“It’s not exactly a secret, but I don’t think some of Ben’s friends back east approve of my sister.”
“Hell, I thought she was in tight with them.”
“That was before she and Ben got so close. She hasn’t done any business with them since.”
A few minutes later, Siegel came out. He smiled a little; it was almost a nervous smile, and I wondered why.
Then I found out.
“Nate,” he said, “I want you to take that little girl of yours home.”
“That little girl of mine.”
“Peggy Hogan. It’s just not going to work, having her around. It’s just gonna be a burr under Tabby’s saddle.”
Our voices echoed a little in the hospital corridor.
“Well, we can’t have that, now,” I said. “But what if Miss Hogan doesn’t care to go?”
“I took care of that already. You just go back to the Frontier. Knock on her door.”
“Christ, it’s almost four o’clock in the morning, Ben!”
“Do it, Nate. She’s up. I called her.” He swallowed. Then, as if mildly ashamed of himself, he grinned like a chagrined kid. “Tabby made me call her.”
But I didn’t knock on her door. I went back to my own room at the Last Frontier. I’d had quite enough emotional bullshit for one night.
And I was between the cool sheets of the warm bed, just tired enough to go right to sleep in spite of it all, when somebody knocked on my door. I let some air out. I stared up into the darkness where the ceiling was. And somebody knocked again, kept knocking. Then I hauled myself out of bed. I was in my skivvies but I didn’t give a damn.
I opened the door.
She was standing there in a dressing gown, her hair a mess, her face scratched, not a trace of make-up, her expression blank with despair. I couldn’t help myself. I touched her cheek, gently, where it was scratched.
“I’m sorry, Peg.”
Her voice was the voice of a small child. “Will you take me home, Nate?”
“Sure, baby.”
Her violet eyes stared into nothing. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
She turned to walk away. Her steps were halting. I went to her; I was in the hall in my underwear, but at this time of night- of morning-who the hell cared? I put an arm around her.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” she said, in the same small voice.
Then she tumbled into my arms. Grabbed me, like she was grabbing for dear life, and she wept. She wept.
I drunk-walked her back to my room, sat her on the edge of the bed, sat next to her, and let her cry into my chest as long as she wanted, which was a good long while.
“He…he called me…and said we were through.”
“I know,” I said.
In the midst of the emotional pain, she still managed to hear that; she squinted at me and said, “You…you
I told her briefly about the suicide attempt.
“He…he was calling me from her hospital room, then?”
“That’s right.”
“She was there.”
“Sure.”
“You know what he said to me?”
“No.”
“He said she told him that he had to choose. That it was her or me.” She swallowed. “And he chose her.”
I said nothing: she had stopped crying.
“Can you beat that?” she said, wonderingly.
“I think I can,” I said. “They’re married.”
Her eyes went wide and, finally, angry. “Married?”
I nodded. “Married. Mexico. A while back.”
“I’ve been…having an affair with a married man. And I didn’t even know it.”
“That’s it.”
She sat there and brooded for a while.
Then she stood. She stripped off the dressing robe; the garment made a pool at her feet. She had her short sheer blue nightie on underneath; I remembered it well.
“Take your things off,” she said, through her teeth.
“Okay,” I said, and did.
She stepped out of the nightie. She was tan, now, except the patches of creamy pink where her two-piece bathing suit had been; the bushy triangle between her legs was startling against the pale flesh.
“Do it to me,” she said, laying back on the bed, parting her lips, her legs, herself.
She just wanted revenge on Siegel. I knew that.
But I’d take it anyway I could get it.
I plunged into her like a knife and took my own sweet revenge, and she was crying when she came. I didn’t give her my tears; I gave her my fucking seed. That was enough.
Then I held her in my arms, cradled her, soothed her, like Ben had the unconscious Virginia Hill, and she fell asleep there.
On Sunday, the day of rest, we made love half a dozen times, in between some silly bursts of sightseeing- Boulder Dam, anyone? — and yanking the arms off slot machines downtown and buying stupid touristy souvenirs for the folks back home. And then on Monday, before we caught our train, we found our way to one of those stucco and neon wedding chapels and did the deed. It was her idea, but I was game; what was Vegas for, if not to take a gamble?
The following June, on a warm but not scorching Friday afternoon, I was once again in Los Angeles, comparing notes with my partner Fred Rubinski in his fifth-floor Bradbury Building office. We were both pleased with the way our little merger had worked out. Technically, I was the boss, because I had bought fifty-one percent of his business; but I’d made him vice-president of A-1 Detective Agency, leaving him full rein over the L.A. end of the firm. The reality was our two agencies ran as independently as ever, only with me getting a piece of his action; and the appearance of being a nationwide agency now (I was working on lining up an office in New York, as well, which would make it more than just an appearance) was increasing business on both our ends, as well as making easier any investigations spanning both our parts of the country. I was up to ten operatives and Fred was up to half a dozen.
Business out of the way, talk turned social-although in our case such talk still ran to cops and crooks.
“I understand Bill Drury’s got himself in a jam,” Fred said, frowning, emphasizing the deep lines of his weathered face which so contrasted with his smooth shiny bald head.
“Sad but true,” I said. “And no surprise. State’s Attorney’s office has him up on charges.”
“What sort of charges?”
“Conspiring to obtain an indictment on false testimony. Two of Bill’s colored witnesses on the Ragen shooting went public about Bill offering ’em part of the twenty-five grand reward.”
“Shit. Great. Can he beat the rap?”
“I don’t know. And both colored witnesses recanted, to boot, so those three West Side bookies who pulled the shooting are home free.”
“What a world,” Fred said, shaking his head. “Drury may go to jail, and the shooters walk. How do you figure it?”
