the joint seemed a weird forest of plain chair legs. The porter said, “Wait here while I get my keys,” and stepped behind the bar. He took something out of a drawer. It was a very black .45. He said evenly, “Maybe you're telling the truth, maybe not. I have a permit for this and know how to use it. So don't fool around.”

“Only an idiot talks back to a .45.”

Waving the gun at me like a pointer he told me to lean over the bar with my hands out. I did it, watching him in the bar mirror, expecting to have my head split open any second. All he did was give me a fast frisk, then he asked, “All right, what you want, her coat?”

“Okay if I stand up?”

“Go ahead. Only remember—no matter how tough you think you are—I have the difference in my hand. And don't try coming too close to me. Whatcha want?”

I dropped the three tens on the bar. “The hat check girl was sure my girl ran out of here. But I-have an idea she must have doubled back. There's a service alley outside, where does that lead to?”

“The kitchen. Be impossible for her to have returned there without being seen.”

“How about upstairs?” Rose might have returned and gone home with the cook. She was desperate enough.

“You blind? This is a one-story building. No way of reaching the roof from the outside.”

“How about the cellar?”

“There's a door from the outside but she'd have to be able to pick a tough lock. We'll look. Walk ahead of me. I'll steer you.”

The cellar was a clean, well lighted place with neat stacks of liquor cases and other supplies. I called out, “Rose, this is Mickey.” The sound echoed back sadly and faded into the plain silence. I nodded at a locked door in one corner.

“The oil burner. She couldn't be in there.”

I asked, “Can we look?”

He walked me over and unlocked the door. There were only a couple of big tanks and the burner. We went back upstairs and through the kitchen, looked in the refrigerator room. Standing in the center of the dance floor I called Rose's name again and didn't even get the weary echo.

He asked, “That about ends the tour. Satisfied?”

“Let's stop horsing around: where is she?”

“Jack, the first thing I do when I report is check the place. We do find a drunk sleeping around now and then. She isn't here. I would have called the police if she had been. I don't take a chance with female drunks.”

“When I first came in you said something about if she was here. Sounded to me like you knew she was here.”

“Mister, I had to know the play in case she returned while you were here. I don't stand still for a guy walloping a dame but I ain't going to risk my life over it either. You want her coat, take it. Hanging over there. Let me get back to my work. I have to finish by morning.”

“Forget the coat.” I headed for the main door. We passed two doors cleverly marked STAGS and MARES. “Let's look in here.”

“If it will make you happy, but be careful, the floors are slippery. I've already hosed down the toilets so...”

“You did what?”

He gave me a cautious look. “Hosed down the toilets. I always start with them. You want to make sure, let's go.”

“No, it's okay. I guess she'll get in touch with me. Sorry I bothered you.” I tried not to walk too fast toward the door.

“Jack, you'd better get a decent night's sleep,” he said, unlocking the door with his left hand.

“Yeah. You know how it is, I just met her and thought we'd... you know.”

“I don't know, I'm happily married.”

“Lucky you,” I said, rushing out. He locked the door, waved his gun at me, and went back to work.

I walked toward the center of town, hunting for a phone. Even though as a detective I was a good sailor, I felt cocky again, for I knew where she was. In fact Rose'd told me where she was going. Although I'd made a mistake back there, calling her name—after I'd told the Fed she was “Jane,” still, that didn't matter now.

As Rose stood up at the table she'd said, “I'm going to the head.” Rose had been on boats enough to call the john a head.

I'd been sitting around like a dummy while Rose had somehow gone back to Asbury Park and the Sea Princess... the only place she could go to.