Chapter VII
The dim lights in the single open section of the long bar in the Villa Nueva struggled ineffectually with the pale rays of the late afternoon daylight slanting through the port hole window as Johnny entered. On the deserted looking bandstand the instruments lay sheathed in their canvas covers, and the persistently stale aroma of last night's cigarette smoke hung in the air. Johnny sat down on a middle stool and contemplated the bartender's back and the double reflection of artificial and natural light from the oddly shaped bottles on the back bar.
“I'll have the usual, Dave.”
Dave Warren looked up from his preoccupied glass-washing, a smile breaking out on his sallow face. “Johnny! Am I ever glad to see you.” He advanced purposefully to the center of the bar, drying his hands on his apron. “C'mon and take a little walk with me.”
“Walk? I came in to sit, boy. And drink.”
“C'mon and take a look at someone who had the same idea first.”
“I don't give a damn about any drunks you might have tucked away in a back booth, Dave.”
“You might give a damn about this one.”
“Shirley?”
“In the flesh. In the very, very sloppy flesh.”
Johnny silently slid off his stool and followed the white-shirted Dave to the booth in the farthest corner of the empty club. The tiny booth light shone faintly on the dark girl who was sprawled over the booth table with her head down on her arms. She was dressed in a rainbow hued harlequin shirt and gold toreador pants, both of which trimly enhanced the superlative figure. She had scuffed, dirty sneakers on her feet and filigreed bronzed hoops in her ears, and the nearer hand on the table top was so tightly clenched the knuckles glistened.
Johnny turned to Dave. “She get loaded here?”
“Some,” the bartender admitted. His voice rose plaintively. “What the hell could I do? She had a skillful when she got here, but I didn't wise up in time. Then when I tried to shut her off, she got nasty. Threatened to yell the walls down. Started in to do it a couple of times, too, when I was a little slow refilling her glass. Can you get her out of here, Johnny? I hate to ask you, but if the boss should ever see her like this-”
Johnny stared down at the girl in the booth. “I'll get her out of here.”
“Geez, would you?” Relief beamed in Dave's round face, followed by doubt. “She won't go easy, though. She's been like this for a week. Not drunk… that's something new. Nasty. Starting to take it out on the customers, too. The old man said something to her about it the other night, and damn if she didn't take out after him, too. It don't make for longevity on the payroll, Johnny.”
Johnny nodded in agreement. “Get a cab around to the back door, Dave.”
“She says she won't go till she's damn good and ready,” Dave warned him anxiously. “She's meaner than a snake right now.”
“You get the cab,” Johnny told him. “She'll go.”
He reached down and tapped a rainbow hued shoulder and the shoulder twitched rebelliously. “Lea' me alone, Dave.” Johnny tapped the shoulder again, and the dark head came up from the forearms with what would have been a snap if her reflexes had been better, and Johnny noticed that the cameo-like quality of the usually flawless pale features under the jet black hair was marred by a puffiness around the eyes.
She had difficulty in focusing on him, and when she did the beautiful mouth twisted. “Th' boy scou',” she said thickly. “Ged the hell oudda here.”
“On your feet, Shirl. I'm takin' you home.”
The red-lipped mouth did a reverse twist. “You're not taking me anywhere, you… you buff'lo. You get away from me.” The voice rose harshly. “Or I'll
“Jesus!” Dave said in an awed tone, roundeyed. “What the hell was that?”
“Nerve-end pressure,” Johnny said impatiently. “Will you for God's sake get that cab around here?”
“Yeah. Sure. Right away.” Dave bustled off to the front, turning once to look back curiously. Johnny sat down across from Shirley's limp figure, lit a cigarette, and waited. After a moment he reached across the table and took hold of a wrist; he pushed the long sleeve of the harlequin shirt well up above the dark girl's elbow, and carefully inspected the smooth flesh of the inner arm as far as he could see. Disappointed, he released the wrist and took up the other one, pushed back the sleeve, inspected the arm, and thoughtfully released it. The wrist watch caught his eye; he removed it, turned it over and held it up to the light while he impassively read the inscription, and restored it to the wrist.
The door behind him opened, and over his shoulder he could see Dave's white shirt and the cabbie's cap. He stubbed out his cigarette, rose, lifted the girl from the booth and carried her to the door.
“I explained to him,” Dave was saying unnecessarily as Johnny stepped down with his burden and maneuvered into the back seat of the cab.
“Doesn't need much explanation,” the cabbie said sourly. He was an elderly man with a pinched face; he slid back under the wheel, obviously glad he didn't have to help.
“She lives at the Hotel Francis on 48th,” Dave volunteered. “Thanks a million, Johnny. I couldn't have handled it.”
Johnny nodded; as the cab pulled away across Broadway and Seventh Avenue he leaned forward. “Never mind that Hotel Francis, Mac. Go on over to the first block of East 65th.”
The cab slowed immediately; Johnny could see the driver watching him in the rear view mirror. “I'd have to hear her say that, mister. That's a good-looking girl. I know Dave, but I don't know you. I'm not getting mixed up in any white slave-”
“Will you shut it off?” Johnny demanded wearily. “Take me there; you can come back with the cops later.”
“Well-” Despite the reluctance in the cabbie's tone the cab turned right on Eighth and sped north; Johnny fumbled Shirley's purse out of her bag and looked for her keys. He was going through the contents for the second time when he realized that she had the apartment key clipped on with the Hotel Francis key. He slipped the keys in his shirt pocket, and returned the purse to the bag, and as if it were a signal Shirley stirred on the seat beside him and lifted her head. She looked around dazedly.
“Wha' happened?”
“You passed out,” Johnny told her.
“Oh.” She closed her eyes again, and the cabbie spoke quickly.
“Where you want to go, lady?”
The eyes opened, but they didn't see him. “Home,” Shirley said promptly. “Feel awful.” The eyes closed positively.
“Well, look, lady-” The cab slowed again as the driver turned to look at the again comatose Shirley. He bristled as he felt Johnny's eyes on him. “Look, Jack… you don't like the way I'm doing this maybe you'd like to walk the rest of the way? I-”
Johnny's voice cut across his like a razor. “I've had a hard day, Mac. You expect to enjoy your meal tonight, you get over to East 65th, and fast.”
The cabbie muttered under his breath, but the cab accelerated. They rode in silence until they entered the block, and Johnny leaned over and shook Shirley awake. “Can you walk?”
“Certain'y I c'n walk,” she said indignantly, but made no effort to prove it as Johnny paid the disapproving driver. When he had helped her onto the sidewalk, however, she didn't do badly with the assistance of his hand beneath her elbow, and in the elevator the bored operator took no more than one look at them. They emerged in good order on the third floor, and Shirley's key in Johnny's hand admitted them. He snapped on the lights in the tiny hallway; he had been there before, but he looked again with fresh interest.
To the left of the hallway was a sunken living room with pastel love seats and kidney shaped glass tables. The heavy drapes were dove gray, and the carpeting and the ceiling a rich moss green. The massive fireplace extended up the wall where it formed itself into an oversized chimney festooned with hanging copper skillets and mugs. A mahogany baby grand crowded the nearer corner, and a strangely anachronistic grandfather clock stood sentinel at the far end of the room. On the upper level to the right a room that would have been a dining room if it
