and pointed with his gun. The second man replied 'Esta es.' The gun had motioned at the little fighter, and the tall one at once turned to him.” Manuel shrugged. “The rest you saw. It is not given to all of us to go with such espina dorsal.”
“So the tall one asked 'Is he the man?' ” Johnny said musingly. “This is a tavern stick-up?”
Manuel looked somber. “The little fighter was in trouble?”
“Trouble?” Johnny repeated irritatedly. “Where the hell's the trouble? The kid took his dive, didn't he? Went clear off the thirty-foot board to do it.”
“It was a peculiar ending to the fight,” Manuel admitted.
The blanket-swathed girl spoke quietly. “He was killed, the man of whom you speak?” Johnny nodded, and within the blanket he could see her shiver. “Men!” she said bitterly. “There's not one among you who acquires the least of the sense God gives a girl child at birth.” She jerked a plump shoulder at her brother. “Look at that one. Twenty per cent vision in the left eye; sixty per cent in the right. And deteriorating.”
Manuel grinned. “She fears to have the support of me.”
“At least you can pimp for me,” she told him impudently, and the grin disappeared as his features darkened.
“I do not like the sound of that remark in this company,” he said heavily. “I could find my belt-”
She ignored him and apologized to Johnny. “He exaggerates about the support. Not about the belt, when I was younger.” She grimaced. “He saved his money when he was fighting. He has a little income. We live in this neighborhood because our friends live here. And rather than what I have said, I am not a schoolgirl, but I must nearly get down on my knees for permission to have a man walk with me.”
“This income of mine,” Manuel said thoughtfully. “I have not seen it lately.”
“Because with money you are a big fool,” his sister told him tranquilly. She smiled at Johnny. “I sing nights at the Three Sisters. It's a small place, but the food's excellent. I can recommend particularly the chicken valenciana.”
“Dinner tomorrow night?” Johnny promptly inquired.
Consuelo Ybarra laughed, a very pleasant sound. “Agreed. At eight-thirty. My first show's at ten.” She looked at him from beneath long lashes. “I like a man who can make up his mind.”
“You've met one,” Johnny told her, and turned to the door. “Eight-thirty.”
On the stairs he stopped once to reconstruct in his mind the girl's flashing facial beauty. It was a little hard to see how this dinner date tomorrow night could be a mistake.
CHAPTER III
Johnny's key admitted him noiselessly to the apartment, and he moved quietly through the small hallway to the bedroom entrance. Amy was sitting bolt upright in the big wing chair, but her head was down on her shoulder. As he came inside she straightened convulsively, her uniform rustling as she came halfway up out of the chair in the darkness.
“Mist' Johnny?” she asked in a tremulous whisper, and collapsed with a soft sigh at his affirmative grunt. “Hoo- ee! Don' you never sneak up on me like that!” She looked guiltily toward the bed. “She been sleepin' 'bout a hour, now.”
He nodded and, realizing that she couldn't see him in the darkness, walked out into the kitchen and turned on the light. Amy followed, stretching and yawning. “I held a cab for you downstairs,” Johnny told her. “Here.”
“Put you' hand right back in that pocket!” the softly slurred accents demanded indignantly. “This ain't no payin' favor!”
He got her out the door finally and toed off his shoes in the hallway. He loosened his tie and, returning to the bedroom, stood beside the bed and looked down at the small body beneath the covers.
He lit a cigarette, moved the ash tray around to the side of the wing chair and settled down in it to wait out the night.
He listened to his own breathing, the only sound he could hear in the room. At least if Sally wakened she wouldn't be alone…
He awoke suddenly with the gray light of dawn under the shades, a crick in his neck and his left leg disembodied from retarded circulation. He looked instantly to the bed-Sally's slight figure was sitting bolt upright in its center, her blanketed knees drawn up snugly and clasped in her arms. She was hunched forward with her chin resting on her knees, and she was staring straight ahead of her.
Johnny moistened dry lips; he didn't think he had made any movement upon rousing from his uncomfortable doze, but he could see Sally's head turn slightly to look in his direction. He couldn't see her features in the shadows extending out to the bed from the fingers of light at the windows, but he could see the suspicious quivering of the slim shoulders as his eyes focused.
He grunted harshly and hauled himself upright; he hobbled stiffly to the bed, pins and needles stabbing his awakening leg. He reached down and picked her up bodily, blankets and all, and sat down on the edge of the bed with her on his lap. He could feel the near rigidity of the small body in its state of semishock.
When she finally spoke her tone was flat and expressionless. “I don't th-think I really believed it, until I saw you s-sleeping in that chair.” Her voice roughened; a hand crept out of the blankets and closed tightly on his arm. “Charlie,” she whispered. “Oh, Johnny-why Ch-Charlie?”
“Nobody knows why, or when,” he said quietly. He waited a moment as she cried openly into his shirt front, then placed two fingers under her chin. “You gonna be all right now?” He could feel pressure against his fingers when she nodded affirmatively, and her exhaled breath was a long sigh.
“Stretch out here beside me for a little while,” she pleaded. “If I know you're here, I might be able to rest.”
He lifted her up and slid her back into the bed. Then he lay down alongside her, slipped an arm beneath her and pulled a corner of the blanket over himself. In the half darkness he listened to her ragged breathing ease until she was breathing quietly. His own eyes closed several times, but he doggedly forced them open.
When he was sure that she was asleep he removed his arm carefully and inched himself from the bed. He listened again for the gently regular exhalations and shuffled cautiously to the hallway in stockinged feet. He picked up his shoes and put them under his arm.
He eased open the apartment door and closed it quietly from the outside, listening for the click of the automatic lock. He was on one knee tying a shoelace when he heard the elevator doors opening at the end of the corridor. He rose to his feet and examined the two men who emerged and looked about them a little uncertainly. Then the squat, thickset man in the lead advanced upon him purposefully.
“Say, Jack,” he demanded briskly, “which is Miss Fontaine's apartment?”
“Who wants to know?” Johnny asked him. He recognized the squat man but did not actually know him. He'd seen the darkly lopsided features under the close-cropped black hair around the fringes of the fight crowd for years, but had never heard him called anything except Monk.
“Well, now-” Monk started to bristle, and evidently thought better of it. The uniform, Johnny thought; he thinks I work here. “This is Mr. Hartshaw, an attorney,” the squat man said quickly. “He has an appointment with Miss Fontaine.”
Johnny looked briefly at the tall, cadaverous-looking individual in heavy horn-rimmed glasses and a black Homburg that completed his funereal appearance. The tall man had a manila file folder under his right arm, and Johnny took a casual step forward and snaked the folder from beneath Mr. Hartshaw's arm. By the time Mr. Hartshaw was ready to react, Johnny had the folder open and was reading the single legal-looking document within.
“Hey, you!” Monk exclaimed. His tone was ugly.
Johnny transferred his attention from the folder to Monk. “I don't get it, man. A power of attorney? At six in the morning? With her brother dead maybe four hours?” He looked down at the document. “An' who the hell is Albert Munson?”
“Who the hell are you?” Monk demanded angrily, and sidled closer. “Maybe you need a lesson in mindin' your own business?”
