Johnny held up a hand as the telephone rang. “You here?” he asked his guest curiously.
“Like hell I'm here!” Ed Keith paled at the thought. “Don't get to thinking you can put the finger on me-” His bluster died out nervously as Johnny picked up the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Senor Johnny? Thees ees Manuel Ybarra.” The ex-fighter's words crackled with excitement, his accent thickened. “I am een a coffeepot at 59th and 9th Avenue. Can you come over?”
“Why, for God's sake?”
The dark man's voice lowered as though he had cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. “I 'ave jus' seen a body come downstairs from a third-floor apartment at Two-twenty West Fifty-ninth Street.”
“Cut it out, man,” Johnny said impatiently. “Whose body? An' what's so special about Two-twenty West Fifty-ninth?” Across the room he could see Ed Keith tense in his chair.
“Eet's a man called Dave Hendricks. You know heem?”
“Slightly,” Johnny acknowledged. Ed Keith's big blubbery face seemed to be disintegrating feature by feature.
“I know a little story about thees man.”
“I'll be there,” Johnny said shortly, and hung up.
The newspaperman's eyes were enormous. “It's Dave, isn't it?” His words came out in a croaked whisper. “He's dead, isn't he?” At Johnny's nod his voice rose piercingly. “I knew it, I knew it!” He stumbled up out of his chair and ran to the door; the room shook behind him from the violence of its closing.
Johnny shook his head gently as he headed for the closet and his clothes. Whatever Ed Keith knew, it wasn't agreeing with him.
Manuel Ybarra lifted a hand in greeting from his end-booth position as Johnny entered from the street, but from the moment Johnny had seen the small sign Costi's in the window of the coffee shop he knew he wouldn't be getting around to his conversation with Manuel right away. It was a very small world, sometimes.
He walked directly to the cash register and held out his hand to the stocky Greek presiding over it. “Hello, there, six-syllables-ending-in-cr,” Johnny greeted him.
“Hah!” the stocky man said explosively, seizing the hand and wringing it effusively. “Finally you remember you have friends, hah?”
“I've got one waiting for me over here,” Johnny said, nodding at Manuel. “Come on an' have a cup of coffee with us.”
“And why not?” the Greek exclaimed cheerfully. “Millie! Take the register!” He came out from behind the counter and grabbed Johnny's hand again. “It makes me young again to see you, Johnny!”
Johnny couldn't help smiling at the man's effervescence. “How's the family?”
“Four babies now,” the stocky man said proudly. He slapped Johnny on the back exuberantly. “Oh, I am one hell of a man in that bedroom!”
At the booth Johnny introduced Manuel. “This is Costi Constantinopolos, Manuel. Manuel Ybarra, Costi.” The two dark men shook hands as they all sat down. Costi clapped his hands for coffee, turning at once to Johnny.
“It takes you a year to walk fourteen blocks?” he reproached him.
“It's no farther the other way,” Johnny argued mildly, and the stocky Greek smiled brilliantly.
“At least we were closer when it counted,” he agreed, and turned to include Manuel in the smile. “He saved my life,” he said, and nodded at Johnny.
“He twisted his ankle on a loose rock,” Johnny replied to Manuel's inquiring gaze.
“Hah!” Costi burst out. “After we had swum a mile through a mined harbor, climbed eighty-five feet of sheer rock in the pitch black night, and killed a man who badly needed killing, then I slipped on a loose rock and broke the ankle.” He looked at Johnny gravely, the exuberance gone. “How, I'll never know. Any more than I know how you got me out of there. That cliff-” He shook his head and turned again to Manuel with more of his usual vigor. “This Johnny has involved you in trouble?” he asked cheerily. “Oh, I tell you he is noted for that.”
“I think rather the other way around,” Manuel said soberly. “Or soon, perhaps.” His eyes were on Johnny speculatively.
“Oh, I tell you trouble will have its hands full, then,” Costi said merrily. The dark eyes alertly tabulated the customers, the waitresses and the counter as he spoke. “He is something, this Johnny.” He snapped his fingers, started to shout something up to the front of the room and half rose to his feet, his voice apologetic. “You will excuse me? It's my busy time.”
“Come back if you get a chance, Costi,” Johnny called after the already retreating figure. “He's from Cyprus,” he explained to Manuel. “A real fish in the water. Greatest underwater demolition man you ever saw. He pulled off a stunt one time you wouldn't believe.”
“And now he sells coffee,” Manuel said softly.
Johnny shrugged. “Kind of limited market for underwater demolition men these days. An' one thing about Costi-if he didn't like it, he wouldn't be doin' it.”
“You were frogmen?”
“Unofficial ones,” Johnny said briefly. “Now what'd you get me out of bed for this mornin'?”
Manuel's thick-knuckled hands toyed with his coffee cup. “This Hendricks,” he began carefully. “He was killed with a small-caliber gun. The police-”
“How long ago did this happen?” Johnny interrupted. “How do you know already it was a small-caliber gun?”
The dark face was serious. “It is said the bullet between the eyes remained in the skull. The bullet of large caliber would surely have removed the back of the head.”
“Who said the bullet remained in the skull?” Johnny demanded.
“A man who was paid to talk.”
“I don't get it, man,” Johnny said impatiently. “What is all this double talk?”
“I will tell you the truth,” Manuel decided. He looked at Johnny broodingly. “The truth was not in my mind when I called you, but when I listen to that man-” He nodded at Costi's cheerful dark face behind the counter-“I feel that a lie is not the way to get your help. And a lie is even less to the point since I may have to ask a big favor of you.” He took a deep breath. “I talked to this Dave Hendricks last night-this morning, rather.”
“You had an argument with him?” Johnny asked quickly.
Manuel shook his head. “No. He came to the game and tried to borrow some money from Rick. Rick turned him down, and Hendricks asked me for a ride uptown. On the way he spoke bitterly-he was very angry-and he told me a story about Rick. I do not believe thees story, because Rick is my friend, but it is a story it does no good to hear. When the game broke up I asked Rick about it, and he was annoyed. We had a small argument-nothing serious. I left him, but I could not get the thing off my mind. I thought I would talk to Hendricks again, and learn more, if I could. When I came to his place they were already bringing the body down into the street. I found a man who for ten dollars gave me the information about the gun caliber.”
The dark man paused, and Johnny, who had listened closely to his story, shook his head. “I don't get it, Manuel,” he said for the second time. “There's no connection that I can see.”
“You don' have a corner or two of the picture,” Manuel replied earnestly. He looked uncomfortable. “I hope that I am wrong about all this, but I mus' talk to someone.” He smiled apologetically. “Almos' I am ashame' to tell you, but perhaps you have guess' I do not spend all the time with Rick for nothing? I am a quiet partner of Rick.”
Johnny looked at him. “Cash?” Manuel nodded affirmatively. “How much?”
The thick-shouldered man spread his hands deprecatingly. “Thirty-five thousan'.”
Johnny whistled. “Half the dump on the fight was yours?” Again Manuel nodded. “Consuelo know about this?”
“Consuelo does not know about this,” Consuelo's brother said firmly. “Nor do I intend that she will.” He looked at Johnny's face. “You do not like this? Of Rick, I mean?”
“Don't get me wrong, now,” Johnny began slowly. “It could be all right. He's your friend.” His tone made it tentative.
“Rick is my friend,” Manuel affirmed strongly, but the eyes were watchful.
“Why?” Johnny countered. “When a man's my friend, there's a reason. Must be with you an' Rick. You maybe stood back-to-back in a thirty-foot circle and knife-fought the trouble?”
