Ed Russo looked up carelessly from his low-voiced conversation; the thin mouth tightened, but he did not break off until it became apparent to him that Johnny had no intention of moving on. “What the hell, Killain?” he demanded forcefully. “This is a private conversation.”
Johnny considered the dapper man; it was not the reaction he had expected.
Russo was addressing his companion. “This is the guy I was telling you about that tanked me, Tim.” He turned back to Johnny, eyes on the brow patch. “For you, I hope it's nothing trivial, mister. All your troubles should be major.” His voice sharpened as the bitterness showed through. “I got fifty bucks right here says you can't take me again, wise guy.” Johnny blinked. He sends three goons to entertain you, and now he wants to bet you fifty he can do it himself? Whoa, Killain. Wrong script. Back up and get a fresh start. Russo was getting impatient; the lean, arrogant features were poised upward. “Well, sonny boy? I'll take you for fun, money or marbles.”
“You couldn't take one side of me,” Johnny growled, but the riposte was mechanical. To himself he was forced to admit that Ed Russo's response seemed genuine.
The dapper man flushed darkly; he started to rise. “Right now I'll show you, hot shot. Out in the alley.”
The big man across the table from him put a hand on Russo's arm; he spoke for the first time. “Business before pleasure, Ed.” He sounded quite jovial; Johnny looked at the expensive dark brown gabardine slacks and the cream-colored sport coat; the man had a round moon face and a livid scar that pulled down a corner of the heavy mouth.,
“You're right,” Russo was saying in evident disappointment. He sat down again slowly. “Not tonight.” He looked up at Johnny. “But any time after tonight. Any time at all. Right, Tim?”
Tim looked at Johnny; he removed a fat cigar from his breast pocket and rolled it lightly between his palms. “He looks healthy to me, Ed. What makes you think you can take him?”
“You think I can't?” Russo was angry again. “I'll bet you fifty, too. I never saw a bull like that I couldn't take!”
“You know I ride with you, Ed.” The big man said it soothingly; Johnny thought that he had never heard a deeper voice than the big man's heavy resonance. “Does it hurt to mention the guy must weigh as much as I do?”
“I don't care what he weighs. I won't be half splashed the next time he takes his sucker shot.” He rapped impatiently on the table with the bottom of his shot glass and looked around for the waiter. “Come on. Let's have one more drink and get moving.”
He had so obviously dismissed the interruption from his mind that Johnny straightened a little self- consciously; as he backed away uncertainly, until he stood with his back to the bar, Russo and the big man were again engrossed in earnest conversation.
Johnny tried to make up his mind-was Russo conning him? Somehow he didn't think so. Yet if Russo hadn't sent the goon squad, who had? Johnny shook his head, which ached. Maybe a drink would help his muddied thought processes; he left the bar to go upstairs, conscious of a massive letdown sensation.
In his room he already had a drink poured before it occurred to him he hadn't seen Sassy. She couldn't hear him come in, but the vibration of the floor under his feet always brought her trotting. He made a quick circuit of the room and the bathroom without finding her. Had she gotten out somehow? He dropped to his knees and grunted with relief when he saw the fluffy mound under the bed. “Come on out here, you,” he ordered her. “Where's that welcome I always get?”
She stared out at him, and, vaguely uneasy, he reached in for her. She didn't want to come; she hooked her claws into the rug in protest, but there was no real fight in her. He lifted her out and looked in alarm at the dull eyes and the drooping whiskers; he placed his palm lightly on the small pink nose. It was dry and hot, and even the usually lively tail hung limply.
Johnny made a hurried round trip to the refrigerator and tried to tempt the kitten with a sliver of shrimp. Yesterday she would have taken shrimp and a finger to the first joint; now she lay motionless after one apathetic sniff. He sat back on his heels and looked down at her with concern. “What the hell, baby doll-you're sick.”
She tried to crawl back under the bed, and that decided him. In the yellow pages of the phone directory he ran down the list of names, looking for the one he wanted. Kendrick… Lacy… Landry. Landry. Jeff Landry. He reached for the phone on the night table.
“Landry Cat and Dog Hospital-sorry, we're closed,” a woman's voice announced in a parroted gabble.
“Let me talk to Jeff Landry.”
“I'm afraid he's too busy to come to the phone right now-”
“Tell him it's Johnny Killain.”
The line hummed, and he waited impatiently. “Johnny? Is it really you?”
“Yeah, Jeff. Fine friend I am, only callin' you when I need a favor. I know it's after hours for you, but I got a sick kitten here. Be a good guy an' let me bring her over?”
“Johnny Killain with a sick kitten? It beggars the imagination. Come to the back door.”
“I'm halfway there. Put some beer on the ice.”
In the closet he found an empty shoe box which seemed large enough. He punched several pencil holes in each end, put Sassy into it and put on the cover. The kitten made little effort to fight off even this indignity, and Johnny left the room hurriedly.
In the lobby he ran into Mike Larsen. “Buy you a drink, Johnny?” Mike looked at the tape decorating Johnny's forehead. “What happened to you?”
“Tripped on the top step. Listen, Mike. Ed Russo's in the bar, third booth from the door. Take a look at the guy with him and see if you know him. I'll be back in an hour, and you can buy me that drink.”
Going through the foyer doors he was whistling for a cab.
CHAPTER 9
A he rear of the long, low building on the side street was dark, but Johnny's knock was answered almost immediately as Jeff Landry opened the door himself, hand outstretched. He practically dragged Johnny over the threshold with the vigor of a grip surprising in a man of medium size.
“Johnny, you bandit! Wonderful to see you again.” Jeff Landry was a slender man casually dressed in khakis and tennis shoes. His hair was ash-blond and close-cropped, and horn-rimmed glasses tended to minimize but not wholly conceal the impact of a face of quiet strength. The mouth and chin were firm to the point of being stubborn.
“I'm not much of a neighbor for a guy who lives just cross-town, Jeff. In the cab I was thinking how the neighborhood here had changed since I'd seen it.”
“More than you think.” Jeff Landry tapped the box under Johnny's arm. “Let's have a look at the patient. We can talk later.”
Johnny followed the veterinarian through a semi-dark maze of tiered wire cages and runways; an occasional yelp or bark disturbed the quiet, and Johnny could feel a slight scrambling in the box under his arm as the variegated smells filtered through to the kitten. There was a musty, animal odor in the air, overladen with a piny tang, and an antiseptic pungency which increased in strength as they moved to the front of the building.
He blinked at the dazzling fluorescent light which flooded the white formica-topped tables and the chromiumed instruments in glassed-in cabinets ranged around the wails of the examination room into which Jeff led him. An assortment of odd-looking machines with dangling electric cords took up most of the working space on the metal coverlet that hinged down over the double sink with its gleaming faucets and rubber hoses trailing down to the tiled floor.
Johnny looked around him and whistled softly. “You sure have improved things, Jeff.” He tapped the examination table lightly as he placed the shoe box upon it. “Looks like you could take care of me on this thing.”
“Too good for you.” Jeff Landry's voice was matter-of-fact.
Johnny laughed. “I know you better than to think you're kiddin', too.” A dozen years ago in northern Italy he had seen Jeff Landry charge a squad of soldiers abusing a mongrel dog. Jeff had needed help, but not a great deal; the white heat of his anger had dissolved the would-be sadists like melted butter.
