Shake a Crooked Town

CHAPTER IX

Johnny raised his eyes from the green baize tabletop at a touch on the shoulder. He turned his head to find Rudy at his right. The competent-looking gambler bent down until his lips nearly brushed Johnny's ear. “Fella to see you outside,” he muttered.

“Yeah. Sure. In a minute,” Johnny said absently, his eyes on the flow of the cards from the dealer's hands. He had been in high-level, concentrated combat for six hours. He o picked up his hand, looked at an ill-assorted trey, six, eight, ten, and jack, and pitched them into the discards when the pot was opened in front of him.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the base of his neck. Successful poker is a game of very little chance in which stamina, patience, intuition, and the ability to concentrate to the exclusion of everything except the card table kept a man consistently on the right side of the ledger. Johnny had learned at an early age that in no other card game does luck play as small a part.

He looked down at a satisfying accumulation of chips in front of him. He had weathered an early dry spell by conservative tactics until the cards began to run his way. He was well aware that poor cards carry nowhere near the penalty in such a game as good cards that are not good enough. It had been a night of small hands, few raises, and air-tight, grinding poker in which he had managed to win a bit more than his share of the skimpy pots. It was a night in which running second two or three times on big pots could wipe I out the profits of hours of concentrated effort. It was not a I bad time to be called out of the game, he decided.

Johnny pushed back his chair. “Cash me in for now,” he said to the banker, and rose and stretched his cramped muscles. He remembered times when he had sat in a game from Friday to Monday and wound up with his feet in a pail of water to keep awake, but six or eight hours now left him tightened up physically and mentally. He counted his stacked chips, checked the banker's count on the stack of crisp green bills and stuffed the folded wad in his pocket.

Rudy held him for a moment at the door. “I like the way you float with the current when you haven't got 'em,” he said. “Also the way you make 'em pay to see 'em when you do. I thought maybe a little stronger bankroll would let you dig in the spurs a little deeper. How about it?”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “You'd bankroll me?”

“I like to keep a man of my own in the game,” Rudy explained. “I can't be everywhere at once in here. You'd keep the game moving, watch out for sharpies, hold down the arguments, that kind of thing. I'll pay you a flat two fifty a week or if you like your own game you can have twenty-five per cent of what you win. I stand the losses regardless.”

Johnny shook his head. “It's a good offer, Rudy, but I like to pay my own.”

“Okay, okay,” Rudy shrugged, opening the door. “It's open if you change your mind. Your man's up the block around the corner. To the right.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Johnny had nearly forgotten why he had left the game. He stepped out on the street, shivering in the chill wind that had risen during his hours inside. He walked up the block, his trousers wind-whipped against his legs. He wondered what had brought Dick Lowell out on such a night. He turned the corner and lowered his head against the full force of the wind. Damn, winter surely came early in this country.

“Over here, Killain.”

Johnny came to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He looked at the parked car from which the voice had come and then hastily checked the store doorways behind him. It had not been Dick Lowell's voice.

A car door slammed on the street side and a bulky figure emerged from behind it. “This is on the level, Killain,” Chief Riley said. “I know you won't get in the car. Where can we talk?”

Johnny looked up and down the deserted street. He noticed that the chief was out of uniform. “What's the matter with right here?” he asked warily.

“Fine with me,” Riley agreed. “Let's just step into this doorway out of the damn wind.”

“Let's just let me set up the housekeeping arrangements,” Johnny countered. In the doorway they stood so that Jack Riley's broad back shielded Johnny from anyone passing by. “Did you just stop in yourself at the game and ask for me?”

“Yes.”

“No flies on that Rudy,” Johnny said. He explained about the job offer. “Lowell walks in an' asks for me, you walk in an' ask for me, so Rudy figures right away to hire himself someone close to the crown to add a little depth to his defenses.”

“What did Dick Lowell come to see you about?” Chief Riley demanded at once.

Johnny looked at him. “You came over here to ask me what Lowell wanted to see me about?”

“All right,” the chief said resignedly. His heavy features looked serious. “I've got a little proposition, Killain. I don't have to like you to work with you. I've got a job for you.”

“Runnin' a poker game?”

Riley ignored the interruption. “I don't know what you're doing here but I take back what I said earlier about your umbrella being no good. You've got Lowell leaning on me from one direction and Daddario from another, although I'll be damned if I can see why. I'll cut it short. I'll pay you a thousand dollars to find someone for me.”

“In Madagascar?”

“Right in this town. I think.”

“The chief of police offers me a thousand bucks to find someone in his own home town,” Johnny murmured. “Forgive me if I sound a little confused. Who is it?” He anticipated the answer and was already prepared to disbelieve it.

“Micheline Thompson.” Johnny drew a breath but the chief held up a placating palm. “Wait a minute before you start in, Killain. It's simpler than you think. I want to know where she is, but I can't look for her and I can't send anyone to look for her because I can't trust anyone.”

“You're just overflowin' with trust in me, though.”

“If you run to Daddario with this I'll deny it. He knows we don't like each other, on top of which he don't like you.”

Riley gestured impatiently. “I need action. In my book you're a sonofabitch on wheels, but you get action.”

“Thanks for the double-edged testimonial. What are you tryin' to do, submarine Daddario?”

“I'm taking care of Riley,” the chief said stolidly.

“How do I get paid if I take it on?” Johnny asked.

“C.O.D. with the accent on the O.D.”

“Put it up with Rudy,” Johnny told him. “To be released by a phone call from you.”

“That sounds all right,” Riley decided. “It will be there by nine in the morning.” He glanced around at the windswept street. “Remember, if you find her, tell me. No one else. And don't come to headquarters. Call me. I'll meet you somewhere.” He strode out to his car.

Johnny watched him drive off. Well, Killain? Daddario evidently tells his business to no one. It was a little incredible Riley wouldn't know where Micheline Thompson was, but if it was true it wasn't incredible that he couldn't make a move to find her himself without Daddario finding out. If Rudy said the thousand was there in the morning it would be a pretty good indication that Riley was leveling.

He stepped out of the doorway and bucked the wind again on the way to Mrs. Peterson's. Very shortly he was going to have to ask himself a question he'd been avoiding. He'd done a lot of talking about Micheline Thompson but he'd made no real effort to find her. And he knew why.

He was afraid of what he would find.

Jim Daddario might have a violent temper and have everyone in Jefferson tiptoeing around him, but Johnny didn't see how Daddario could control an unacquiescent Micheline for this length of time. The girl he'd known years ago would have reduced Jim Daddario to one-inch strips and knitted a shawl with the pieces. Since she showed no sign of doing it, she almost had to be a part of the whole scheme. The whole dirty scheme.

Face to face with the idea, Johnny found he didn't like it. If what he suspected were true, Micheline Thompson had almost as much to do with the violent death of her husband as though she'd used the knife on him herself. How could the girl he'd known wind up doublecrossing her own husband? But she'd said it herself: people change.

Let it go for tonight, he decided, grimacing in the stinging wind. Start fresh in the morning. It might look better.

He reached Mrs. Peterson's, went upstairs quietly in the darkened house and went to bed and to sleep.

It looked no better in the morning. Dressing, he recalled the timing of the calls that got him out of the Duarte and the police in. It had been no accident. He had been suspicious then. If she weren't a part of the whole thing only a gun in her back should have been able to persuade Micheline to make the call to Johnny.

He looked at his watch. Ten after eight. First breakfast and then he'd decide what to do. He slipped into Mickey Tallant's jacket and clattered down the stairs. Jingle stepped out of the living-room doorway and looked at him appealingly. “Won't you have breakfast with us?” she asked. “I'll make you some eggs.” She had on an oversized apron and carried a spatula in her hand.

Johnny had his mouth open to refuse when he saw Mrs. Peterson nodding yes over the girl's shoulder. He hesitated. He supposed this was part of the rehabilitation project, but he was in no mood to be held up by it. Every refusal that came to his mind sounded so ungracious that he finally nodded reluctantly. “Just bounce 'em once or twice off the stove, Jingle. I'm in a little bit of a rush.”

“How many?” she demanded eagerly. “Sunnyside up?”

“I'm ashamed to tell you how many.”

“Four,” Mrs. Peterson ruled, and the girl darted into the kitchen. Johnny removed the leather jacket. He caught Valerie Peterson's eye as they moved together into the kitchen.

“You said somethin' one time about the president of the city council runnin' after the ex-police chief's wife,” he said to her in a low tone with one eye on Jingle out of earshot at the stove. “Is it a fact or just some of the citizenry runnin' off at the mouth?”

“It's been freely spoken of,” Valerie Peterson said slowly, “but do you ever know?” She was silent as Jingle, in triumph, set down a mug of steaming black coffee and a plate of slightly scorched toast before Johnny. “Eggs coming up,” the girl said brightly, and returned to the stove.

“Up to a year ago I never would have believed it,” Mrs. Peterson continued. “I'm not sure that I do now. The little I saw of her she seemed pleasant enough, if not a ready mixer. And her little girl was darling.”

Johnny stared. “Little girl?”

“Surely.” Mrs. Peterson looked her surprise. “You didn't know? She has a daughter in Jingle's school, but a few grades back.”

Jingle placed a platter of eggs before Johnny. “Who has a daughter in my school, Val?”

“Mrs. Thompson, dear.”

“Oh, Genevieve Thompson.” Jingle looked at Johnny's mug. “More coffee, Johnny?” She was already on her way to the stove and returned with the percolator. “Genevieve must be sick, Val,” she said as she poured. “She hasn't been in school all week.”

Johnny strangled on a mouthful of toast and blew out a spray of crumbs. “Sorry,” he mumbled when he could speak. He grabbed up a fork and shoveled eggs and toast down indiscriminately. He burned his mouth on the coffee, winced, and pushed back his chair. “Thanks a million, Jingle. I'm good for a reference anytime. See you later.”

Valerie Peterson followed him out into the hall as he struggled back into the leather jacket. “What is it?” she asked quietly. “What upset you?”

“I been tryin' to think of a reason Micheline would hold still for Daddario's game,” Johnny said grimly. “If Daddario had his thumb on her kid wouldn't that be a damn fine reason?”

“Oh, he wouldn't,” she said immediately. She shook her head as Johnny's eyes bored into hers. “I can't say it with conviction, though. He might.”

“He did,” Johnny said flatly. “Nothin' else makes sense. Listen, don't breathe a word of this to anyone. Can I bring the kid back here? No, wait, that might not be such a good idea.” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “I'll think of something.”

“You can't do anything alone!” she protested as he started for the door. “You'd never reach Daddario. Kratz-”

“Kratz'll have to take his chances. Here.” He stopped to take out his wallet and removed a slip of paper with Toby Lowell's Washington phone number on it. “Call this guy an' tell him Killain said to haul his ass up here while there's still somethin' left of this town. Stay on the line till you get him.” He was out the door while she was still studying the number. On the street he headed for the real-estate office. He was so sure of this thing it was sticking in his throat like the dry toast. Why in the hell hadn't he seen it before? There had to be a reason Daddario could bull Micheline around.

At the real-estate office Johnny found the shades still drawn but the door open. “Where's Daddario?” he demanded of the single woman occupant. The glass door panel had been replaced.

“Mr. Daddario seldom arrives before nine-thirty,” she said stiffly. From her expression, she all too obviously remembered him as the wild man of two days before.

Johnny wasted no further time on her. He looked up Jim Daddario's address in the phone-booth directory. Then he walked into the street and waved his arms in circles. A block away, a cab in rank in front of a hotel responded to his semaphoring and rolled toward him. “212 Golden Hill Lane,” Johnny grunted, sliding into the back seat. He sat hunkered forward, his big hands knitting and unknitting. If his hunch was right, when he got his hands on Daddario The neighborhood of Golden Hill Lane upheld the name, he decided. On high ground, new apartment buildings flanked a park whose entrance was barred by a chain and a metal sign: PRIVATE-KEEP OUT. Johnny was reminded of Jessie Burger's apartment. Reminded because the two neighborhoods were differentiated by more than twenty years in age and a million or two in money. It was the atmosphere, and Jim Daddario had decided his long-time girl friend couldn't “grow” into his new style of living. The decision told nearly all he needed to know about the city council president.

The cab turned into an impressively deep horseshoe driveway in front of the largest apartment and stopped at a canopied entrance. Johnny got out and paid the driver, looking around at the evidences of comfortable living. If no bank presidents lived here it was probably because they couldn't satisfy the rental agent as to their financial standing.

He had double-barreled evidence immediately that no one walked up and knocked on the door of Jim Daddario's apartment. A doorman gave Johnny's leather jacket a fishy eye of his way in. Right in the center of the miniature lobby with its deep-pile carpeting a slender blonde girl sat at a modernistic switchboard. She looked at Johnny inquiringly. “Daddario,” he said.

Her eyes took him in impersonally. “The name, please?”

“Killain.” An alias wouldn't advance him any. And the woman at the real-estate office must have called.

The girl spoke into her mouthpiece in a low tone. She looked up at Johnny at once. “If you will wait just one moment, please, sir? The penthouse elevator will be right down.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” It would be down with someone on it, Johnny thought. He wondered if Jigger Kratz performed as an in-residence bodyguard. And a penthouse, yet. With a private elevator. Dick Lowell didn't live this well.

On a small raised terrace the gilded doors of two self-service elevators sat side by side. The one on the right opened noiselessly and Jigger Kratz stepped out. He walked out to the edge of the terrace and looked down at Johnny. His blunt features and flat-appearing eyes with the yellowish cast betrayed no special interest. “What's your business with the boss?” he asked Johnny. He made no effort to hold his voice down.

“I'll talk to him about it, Kratz.”

“Not today. You talk to me or you dry up an' blow away.”

“You talk a good game, man,” Johnny goaded him. He wanted Kratz in motion.

The big man smiled his gap-toothed smile. “My name's not Savino,” he rumbled. “Take off, Killain. While you can.”

Johnny took three fast steps toward the little flight of stairs. Jigger Kratz started down toward him. The instant the big man took his first step Johnny launched himself horizontally. His two hundred forty pounds viciously shoulder-blocked the ankle supporting Kratz's weight. The big man's forward momentum sent him up and over Johnny's head. His startled grunt was still audible when he smashed down upon the lobby floor, barely missing the switchboard booth.

Johnny scrambled up from his hands and knees and headed for the penthouse elevator. His right shoulder tingled. After scything down Kratz it had plowed into the top step. Only Mickey Tallant's leather jacket had saved him from a bad bruise or worse. He stepped aboard the elevator and punched the single button. As the doors closed he had a quick glimpse of the blonde girl leaning out over her booth staring down incredulously at Jigger Kratz on his knees shaking his head dazedly. His massive pinwheel had slowed the big man down only temporarily.

The elevator stopped so smoothly and the doors opened so soundlessly it was like watching a camera pan on a Hollywood luxury apartment. Johnny stepped out into more soft-carpeted self-indulgence. The furniture was new, angled, and blond. The pictures on the walls were bright daubs. Music came from somewhere to the right. Johnny followed the sound of it and came upon Jim Daddario at a desk, hunched over some papers. Beside him a hi-fi set played softly. At the sound of Johnny's muffled footfall the politician spoke without looking around. “What did he want, Jigger?”

“He wanted to talk to you,” Johnny said.

His chair was not a swivel chair but Daddario whirled about as though it were. He looked at Johnny, looked behind him for Kratz, then back at Johnny again. “How the hell did you get up here?” he asked harshly.

“What's so hard about it?” Johnny asked innocently. “I got on the elevator an' pushed the button.” He removed the leather jacket. Very shortly he would need the unhampered use of arms and shoulders.

Daddario rose to his feet, slapping at the switch of the hi-fi. He settled his horn-rimmed glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. “Goddammit, if you're not the biggest pest-!” he examined in exasperation. “What-”

He broke off to listen. They both heard Kratz the second he got off the elevator. No carpet could completely deaden that furious charge. Snorting through his nose, the big man plunged into the room. A sleeve was torn out of his jacket and his left ear was bleeding. He rushed Johnny without a word as Johnny set himself. Both launched right hand swings. Neither made any effort to duck or block the other's punch. Both connected. Each was knocked back a pace, but only a pace. Both gathered themselves to swing again.

Daddario stepped hurriedly in between. “Here! You think I want my place busted up by you two elephants? Cut it-”

Jigger Kratz disposed of his employer with a contemptuous backhanded slap. Jim Daddario staggered backward on his heels until his head hit the wall with a solid tunking sound. His glasses popped off his nose and dropped floorward as his body followed. There was a distinct crunching sound as the glasses were demolished under his dead weight, then he sprawled on his face, out cold.

Kratz never even looked in his direction. Lips drawn back from his teeth, he circled Johnny slowly. “When I get finished with you, man, you're gonna look like Thompson.” He tried to maneuver Johnny into a corner. “Every day of your life you look in a mirror you're gonna remember Jigger Kratz. I'll fix-”

Johnny rushed him, on the theory the big man was a lot more used to seeing them going away from him. Kratz stumbled backward as Johnny's weight rebounded from him. He flung up his arms as he started to fall. Johnny nailed him with three solid shots on his way down to the floor, right-left-right. He thought the bones in his hands had splintered on the rough-hewn features. Kratz bounced to his feet like a rubber ball, blood pouring from a cut beneath one eye. Eyes aflame he charged again.

A long right-hand punch landed right on top of Johnny's head and he felt his knees loosen. A sweeping left knocked him down. Kratz kicked him heavily twice before Johnny grabbed a leg and upset him. They rolled over and traded punches on their knees. They came up together and Kratz lowered his head and roared in like a billygoat. Johnny barely shouldered-blocked him to one side. Kratz missed the desk but went into and through the hi-fi. Johnny dived for him and they thrashed around in the fragments of expensive cabinet-wood, neither able to secure a handhold.

They rammed under the desk, Johnny momentarily on top. Wood screeched in protest and two legs collapsed. A flailing elbow hit Johnny in the eye as the desk sagged onto them. They kicked it out into the center of the room. It smashed down and dissolved like a house of cards. Jigger Kratz snatched up a broken-off desk leg and hit Johnny alongside the ear, knocking him over sideways. Johnny felt the ear puff up like a toadstool.

Adrenalin-charged anger powered him upright again. He took the next swing of the club on his shoulder, got his hands on it and wrenched it away, and with one savage smash fused Kratz's mouth and teeth into a bloody smear. He dropped the desk leg and went for Kratz's throat with both hands.

The big man bellowed hoarsely and rained blows on Johnny's face. They rolled over and over, crushing the lightweight furniture in their path. Johnny held on grimly, his lungs on fire with the effort. He could feel Kratz's blows weaken as the man heaved convulsively. Johnny redoubled his straining exertion, channeling every ounce of strength in his body into his hands. It was some time before he realized dimly that all movement beneath him had ceased.

He was so exhausted it took a distinct struggle to remove his hands from Kratz's throat. His thumbs were imbedded a quarter inch. He pulled himself to his knees and the room swam in circles around him. Doggedly, he jerked himself upright and fought to remain there. The sound he had been hearing for some time was his own breath whistling raggedly in his throat. Blood ran from somewhere down into his left eye. He slapped at it, impatient to remove it.

He looked around at the wreckage in the room. The heavy bodies had made matchsticks of the furniture. Daddario lay on his face, still unconscious. Kratz lay on his back. Johnny looked more closely. He was still breathing.

Johnny forced himself into motion. His legs felt heavy as iron posts yet trembled violently. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so completely drained. He hauled himself through the apartment, opening doors, supporting himself with handholds on every solid-looking object. He stumbled into a bathroom and in the medicine cabinet mirror stared into a face he didn't recognize. He pulled a towel from the rack and blotted off the face. He stared at the crimson imprint on the towel. The touch of the towel on his ear hurt so badly he looked in the mirror again. The ear was a blue-black puff-ball, and even as he looked it exploded and blood drained down his neck onto his collar. He wiped it off mechanically.

He took two cautious sips of water after rinsing his mouth and turned resolutely away. He knew his stomach would rebel at anything more. He felt a little better. Some of the iron-banded tightness had left his chest.

He resumed his search of the apartment, losing count of the rooms. Daddario hadn't stinted himself in his living. And then Johnny opened one more door and stared at a small, pajama-clad, bright-haired pixie sitting up on the bed returning his stare with interest. She looked about twelve.

“You've been fighting,” she said in a clear, cool little voice. “Your mother's going to be mad.”

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed. He cleared his throat. It seemed to have a pound of cotton in it. “Where's your mother?”

“Oh, she comes to see me afternoons.”

“Afternoons?” Johnny could taste his disappointment. Had all this been for nothing? “She's not here?”

The bright head shook itself negatively. “I'm getting awful tired of seeing her only afternoons,” she confided.

He could see that she had Micheline's features and he supposed that Micheline's dark hair and Carl Thompson's red thatch could combine to produce the taffy-colored halo on the bed. He remained in the doorway, afraid to move closer for fear his battered appearance would frighten the child, but aware he had to do something and do it quickly. “I knew your mother when she wasn't much bigger than you are,” he said tentatively.

“Betcha you didn't,” she said immediately, bright-eyed.

“Betcha I did, too.”

“You don't even know my name!” she scoffed.

“Sure I do. You're Genevieve Thompson. And your mother was Micheline Laurent when I knew her.” The taffy head bobbed in wondering agreement. “I think we'd better go and find your mother, Genevieve.”

She was immediately cool to the idea. “Mother said I should wait for her here.”

“But this is an emergency!” Johnny said desperately.

She shook her head, but not so decisively. “You do look like an emergency,” she decided. “Can I go back to school when we find my mother?”

“You bet your life you can,” he said fervently.

“And you won't let her be mad at me for not doing what she says?” Johnny crossed his heart silently. “Okay, I'll get dressed.”

“We don't have time,” Johnny said swiftly. “Would it be all right if I carried you?”

“In my pajamas?” she inquired doubtfully.

“We'll do you up in a blanket like an Indian maiden.” He advanced to the bed and bundled her up elaborately, picked her up and sat her on his arm. “There. Okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed. “I don't like these people, anyway, but mother said I should pretend.”

Johnny was already walking out through the apartment. He pulled the girl's blanket up like a hood before they reached the room in which the fight had taken place. The first glance showed Daddario and Kratz still on the floor and the uniformed doorman picking his way through the debris like a horror-stricken, long-legged crane. He whirled at the sound of Johnny's approach. “Don't make a move, Jack,” Johnny advised him. At sight of Johnny's face the doorman backed off hastily.

“Who was that?” Genevieve inquired with interest, riding Johnny's arm onto the elevator. “I couldn't see. Was that one of the bad men?”

“I figure him for just mediocre bad,” Johnny said, and she giggled. He carried her through the deserted lobby and out through the front door under the canopy. A taxi was at the right and a man in a tan topcoat was just about to enter it. Johnny crossed the walk in three long strides and tapped him on the arm. “Emergency, Jack,” he said.

When the man turned his eyes were at the level of the girl's blanketed figure. “What kind of-” He started to say, and his eyes came up to Johnny's face. “Jesus!” he said involuntarily. “Take it.”

Johnny was already depositing Genevieve inside. “Thanks, Jack,” he said, and climbed in himself. “546 Circle Drive,” he said to the driver.

He leaned back and slowly released breath he seemed to have unconsciously been holding for a long time.