small man with a smile-and coy brown eyes. He had on a red necktie. I wrote Karl Craven on the register.
“Have you a reservation, Mr. Craven?” the clerk asked.
I looked at all the keys in the boxes. “What the hell would I need a reservation for?” I asked.
He giggled. He got out a key and gave it to the Negro. “We have to ask,” he said. “It impresses some people.”
I went to the elevator. The women were looking at me. One of them was younger than the others; a pretty redhead with her skirt pulled high over crossed legs. Her face was sullen, and when I looked at her she stared right back at me. She had beautiful legs.
The elevator made it to the third floor and the porter led me to 317. He put the bags down, and while he opened the windows I took a gander at the room. There were twin beds and a big dresser with a white stain where some gin had spilled, and a couple of big chairs. There was a Bible and a phone book on the dresser. There was a patch in one of the green bedspreads. By the door the rug was worn. On a table between the beds was an old- fashioned telephone with an unpainted metal base and a transparent celluloid mouthpiece.
The Negro finished the windows. He looked in the bathroom and the closet. He was stalling for a tip. “Boy, who's the babe in the lobby?” I asked him.
“The young one?”
“The redhead.”
“That's Miss Ginger. She's a friend of Mr. Pug Banta.”
I remembered the name. He was a former East St Louis gangster. Not an important hood, though. He'd run alky and killed a couple of guys in the old days. He was tough enough, but he never was a big shot. I remembered he was supposed to be running a bunch of roadhouses somewhere further west.
“And Mr. Banta wouldn't like it if I fooled around?”
“No, sir.” The Negro was positive about it. “Sure wouldn't like it.”
“Well, I got another chance,” I said. “A very swell blonde. She's got a chauffeur.”
The Negro said: “That's the Princess.”
“The hell!” I said. “What Princess?”
“She live at the Vineyard. Head of the women there.”
“The place up on the hill?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What's your name?”
“Charles.”
“Well, Charles, what are they like up there?”
“Oh, they all very holy.”
“I couldn't call up and ask the Princess for a date?”
His eyes got big at the idea. “No, sir,” he said. “No, sir.”
I threw him a quarter, but he didn't go away.
“I can ...” he began.
“How young?”
“'Most any age.”
“I like 'em around fourteen.”
His eyes spread out. “Mister, that's jail bait in this state.”
“Well, I'll let you know,” I said.
He started to go. “Hold it,” I said. I looked in the phone book for Mrs. Edgar Harmon's boarding-house. It was at 738 B Street. The Negro said that was only six blocks away. “Okay,” I said.
He left. I took off my coat and the shoulder holster and my shirt. The shoulder holster always chafed me when it was hot. I went in the bathroom and washed my face and chest. I dried myself and put on a clean shirt. My old one was wringing wet. Oke Johnson was living at Mrs. Harmon's boarding-house. I decided to walk over there. He'd written he had something. We needed something.
The clerk behind the reception desk simpered at me. He looked like a pixie. I thought, quite a hotel; service for all. I went out. I saw A Street to the left, and a block further along I saw B Street. I was in the three-hundred block. The numbers went up on my right. Seven hundred and thirty-eight was a big, red-brick house with maples growing in front. There was a porch and stairs that needed a coat of grey paint. Oke had picked the place, he wrote me, because he wanted to work quietly. He was a smart Swede; the only smart one I ever saw. I went up the stairs and pushed the doorbell.
A fat woman in a black dress with white lace on it came to the door. There was a mole on her left cheek, just past the corner of her mouth. She had been weeping. “Yes?” she said.
“Mr. Johnson, please.”
Her puffy eyes came open. “Are you from Mr. Jeliff?”
“No.”
“Oh, you're from the police. Come in.” She went on talking so fast I didn't have time to say anything. “I guess
