My Gun Is Quick

Chapter Five

It was nice to get back to Lola. I found her apartment on West Fifty-ninth Street and walked up two flights to 4-C. Even before I could get my finger off the buzzer she had the door open and stood there smiling at me as if I were somebody. She was dressed in black again and there was no plunging neckline. There didn't need to be. It was easy to see that not even calico or homespun could be demure on her.

Her voice was soft as kitten's fur. "Hullo, Mike. Aren't you coming in?"

"Just try to keep me out."

I walked into the foyer, then followed her into a tiny livingroom that had been dressed up with all the gimcracks women seem to collect when they live alone. The curtains were starched stiff and the paint was fresh enough to have a lingering smell of turpentine. When I slid into an overstuffed chair I said, "New place?"

She nodded and sat down opposite me and began mixing highballs from a miniature bar set. "Brand new, Mike. I couldn't stay in... the old place. Too many sordid memories. I have a surprise for you."

"Yeah, what?"

"I'm a model again. Department store work at a modest salary, but I love it. Furthermore, I'm going to stay a model."

There was a newness about her as well as the apartment. Whatever she had been was forgotten now and the only thing worth looking at was the future.

"Your former--connections, Lola. How about that?"

"No ghosts, Mike. I've put everything behind me. What people I knew will never look for me here and it's a thousand-to-one chance they'll run into me anywhere else. If they do I can pass it off."

She handed me the drink and we toasted each other silently. I lit up a Luckie and threw the deck to the coffee table and watched her while she tapped one on a fingernail. As she lit it her eyes came up and caught me watching her.

"Mike," she said, "it was nice last night, wasn't it?"

"Wonderful." It had been--very.

"But tonight you didn't come up... just for that, did you?"

I shook my head slowly. "No. No, it was something else."

"I'm glad, Mike. What happened was awfully fast for me. I--I like you more than I should. Am I being bold?"

"Not you, Lola. I'm the one who was off on the wrong foot. You got under my skin a little bit and I couldn't help it. You're quite a gal."

"Thanks, pal." She grinned at me. "Now tell me what you came up for. First, I thought you were only fooling about coming to see me and I got kind of worried. Then I thought maybe I was only good for one thing. Now I feel better again."

I hooked an ottoman with my toe and got it under my feet. When I was comfortable I dragged in on the butt and blew smoke out with the words: "Nancy was killed, Lola. I have to find out why, then I'll know who. She was in the oldest racket in the world. It's a money racket; it's a political racket. Everything about it is wrong. The only ones who don't give a damn whether school keeps or not are the girls. And why should they? They're as far down as they can go and who cares? So they develop an attitude. Nothing can hurt them, but they can hurt others very easily... if they wanted to. I'm thinking of blackmail, Lola. Would Nancy have tried a stunt like that?"

Her hand was shaking so she had to put the glass down. There were tears in her eyes, too, but she managed a rueful smile and brushed them away. "That was rough, Mike."

"It wasn't meant for you, kid."

"I know, I'm just being silly. No, I don't think Nancy would do that. She might have been a--been no good, but she was honorable. I'd swear to that. If she wasn't what she was she could have been a decent woman. As far as I know she had no vices, but, like I told you, she had a reason for doing what she did. Perhaps it was the money. I don't know. It is a quick way to get rich if you have no moral scruples."

"Supposing money was her reason. Any idea why she might have needed it?"

"That I can't tell you. We had no confidences, merely a bond that held us together."

The circle was getting me dizzy. "Look, let's go back further. Go back to the call-girl system. Who ran it?"

For the first time her face went white. She looked at me with fear in her eyes and her lips tight against her teeth. "No, Mike!" Her voice was barely audible. "Keep away from them, please."

"What's scaring you, honey?"

It was the way I said it that made her shrink back into her seat, her fingers digging into the arms.

"Don't make me tell you things I don't want to remember!"

"It isn't things you're afraid of, Lola. It's people... what people? Why does it scare you to think of them?"

I was leaning forward now, anxious, trying to make something out of every word she spoke. She was hesitant at first, turning her head from side to side as though someone else could be listening.

"Mike... they're vicious. They don't care what they do. They... wreck lives... as easily as they'd spend a dollar. If they knew I ever said anything they'd kill me. Yes, they would. It wouldn't be the first time, either!"

It might have been Pat talking. The fear left her face and anger took its place, but there was still a quiver in her voice.

"Money is all they're after and they get it. Thousands... millions... who knows. It's dirty money, but it's good to spend. It isn't like the houses... it's bigger. One tight little group has it so organized nobody else can move, and if you try to operate alone something happens to you. Mike, I don't want anything to happen to me!"

I got up and sat on the arm of her chair, then ran my fingers through her hair, "Nothing's going to happen, baby. Keep talking... all of it."

For an answer she buried her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably; I could afford to wait. In five minutes she was cried out, but still shaking. There was a haunted look in her eyes that went with the tenseness in her shoulders and her nails had drawn blood from her palms. I lit another butt and handed it to her, watching while she sucked on it gratefully, taking the smoke down deep, seeking a relief of some sort.

Then she turned those haunted eyes on me and said, "If they find out I told you... or anybody, anything at all, they'll kill me, Mike. They can't afford to have people talk. They can't afford to have people even suspect. I'm afraid! And what could you do... it's been going on forever and it will keep going on as long as there are people. I don't want to die for something like that."

I picked my words carefully because I was getting mad again. "Kid," I told her, "you don't know me very well. You don't, but there are plenty of guys who do. Maybe they're able to scare the hell out of decent citizens, but they'll drop a load when I come around. They know me, see? They know damn well I won't take any crap from them, and if they get tough about it they'll get their guts opened up for them. I got a gun and I've used it before... plenty. I got a license to use it, which they don't have and if somebody gets killed I go to court and explain why. Maybe I catch hell and get kicked out of business, but if they pull the trigger they sit in the hot seat. I'm calling the plays in this game, kid. I like to shoot those dirty bastards and I'll do it every chance I get and they know it. That's why they scare easy.

"And don't you worry about anything happening to you. Maybe they'll know where it came from, but they won't do anything about it, because I'm going to pass the word that I want somebody's skin and the first time they get rough they'll catch a slug in the front or back or even in the top of the head. I don't care where I shoot them. I'm not a sportsman. I'd just as soon get them from a dark alley as not, and they know it. I play it their way, only worse, and somebody is going to worry himself into a grave over it."

My hand was resting on her shoulder, and she turned her head and kissed my fingers. "You're kind of wonderful, even if you do tell me yourself," she said.

The haunted look in her eyes was gone now.

Lola took another drag on the cigarette and snubbed it out, then reached for the glasses. When they were filled she handed me mine and we touched them briefly and drank deep. She finished hers with one breath in between, then set it back on the table. She was ready to talk now.

"Nobody seems to know who's behind the system, Mike. It may be one person or it may be several. I don't know the details of the pay-off, but I do know how the racket operates. It isn't a haphazard method at all, and you'd probably fall flat on your face if you knew who was involved. Right now there are some girls with an amazing social standing who were, at one time, no better than me. They got out in time. They made the right contacts between 'appointments' and married them.

"You see, the real call-system is highly specialized. The girls are of only the highest calibre. They must be beautiful, well educated, with decorum enough to mingle with the best. Their 'clients' are the wealthy. Generally an appointment means a weekend at some country estate or a cruise along the coastline on some luxurious yacht. Of course, there are other appointments less fancy, but equally as lucrative, as when somebody wants to entertain a business associate. Apparently tactics like that pay off to the extent that the money involved means nothing.

"A girl is carefully investigated before she is approached to take part in the racket. It starts when she is seen around town too often with too many men. In the course of her travels she meets other girls already in the racket who seem to have everything they want without having to do much to earn it. These acquaintances ripen into easy friendships and a few hints are passed and the girl begins to take the attitude of why should she do the same things for free when she can get paid for it.

"So she mentions the fact and introductions are made to the right people. She is set up in a nice apartment, given an advance and listed in the book as a certain type. When a party wants that type he calls, or makes the arrangement with an in-between, and you're off on your date. Whatever gifts the girl gets she is allowed to keep and some of them make out pretty well. The money that is paid for her services is passed in advance and the girl gets a cut from that, deposited to her account in a bank.

"Oh, it's all very nice and easy, a beautiful deal. There aren't any ties on the girl either. If she happens to run across someone she cares for, she's free to quit the racket and get married, and she can expect a juicy bonus for the time in service. That's one reason why there's no kickback. The girls never talk because they can't have anyone know of their associations, and the system won't force them to stay because there's nothing more dangerous than a hysterical woman.

"But there are times when one of the girls becomes dangerous. She can develop a conscience, or take to drink and find herself with a loose tongue, or get greedy and want more money on the threat of exposure. Then the system takes care of itself. The girl simply disappears... or has an accident. If we hear of it, it's a lesson to us to do one thing or another... keep quiet or get out... and keep quiet then, too.

"I learned my lesson well. When I got careless and became a disease carrier I lost my place in the system. Oh, they didn't mention the fact... one of the other girls did. I suddenly had an expensive apartment on my hands and no income, so I cashed in what I had and moved on down the ladder. I was too ashamed to go to a doctor and I didn't know what else I could do, so I started drinking. I met some more people again. Those people didn't care what I had. They got me a room in a house and I was in business again. It took me a long time to get smart, but I did, and I went to the hospital. After I came out the house was gone, Nancy was dead and you were there."

She slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes as though she were exhausted. I said, "Now some names, Lola."

Her eyes were mere slits, her voice practically a whisper. "Murray Candid. He owns some night clubs, but he's always at the Zero Zero Club. He is the contact man I met. He made all the arrangements, but he isn't the top man. The town is worked in sections and he covers the part I worked. He's dangerous, Mike."

"So am I."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know, kid. You can't go in and accuse a guy without proof, even if you know you're right. The law's on his side then. I need proof... what could I use to stick him?"

"There are books, Mike... if you could find them. They'd love to do without books because they'd be almost clean then, but they can't because they can't trust each other."

"Would this Candid guy have them?"

"I doubt it. He'd keep temporary records, but the big boy has the important data."

I stood up and finished my drink. O.K., Lola, you did fine," I said. "It's something to work on... a place to start. You don't have to worry because I won't bring you into it. Sit tight around here and I'll call you from time to time. There are still things you probably know that I don't, but I can't tell what they are yet."

Lola came up from her seat slowly and slid her arms around my waist. She laid her head on my shoulder and nuzzled her face into my neck. "Be careful, Mike, please be careful."

I tilted her chin up and grinned at her. "I'm always careful, sugar. Don't worry about me."

"I can't help it. Maybe I ought to have my head examined, but I'm crazy about you."

She stopped me before I could speak by putting her finger on my lips. "Not a word, Mike. Let me do the liking. I'm no good and I know it. I'm not going to mess into your life a bit so you can let me go on liking you if I please. No obligations, Mr. Hammer, I'll just sit on the side lines and throw kisses your way, and wherever you are you'll always know that where I am is a girl you'll always have to yourself. You're a nice guy, you big lug. If I had the sense to lead a normal life you'd never get away from me."

This time I shut her up. Her body was a warm thing in my hands and I pressed her close to me, feeling tremors of excitement run across her back. Her lips were full and ripe, and whatever she had been was cleansed and there was no past for a brief instant. When I kissed her, her mouth was like a flame that fluttered from a feeble glow into a fiery torch.

I had to shove her away roughly before everything else was forgotten. We stood there, two feet apart, and my voice didn't want to come. When it did I said, "Save yourself for me, Lola, just me."

"Just you, Mike," she repeated.

She was still there in the middle of the room, tall and beautiful, her breasts alternately rising and falling with a craving neither of us could afford, when I went out the door.

The Zero Zero Club was a cellar joint off Sixth Avenue that buried itself among the maze of other night spots with nothing more than two zeros done in red neon to proclaim its location. But it was doing a lively business. It had atmosphere; plenty of it... that's why they called it the Zero Zero. Both visibility and ceiling were wiped out with cigar smoke.

Down the stairs a cauliflower-eared gent played doorman with a nod, a grunt and an open palm. I gave him a quarter so he wouldn't remember me as a piker. The clock on the wall read eleven-fifteen and the place was packed. It wasn't a cheap crowd because half of them were in evening clothes. Unlike most joints, there was no tinsel or chrome. The bar was an old solid mahogany job set along one wall, and the tables were grouped around a dance floor that actually had room for dancing. The orchestra was set into a niche that could double as a stage for the floor show if necessary.

The faces around me weren't those of New Yorkers--at least those of the men. Most could be spotted as out-of-towners looking for a good time. You could tell those who had their wives along. They sat at the bar and tables sipping drinks, with one eye on the wife and the other on the stray babes, wondering why they had been talked into taking the little woman along.

Yeah, the atmosphere was great, what you could see of it. The Zero Zero Club took you right back to the saloons of a western mining camp, and the patrons loved it. Scattered throughout the crowd were half a dozen hostesses that saw to it that everyone had a good time. I got a table back in one corner that was partially screened by a group of potted plants, and waited. When the waiter came over I ordered a highball, got it and waited some more.

Five minutes later a vat-dyed blonde hostess saw me there and undulated over to my table.

She gave me a big smile from too-red lips and said, "Having fun?"

"Not so much."

I leaned over and pulled out a chair for her. She looked around once and sat down with a sigh, using me as a breather between courses. I signalled the waiter and he brought her a Manhattan without asking. She said, "It isn't tea, friend. You're paying for good whisky."

"Why tell me?"

"The farmers out there have read too much about hostesses drinking cold tea. They always want to taste it. So we don't drink at all, or have a small cola."

There wasn't much sense fooling around with chitchat here. I finished my drink, called for another, and while I waited I asked, "Where's Murray?"

The blonde squinted her eyes at me a moment, checked her watch and shook her head. "Beats me. He hardly ever gets here before midnight. You a friend of his?"

"Not exactly. I wanted to see him about something."

"Maybe Bucky can help you. He's the manager when Murray's away."

"No, he couldn't help me. You remember Nancy Sanford, don't you?"

She set her glass down easily and made little rings on the table with the wet bottom. She was looking at me curiously. "Yes, I remember her. She's dead, you know."

"I know. I want to find out where she lived."

"Why?"

"Look, honey. I'm an insurance investigator. We have reason to believe that Nancy Sanford was actually somebody else. She was using a phoney name. Oh, we know all about her, all right. But if she was this somebody else, we have a policy on her we'd like to clear up. The beneficiaries stand to collect five thousand dollars."

"But why come here?"

"Because we heard she used to work here."

There was a sad look in the blonde's eyes this time. "She was working in a house..."

"It burned down," I interrupted.

"Then she moved over to an apartment, I think. I don't know where, but..."

"We checked there. That's where she lived before she died. Where was she before either one?"

"I don't know. I lost track of her after she checked out of here. Once in a while someone would mention seeing her, but I never did. I'm afraid I can't help you at all. Perhaps Murray could tell you."

"I'll ask him," I said. "Incidentally, there's a reward that goes with finding the place. Five hundred bucks."

Her face brightened at that. "I don't get it, Mac. Five bills to find out where she lived and not who she was. What's the angle?"

"We want the place because there's someone in the neighborhood who can positively identify her. We're having trouble now with people putting in phoney claims for the money, and we don't want to lead them to anybody before we get there first, see?"

"In other words, keep all this under my hat until I find out. If I can find out."

"You got it."

"I'll buy it. Stop back again soon and see if I learned anything. I'll ask around." She finished her drink and turned on her "having fun?" smile, waved to me and went back to the rest of the party. The kid wanted money, all right. She'd keep it under her hat and ask around. It wasn't exactly what I had come for, but it might give me a lead sometime.

Five drinks and an hour and a half later Murray Candid came in. I had never seen him before, but when the waiters found something to do in a hurry and the farmers started chucking hullos over, looking for a smile of recognition that might impress the girlfriend, I knew the boss had come in.

Murray Candid wasn't the type to be in the racket at all. He was small and pudgy, with red cheeks, a few chins and a face that had honesty written all over it. He looked like somebody's favorite uncle. Maybe he was the one to be in the racket at that. The two guys that trailed him in made like they were friends of the family, but goon was the only word that fitted them. They both were young, immaculately dressed in perfectly tailored tuxedos. They flashed smiles around, shook hands with people they knew; but the way they kept their eyes going and the boss under their wing meant they were paid watch-dogs. And they were real toughies, too. Young, strong, smart with a reckless look that said they liked their job. I bet neither one of them smoked nor drank.

The band came on then, with a baby spot focused on the dance floor, and as the house lights were dimming out I saw the trio turn into an alcove over in the far corner. They were heading for the place I wanted to see--Murray Candid's office. I waited through the dance team and sat out a strip act, then paid my check and picked my way through the haze to the alcove and took the corridor that opened from it.

There were two doors at the far end. One was glass-panelled and barred, with EXIT written across it. The other was steel, enamelled to resemble wood, and there was no door-knob. Murray's office. I touched the button in the sill and if a bell rang somewhere I didn't hear it, but in a few seconds the door opened and one of the boys gave me a curt nod.

"He's in. Your name, please?"

"Martin. Howard Martin from Des Moines."

He reached his hand to the wall and pulled down a house phone. While he called inside I felt the door. It was about three inches thick and the interior lining was of some resilient soundproofing material. Nice place.

The guy hung up and stepped aside. "Mr. Candid will see you." His voice had a peculiar sound: toneless, the ability to speak without accentuating any syllable. Behind me the door closed with a soft click and we were in an anteroom that had but one decoration--another door. This time he opened it and I stepped inside at once.

I was half-way across the room before I heard a cough and looked to see another door about to close. The place was lousy with doors, but not a sign of a window.

Murray Candid was half-hidden by a huge oak desk that occupied most of the wall. Behind his head were framed pictures of his floor-show stars and studio photos of dozens of celebrities, all autographed. There was a couch, a few easy chairs and a small radio and bar combination. That was all, except for the other goon that was stretched out on the couch.

"Mr. Candid?"

He rose with a smile and stretched out his hand. I took it, expecting a moist, soft clasp. It wasn't. "Mr. Martin from, ah, Des Moines, is that correct?"

I said it was.

"Sit down, sir. Now, what can I do for you?"

The goon on the couch hardly turned his head to look at me, but he rasped, "He's got a gun, Murray."

He didn't catch me with my pants down at all. "Natch, brother," I agreed, "I'm a cop. Des Moines police." Just the same, it annoyed the hell out of me. The coat was cut to fit over the rod and you weren't supposed to notice it. These guys were pros a long time.

Murray gave me a big smile, "You officers probably don't feel dressed unless you're armed. Now, tell me, what can I do for you?"

I sat back and lit a cigarette, taking my time. When I flicked the match into a wastebasket I was ready to pop it. "I want a few women for a party. We're having a convention in town next month and we want things set up for a good time."

If there was supposed to be a reaction it was a flop. Murray drew his brow into a puzzled frown and tapped his fingers on the desk. "I don't quite understand. You said... girls?"

"Uh-huh."

"But how can I... ?"

I let him have a grin that was half-leer. "Look, Mr. Candid, I'm a cop. The boys come back home from a big time in the city and tell us all about it; they said you were the one to see about getting some girls."

Murray's face seemed genuinely amazed. "Me? I admit I cater to the tourist crowd, but I can't see the connection. How could I supply you with girls. I'm certainly not a--a----"

"I'm just doing like the boys said, Mr. Candid. They told me to come to you."

He smiled again. "Well, I'm afraid they were mistaken, Mr. Martin. I'm sorry I can't help you." He stood up, indicating that the conversation was over. Only this time he didn't offer to shake hands. I told him so-long and put on my hat, letting the goon open the doors for me.

The boy gave me a polite nod when I went out and let the door hiss shut behind me. I didn't know what to think, so I went to the bar and ordered a drink. When I had it in my hand, cold and wet, I watched the bubbles fizz to the top and break.

Cold and wet. That was me all over. There wasn't a floor or wall safe in the office, nothing, for that matter, where my nice Mr. Candid could hide any books if he kept any. But at least it was an elimination, supposing there were some books. If they weren't here they were somewhere else. Good enough... it was an angle worth playing.

When I finished the drink I got my hat and got clear of the joint. The air above ground wasn't very clean, but it smelled like a million bucks after the fog in the Zero Zero. Directly across the street was the Clam Hut, a tiny place that specialized in seafood and had a bar where a guy could keep one eye on his beer and the other on the street. I went in and ordered a dozen of the things and a brew and started the wait.

I had it figured for a long one, but it wasn't. Before I had half the clams down Murray Candid came out of his place alone and started walking west. His pace was more businesslike than leisurely, a cocky strut that took him up the street at a good clip. I stayed on the other side and maybe fifty feet behind him. Twice he stopped to gas with some character and I made like I was interested in a menu pasted on the window of a joint. Not that I was worried about being seen... there were too many people making the rounds for me to be singled out.

By the time we had walked half-way across town and cut up a few streets I figured where Murray was heading. There was a parking lot down the street on my side and he jay-walked across, angling towards it, and I had to grin. Even if he did spot me I had the best excuse in the world. My heap was parked in the same lot, too.

I let him go in, then trailed him by twenty feet. The attendant took my ticket and handed me my car keys, trying to keep his eyes open long enough to take his tip.

My car was down in the corner and I hugged the shadows going to it. There was no sound except that of my feet in the gravel. Somewhere a door should be slamming or a car starting, but there was nothing. There was just the jungle noise of the city hanging in the air, and the stillness you would find when the tiger crouches ready to spring.

Then I heard it, a weak cry from between a row of cars. I froze, then heard it again and in a second I was pounding towards the spot.

And I ran up a dark alley of chrome and metal into the butt end of a gun that sent me flat on my face with a yell choked off in my throat. There was no time to move, no room to move before I was being smashed across the head and shoulders. Feet were plowing into my ribs with terrible force and the gun butt came down again and again.

I heard the sounds that got past my lips, low sounds of pain that bubbled and came out in jerks. I tried to reach up to grab something, anything at all, then a hard toe lashed out and into my cheek and my head slammed against metal and I couldn't move any more at all.

It was almost nice lying there. No pain now. Just pressures and the feeling of tearing flesh. There was no sight, no feeling. Somewhere a monotonous-sounding voice said, "Enough this time."

Then another voice argued a little quietly that it wasn't enough at all, but the first voice won and the pounding ceased, then even the hearing stopped. I lay there, knowing that I was asleep, yet awake, dreaming a real dream but not caring at all, enjoying a consciousness that was almost like being dead.