Night Extra

8

The next morning at nine-thirty Terrell walked into the crowded lobby of the Clayton Hotel, which was an informal gathering place for Ike Cellars and his top assistants. Cellars had no office, kept no fixed schedule; he came into the city each day from his home in the suburbs, and spent a few hours at the Clayton chatting with friends and receiving reports on gambling action in all sections of the city. He was also available to supplicants who passed the careful surveillance of his bodyguards. But he wouldn’t commit himself to appointments; he didn’t like to deal with anything so speculative as the future. People who needed to see him just hung around hoping that he might have a moment to spare. That was all they could do. Conferences with Cellars were never leisurely or redundant; he usually leafed through a paper or stared absently at the crowds around him, while the questions were put, the favors begged, the situation explained — then he said yes or no, and turned away. And it was understood there was no appeal from his verdict.

Cellars ran most of his business from the Clayton without reference to books or figures. But he knew to a penny the balances his auditors would bring to him at the end of each week.

Terrell didn’t see him in the lobby, but he noticed a number of his men standing around, portly, substantial types for the most part, studying racing forms, or chatting with one another in an atmosphere of money, cigar smoke and very special and formidable kind of privilege. Terrell went into the barber shop and settled himself in Nick Baron’s chair. Nick was a voluble and intelligent little man, and one of Terrell’s best sources. He worked literally under the nose of Ike Cellars’ men, but he had long ears and an unswerving loyalty to Sam Terrell. Every tip he heard went straight to Terrell’s desk, installments against a debt he could never adequately repay. For Terrell had helped to save Nick’s daughter when the child was dying of a rare blood disease; through his column he had alerted blood-donor services throughout the country, and enough of the girl’s blood type was found to keep her alive for months. And during that time the disease responded to a new combination of antibiotics, and the girl’s life was saved. Nick Baron was emotional and garrulous; but when he had said, “I’ll never forget this,” he had been speaking the truth with simplicity and precision.

“How’s it going, Mr. Terrell?” he said, putting a towel around his neck with an elegant little flourish. “You look like you could use a facial, a little tone-up, eh?”

“No, I’m just a bit hung. How about using that vibrator on my throbbing skull. That helps sometimes.”

“Stop treating your stomach like a concrete mixer. That helps, too.”

“Wire your scoop to the American Medical Bulletin,” Terrell said. “But first iron out some of my bumps.” Terrell had seen two of Cellars’ men in the shop but he knew the sound of the vibrator would cover his conversation with Nick.

“Sure, sure,” Nick said, coming around to his side. His face was thoughtful; he understood what Terrell wanted. They had used this arrangement in the past. “So what’s new?” he said, slipping the band of the electric vibrator onto the back of his hand.

“Nothing much,” Terrell said. “How’s Angela?”

“Fine, just fine. She’s making another novena for you. I told her you’re a shoo-in, but that don’t stop her.” He switched on the vibrator and began massaging Terrell’s forehead with his fingertips.

“I’m going to describe a man to you,” Terrell said. “Tell me if he’s been around.”

“Sure, sure,” Nick said, raising his voice slightly. “I bet him to win. Courage, that’s what I got. Brains? Money? No, but lots of courage.”

“He’s big, black-haired, with a scarred forehead. Tough-looking, a gorilla. Have you seen him, Nick?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

Terrell saw the perspiration on Nick’s upper lip and he realized that the little barber was frightened. “That’s okay, forget I asked.”

“No — he was in here two days ago with Ike. That’s all. I know. Want me to ask around?”

“Absolutely not. Forget it.”

“Whatever you say.”

Terrell glanced at his watch. “That’s enough. I’ve got to be going.”

He paid Nick, tipped him a quarter and slipped into his topcoat. His heart was beating faster, and he could feel the excitement running through him; he had the story now. Proving it was another matter, but he had the blunt, ugly outline: Ike Cellars had hired a hoodlum to kill Eden Myles and thus frame Caldwell. That wasn’t a hunch, or a clever inference, that was the truth. But what was truth? Something twelve men could agree on. Could he make a case against Cellars that a jury would believe?

Terrell was turning toward the street entrance, when a man’s voice said, “Sam boy, just a second.”

He looked around and saw that one of Cellars’ men, Big Manny Knowles, was smiling at him from the doorway that led to the lobby. Big Manny was a sheepish giant, with small, near-sighted eyes, and an expression that usually registered something just short of bewilderment. He strolled toward Terrell, rocking from side to side like a buoy in a gale, and dropped a hand gently on his arm. “Ike wants to see you, Sam,” he said. “Let’s don’t keep him waiting. You know how busy he is.”

“I worry about it a lot,” Terrell said. “For about six seconds on the first of each month I worry about Ike. Sometimes I have to rush it a little, but it’s the feeling that counts.”

Big Manny glanced uneasily toward the lobby. “Get it out, Sam,” he said. “You know he don’t like being kidded around with.”

“Take your hand off my arm, for Christ’s sake,” Terrell said. “You think I’m one of your numbers writers?”

“There’s no point yapping at me,” Big Manny said. “I’m just doing what I’m told.”

“All right, let’s enter the presence. Do we go in backwards or on our hands and knees?”

“I wish you’d cut it out,” Big Manny said. “You know how he feels about smart talk. Why not be polite? It don’t cost a damn thing.”

“Just a little self-respect,” Terrell said.

“Why be so serious about everything? Everybody respects you, Sam.”

“Let’s go,” Terrell said.

Cellars was standing at the cigar stand, leafing through a magazine, a healthy-looking man with dark brown skin and hair as lustrous and beautiful as old silver. He wore a light gray flannel suit, a luxurious, well-cut garment, and a camel’s hair coat with slash pockets and hand-stitched lapels. On either side of him were big, purposeful-looking men in dark clothes. They studied Terrell carefully, then let their eyes slide off his face to check the crowds hurrying past Cellars.

“Good to see you, boy,” Cellars said smiling, putting out a wide, soft hand. “You’re a scarce character.” The smile narrowed his black eyes to slits, but it didn’t affect the cold, heavy turn of his lips. “I been trying to catch up with you for a couple of days.”

“Did you try the office?”

Cellars turned his palms upward in a gesture of self-deprecation that was patently phoney. “I got no system. I just go around hoping I’ll bump into people I want to see. Most of the time I do.” He put a hand casually on Terrell’s arm. “Here’s what I wanted to see you about. We’ve got some really but terrific pictures from the circus. You know, our big day with the kids. You know, eh, Sam?”

“Yes, I know,” Terrell said. Each year Cellars sponsored a well-publicized outing for a group of the city’s orphans. They were fed lavishly, entertained at the. circus, and photographed extensively with Cellars, Mayor Ticknor, and other civic dignitaries. Local papers covered the affair dutifully, but Cellars’ press agent complained that the story was played down because of a prejudice against Cellars’ gambling interests. Most editors agreed with him. Some even suggested that orphans were picked because they didn’t have parents to protect them from Cellars’ shoddy publicity stunts.

“This year was the greatest,” Cellars said, chuckling in a deep, confident voice. “It would have put years on your life, Sam, to watch those kids enjoying themselves. And the food they put away! I used up the best part of fifty turkeys, and that was just the start.” Without turning his head he said, “Ben, let’s have those pictures.”

Ben Noble, his press agent, said, “Right off the griddle, Ike,” and put a thick manila envelope into Cellars’ outstretched hand. “Get a look, Sam.” Cellars removed a dozen or so glossy prints. “I don’t want to take up your time now. You can go through them later at the office. But how about that blond kid with the lion tamer? Ever see anything like that?”

“It’s great,” Terrell said. “Moving.”

“I’ll have my girl send you over all the material you need,” Cellars said. “Names, ages, some cute little stories and gags that Noble came up with. She’s got a regular file, Sam. Real clean stuff. The sort of thing decent people go for.”

“People like my readers, is that what you mean?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Terrell smiled slightly. “I’ll bet you’ve got enough material to fill my column for the next two weeks. Until after elections anyway.”

“That’s right,” Cellars said, nodding slowly. “I hope you don’t think I’m being heavy, Sam. But fill your space with something sweet. You’ll find that’s a good tip.”

“Maybe I should take a vacation for a couple of weeks,” Terrell said. “Would that be a good idea?”

“Good’s a funny word,” Cellars said, watching him carefully; his eyes were points of dark light between gray, narrowed lids. “I don’t use good and bad. I use smart and dumb.”

One of the big men beside him shifted restlessly. “I think he looks run-down, Ike. Maybe a vacation would be smart.”

“Maybe,” Cellars said.

“You two have a nice act,” Terrell said. “Like an organ grinder and a monkey. Why don’t you send him around the lobby with a cap and a tin cup, Ike?”

Cellars shoved the folder of pictures roughly into Terrell’s stomach. “Don’t be funny with me, snoop.” The power of the man was suddenly naked in his face; Terrell could see the sadistic needs in his eyes, and in the turn of his cold, thick lips. “You take these pictures. And you look at them every day, and you remember what I been telling you.”

Terrell’s mouth was dry, and he knew that his forehead was damp with perspiration. But he let the pictures drop from his hands to the floor. “My space is booked for the next two weeks,” he said. “I don’t have a paragraph to spare.”

Ike Cellars looked down at the prints that lay at his feet. The powdered face of a clown stared up at him, mocking sadness with a false nose and drawn-on spaniel’s eyes. Cellars let out his breath slowly and carefully, as if he were releasing a volatile and dangerous substance that could conceivably explode in his face. “That’s all I had to say, Sam. Beat it.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Terrell said.