stirrups on this ride, Keith. You might have to turn loose in a hurry.”
Warm blood flamed suddenly in the sportswriter's plump face, only to die out as quickly as it had appeared. Without another word Johnny left him standing there.
“He's scared,” he told himself in the elevator. “He's scared, all right. But not enough to talk. Yet.”
Johnny, seated on an upended box alongside the battered chopping block that served him as a dining table in the rear corner of the semi-deserted hotel kitchen, devoted his attention to the platter placed before him by the white-capped first cook. The large wall clock overhead indicated 8:00 p.m., but for Johnny this was breakfast. He waded into four eggs over light and an Eiffel Tower of hash-browned potatoes, a mound of toast and a steaming, oversized mug of bitter black coffee.
When he had cleaned up the platter and raised and lowered the level on the mug three times, he eased himself back with a repleted sigh and reached for his cigarettes. It was the few odd moments like this, he decided as he lit up, that made life worth living.
“Johnny!”
At the hail Johnny looked up to see Tommy Haines, the night bartender, waving to him from the connecting door between bar and kitchen. “Couple fellas out here to see you, Johnny.”
“They say who they were?”
Tommy shook his head negatively. “Want I should ask?”
“I'll take a look,” Johnny told him. He stood up and strolled to a corner of the kitchen that would give him a view of the bar booths.
“Second from the other end,” Tommy said in a lowered voice, holding the door with his knee as the bar boy passed through with a trayful of glasses. Johnny got one quick look at Rick Manfredi and Manuel Ybarra seated in the second booth from the other end and nodded to Tommy, who returned to his bar.
Johnny took two long drags on his cigarette and stubbed it out; he walked out into the bar and headed directly for the second booth. Rick Manfredi looked up at his approach, nodded but did not rise. “Sit down a minute, Killain.”
“Not in uniform,” Johnny told him. “You want a little privacy, we can walk out to the cloakroom.”
“Fair enough.”
Johnny led the way through the lobby to the cloakroom behind the bell captain's desk. Inside, he snapped on the light and turned to his guests. “Well, boys?”
The gambler was taking Johnny in inch-by-inch, his forehead creased. He looked at the paint-peeled walls and the unshaded light bulb, and then back at Johnny. “What's a guy like you doin' in a place like this?” he demanded abruptly.
“So what's outta focus with the place an' me?” Johnny asked him.
“The muscle,” Rick Manfredi said bluntly. “I been askin' a few questions around. Whyn't you hire out?”
“The people that pay the bills get allergic to my not sayin' 'yes, sir' often enough. I been here long enough so nobody bothers me.”
The chubby man offered Johnny a slim panatela. Johnny pocketed it, and Rick Manfredi stripped the cellophane off another, bit off the tip and spat it out. “How'd you like to work for me?” he asked as he reached for his lighter.
“It wouldn't work, Rick,” Johnny said patiently.
“Don't say that so fast,” the gambler said from around the cigar as he rotated it in the flame of the lighter. “Financially I might be able to make it worth your while.”
“I guess everyone can use money,” Johnny said slowly, “but lately I don't seem able to spend much. I accumulate enough cash from odds and ends around here so that every so often Chet Rollins, the hotel auditor, has to get on my tail about cashin' some back pay checks so he can close his books.” He looked at Rick Manfredi. “I'm not sayin' I'll never need it, but I don't need it now.”
“Why do you say it wouldn't work?” the gambler persisted.
“Because, when you had somethin' you wanted done, Rick, you'd put out a set of blueprints with the job. I don't work that way.”
The cigar waved in the pudgy hand. “Think it over, anyway. I could use you, and I think we could work it out.” He paused as though planning his next sentence, and Johnny glanced at Manuel Ybarra. The dark man smiled slightly and nodded his head in the very slightest degree. In agreement? Johnny couldn't be sure. “I been gettin' a bad report card on you, boy,” Rick Manfredi resumed. “Had a visitor a little bit ago. Ed Keith. Said he'd been talkin' to you today, and that you was askin' questions about me. That goin' on all over town?”
“Not all over,” Johnny said lightly.
“I don't like it,” the gambler said heavily. “Trouble I can't use. Why you got to get on my back?”
“I heard you say you didn't fix that fight,” Johnny said evenly. “I haven't heard anyone else say so.”
“Listen!” Rick Manfredi said hotly. “If an' when I fix a fight, mister, I don't wind up behind the eight ball with the slobs countin' the money. When I do somethin', I do it right!” He pointed the cigar for emphasis. “Don't crowd me, man.” The olive features turned a dull red as Johnny laughed.
“We already settled you can't buy me, Rick,” Johnny told him. “You think you can scare me? You know what I'd do, was I you? I'd find out who fixed that fight.”
The chubby man's eyes narrowed. “You say that like you think I don't have far to look. I'm beginning not to like a lot of the things you have to say, Killain.” The cigar was restored to the full-lipped mouth, the tip glowed redly and a thin stream of pale smoke emerged in driblets. “I didn't finish tellin' you about Keith. He wanted to borrow five grand so bad he could taste it. I gave it to him.”
“So you're hangin' up with me because Keith put you on the arm for five thousand?” Johnny asked disgustedly. “If it's that easy, I'll take ten myself.”
“The five grand is nothing, I got a story for the five,” the gambler said. “Come to find out Keith went the same way I did on the fight, but he didn't have it to pay off. Now, who bets five grand he don't have on a fight?”
“So he knew it was fixed. So did you, an' I don't see them pinnin' no medals on either of you.”
“He could go like Gidlow went, an' then where's your five?”
“Newspapermen don't get killed,” the gambler said stubbornly. “And how often do you get a chance to put a big-sheet sportswriter in your pocket? It could be a good investment.”
“Regardless of what other pockets he's in?”
The hooded eyes narrowed again. “Like whose?”
“Turner's.”
The silence built up in the cloakroom. “You sayin' Turner fixed that fight?” Manfredi asked finally. He frowned. “I can't see it. He's got too much to lose.” The frown deepened. “I hope you're wrong. I wouldn't like to think it was him I tied into on this deal. That's a tough rooster.” He looked at Manuel, who shrugged neutrally. The round man snapped his fingers. “I've got to make a phone call.” He pointed at Johnny. “One more chance, boy: I'll put you to work.”
“Some other time, Rick. Phone booths are right outside.” Johnny delayed Manuel as Manfredi went out into the lobby. His eyes were on the mark on the bronzed cheekbone, reduced now to a livid scar. “No more excitement?”
Manuel touched the mark tentatively with a fingertip. “Nothing,” he said easily. “For now.”
“I never did ask you if you recognized them,” Johnny said casually.
“If you didn't ask, I wouldn't have to lie,” the dark man replied gravely, and smiled at Johnny. “I don't think they want to kill me.”
“Why the hell should they? Four or five good head shots, an' you sit in the dark the rest of the way.”
“It has occurred to me.” The eyes were shadowed, but the lips were firm. “Shall we join Rick?”
“You joined him a long time ago,” Johnny said softly. “I hope you knew what you were doin'.” He led the way out into the lobby.
CHAPTER VIII
