even helped out with the overhauling—I didn't want to be too far from our dough with men working on the ship. The owner of the yard was impressed with the Sea Princess' lines, and of course he could tell, I think, by what came off her keel that we'd been in the Caribbean. Rose spent most of her time in various movies, and at night we took long walks on the cold boardwalk, and then watched TV in some bar. I began working on her, pointing out how well the boat had stood up, that it was really my fault for not paying the radio storm warning any mind, and except for the bouncing giving us a hard time, we hadn't suffered any real damage. The point was we had to sail the Sea Princess back to Ansel's and there wasn't anything to be afraid of.

     After a few days Rose was able to laugh at the memory of the two of us lying on our bunks like scared stiffs, and I knew she really admired me for having pulled the ship through single-handed.

     When the Sea Princess was back in the water with a new dink and other repairs, all told costing us $569, we decided to stay in Asbury for a few more days. There was another storm on the way. I tied her up to the boatyard dock and locked the cabin. There's little chance of robbery at a private dock, so Mr. and Mrs. Anderson took a room at a hotel and the next day we decided to give Atlantic City a fling. We registered at the biggest hotel we'd stayed in thus far and Rose bought a new dress that clung more to her figure. We had a steak dinner, saw a movie, and then dropped into a good night club. Rose was a bit nervous when we first hit Atlantic City, she'd once worked there, but felt at ease again when she found the club had been torn down and replaced by a small apartment house.

     We were sitting in this swank night spot, laughing at a wiseguy comedian who had a sharp tongue. Rose was giving me the lowdown on about what the guy was making and how much the members of the band were paid... when I suddenly felt her thigh stiffen against mine under the table. I turned and she was staring down at the table cloth, her face sickly pale in contrast to the dark frames of her phony glasses, her black hair. She was so pale even the remains of her sun tan seemed to have vanished. I asked, “You sick?”

     “Oh, God! Mickey, it's him!”

     “Who?” I asked, looking around wildly. “Hon, what is it?”

     “It's him... the Federal man who tried to shoot me!”

     “Where?” I asked, my guts full of a chill—mainly because I thought Rose was off her head.

     “That table over in the corner, by the post. The big guy with the redheaded girl. Oh God, I knew we shouldn't have come to the States!”

     “Take it easy,” I said, glancing around casually. I had no difficulty making him. He was staring hard at our table. He was a handsome cuss, well set-up and lean, and with a mean face. He looked like a guy who could handle himself, a nasty joker in a brawl. Younger than me, too. Maybe five or six years since he was the star halfback.

     Toying with a spoon I asked a dumb question. “Rose, are you sure?” The way the guy was looking at us told me how sure he was.

     “Of course!” Her voice had the shakes.

     I pressed her thigh as I told her, “Listen to me: we're going to sit right here and play it cool. For one thing, with your glasses and all, he can't be positive. If he comes over, we're a couple of tourists named Anderson, so don't get excited.”

     “No. He's the one... he'll try to kill me!”

     For a second I realized how jerky I was acting. What was I getting tense about? Even if this proved Rose's weird story was true, Rose was in the clear. I squeezed her hand under the table—and it was cold as death. “Don't worry. If he starts anything I'll handle him.”

     Rose turned and gave me a tight smile—a tender tiny grin that somehow seemed a farewell smile. “No, Mickey, stay put and be careful. Say I'm a pick-up and you don't know a thing about me. I'm going to the head. If he tries to... don't let him stop me. And don't get yourself hurt.”

     Before I could argue, or ask what she meant, Rose stood up. Holding her small pocketbook in one hand, she gave me a light, phony smile, and started for the ladies room, which was located just inside the entrance to the club. The fur trimmed coat she'd bought a few days before was still on the back of her chair.

     While I was wondering why the speech about going to the can, I saw big boy get to his feet. From different angles he and Rose headed for the same point. I got up and crossed directly toward him. Rose was almost running and he wasn't even watching me.

     As Rose reached the few steps leading up into the tiny lobby, I saw his hand go to his back pocket and with the flap of his jacket raised for a split second— he was reaching for a gun in his hip pocket holster!

     I raced over and walked into him hard with my shoulder. He stumbled and I went into a little jig I practiced when I was wrestling. I brought my left foot down on his right instep and as he bent over my right knee came up into his stomach. He dropped to the carpet, doubled over. He wasn't out, only numb the way a belly wallop gets you.

     I was all one silly grin as I put on an act that it was an accident. A couple of waiters rushed over to us. Rose wasn't in sight. She'd made the ladies room. I bent down as if helping big boy to his feet. There wasn't any doubt about the gun, I could feel it in his back pocket. I wanted to go through his pockets and find out who he was, but the waiters were on us. I gave them a dumb grin and said something about being clumsy. A beefy character, obviously the bouncer, helped me lift him to his feet. People were standing up but the bouncer and the waiters were old hands: before I knew it we were walked into the manager's office. While I was explaining what a clumsy clown I'd been, a cop appeared.

     The manager was a smooth baldie in a tux and as he was assuring the cop things were under control, big boy got his wind and flashed a card or something at the cop, then ran limping out of the office. The cop took off, too. I started after them and ran into a solid line of waiters. I asked, “What the devil is this?”

     “Now, now, no trouble, please,” the manager said. The bouncer moved closer.

     I said, “I don't want trouble but my girl went to the John and she'll wonder where I am and...” I could have bitten my fat tongue. Why did I say Rose was in the can? Could she be hiding in there, waiting?

     The cop returned, growled at me, “You, sit down!” He had a firm grip on his night stick.

     I sat on the edge of the manager's desk, wondering what to do. For a few minutes we were all silent, then big boy limped in, looking very mad. He held a whispered conference with the cop while glaring at me. The cop told the manager and the rest of the help to leave. The manager said, “Now George, I don't know what this is all about, but the club doesn't want any trouble.”

     George, the cop, nodded and ushered him out, then he shut the door and leaned against it, one hand on his holster.

     The clammy feeling in my guts said I was in for a beating. A couple of wild thoughts flashed through my mind. In a straight rough and tumble I might take these two. And if they went for their guns I'd be dead. What did Rose expect me to do, stall them? Was she still in the ladies room? Hiding there, or plain sick? Or was she waiting for me outside? Did she want me to clout these...?

     Big boy limped over to stand in front of me, hands loose at his sides. “What's your name, mister?” he snapped.

     I decided to bluff, do a little shoulder talking of my own. I asked, “Who are you? What is this?”

     “I'll ask the questions!” His hands were itching to clout me.

     With a calmness which astonished me I heard myself saying, “If you're a police officer I'm asking you to identify yourself.” I glanced at the cop holding up the door. “Officer, this man is carrying a gun.”

     “He's a Fed,” the cop said.

     “Oh.” I was completely rattled. I was in great shape —I'd flattened a Federal cop! But then Rose's story about the police trying to kill her had been true!

     “What's your name?”

     “Is walking into you, accidentally, a Federal crime?” I asked.

     “I'm asking for your name, mister.”

     “My name is Mickey Anderson. I'm a visitor here, stopping at a boardwalk hotel. I don't know what this show of force is about, but I demand the right to phone my lawyer before saying anything else. His name is Jackson Clair, in New York City.” That was the name of a big time lawyer I'd been reading about in the papers.

     A slight change came over the Fed's face. Almost politely he said, “Mr. Anderson, I'm only asking for your cooperation, as a citizen. I want to talk to you about the woman you were with, ask...”

     “What's she wanted for?”

     “I didn't say she's wanted. I merely wanted to chat with her, see if she could give me some information.”

     “Chat with her? Is that how you talk to people—by pulling a gun on them?” I asked.

     The cop said, “Pulling what gun?”

     The Federal man said, “Pulling my gun? Why I wanted to make sure it wasn't loose in my holster. Sitting down and jumping up to.... Did you walk into me on purpose?”

     “No sir,” I said, going for dumb. “I was on my way to the John when I saw you touch your holster. I was so busy watching your hand, I guess I didn't notice where I was walking. That's all.”

     “Where's the woman you were sitting with?”

     “Isn't she here?” I asked brightly.

     “She ran out, disappeared in the streets.”

     “Yeah?” I hoped the relief I felt didn't show. “Said she was going to the ladies room, so I figured I might as well go myself. Officer, I certainly don't want trouble. I mean, I came here to see the sights and... I got into a conversation with this gal on the boardwalk and one thing became another and I made a

Вы читаете Blonde Bait
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату