“Sure, Mal. Anything you say. How’d it go with Stegman?”
“Fine, fine. It’s about that. This guy who’s looking for me, his name is Parker. Now I’ve moved out of the Outfit for a while, I’m staying at the St. David on 57th, room 516. You spread the word around. If anybody asks for me, asks any of the guys, this Parker shows up, tell him where I am. You got that?”
“You want us to tell him?”
“Right. Not easy, not right off the bat, or he’ll smell something fishy. But let him know where I am. Then call me right away. You got that? They don’t call you, they call me.”
“Okay, Mal. Whatever you say.”
“Make sure they call me right away.”
“I’ll tell them, Mal.”
“Okay.”
Mal hung up and took a deep breath. All right. When the time came, he knew a couple of guys he could hire to hang around with him. They worked for the Outfit sometimes, sometimes not — they were like free-lancers. It wouldn’t be the same as using Outfit people.
There was a knock at the door. Mal started, eyes jerking involuntarily to the phone. He called, “Who is it?”
“Room service.”
“Hold it. Hold on a second.”
The gun was in the bedroom, on the bed, next to the suitcase. He hurried in, picked it up, brought it back to the living room with him. The pocket of the dressing gown was large; the gun was a smallish .32, an English make. He held tightly to the gun in his pocket and opened the door.
A kid in a red and black bellboy uniform wheeled in a chrome cart with the liquor and mix and glasses and ice. Mal closed the door after him, and only then relaxed his grip on the gun. He fumbled in the bottom of his pocket, past the gun, and his fingers found two quarters. They went into the bellboy’s open hand, and Mal clutched the gun again as he opened the door for the bellboy to go out. There was no one else in the hall.
Alone again, he made himself a drink, glancing at the phone. He looked at his watch and it was only quarter after seven. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes. If she was early, she’d get an extra ten.
He went into the bedroom and cleared the suitcase off the bed and pulled the spread down. He kept standing looking at the bed. His right hand clutched the gun in his pocket.
Chapter 6
She was only five minutes early, so he decided the hell with the extra ten. When she knocked at the door, he went through the same routine as with the bellboy, holding hard to the gun in his pocket, calling through the door. He didn’t hear what she answered, but it was a female voice so he opened the door, and she smiled at him and came in.
She was a knockout. Better than Phil’s, a million times better. She looked like Vassar maybe, or some hotshot’s private secretary on Madison Avenue, or a starlet on the Grace Kelly line.
She was a blonde, like he’d asked for, with medium-short pale hair in one of those television hairdos. Perched atop the hairdo was a black box hat with a little veil. She wore a gray suit and a green silk scarf, like a photo in Vogue,
Her legs were long and slender, sheathed in sheer nylon, shod in green high heels. She walked like a model, one foot directly in front of the other, the pelvis rotating back and forth, her left arm and green-gloved hand swinging straight at her side in short arcs, her right hand, bare, holding her tiny black purse and other green glove to her body, just below her breast.
Her face had been chiseled with care, honed and smoothed to creamy perfection, slender brows arched over green eyes, aquiline nose, soft-lipped mouth with just a trace of lipstick, long slender throat and cameo shoulders.
He looked at her and he knew he would never have better. If he lived a hundred years, he’d never have anything again as good as this. Better in the rack, maybe, he didn’t know about that, but not better looking, not more desirable or more perfect than this.
She smiled, stepping across the threshold with her model’s walk, saying, “Hello, Mal. I’m Linda,” extending her gloved left hand to him, palm down, fingers curved slightly. Her voice was warm velvet, her diction clear and perfect.
“Hi,” he said, smiling eagerly at her.
The gun forgotten, he took his hand from his pocket, clasped hers briefly, and then she was past him and he closed the door. He turned to look at the back view, the straight spine, the sides curving in to the waist, blossoming below in the long curve over the hips and sweeping away down the length of leg. She was taller than he, but it didn’t matter. In the rack, he’d be taller.
He wiped damp palms down the sides of his dressing gown. “You want a drink, Linda?”
“Thank you, yes.” She smiled again, a warm impersonal smile, and set her purse and one glove down on an end table, then removed the other glove.
He made drinks for them both, watching her all the time, gratified by every cultured move she made, the grace of her walk across the room to the round mirror between the windows, the supple beautiful shift of curve and line as she raised her arms. She lowered her head slightly, and standing before the mirror removed the two jewel-tipped pins from her hat, took off the hat, stuck the pins back into it and set the hat down on the table by the mirror.
He watched her as they had a drink together, sitting side by side on the sofa. She turned just slightly toward him, sheathed knees together, costume and body and face and voice and speech all perfect, all meshed in wonderful symmetry, an idealization machine of flesh and blood and bone and sinew and female parts. He didn’t want her now, not yet, not physically. He was content with what he had: the look of her, the presence of her, the sure-ness of her, the knowledge that he would have her tonight, that he had all of tonight to posses her as completely and as often as he wanted.
