Moe eyed him; a sudden shrewd expression crossed his face.
This guy was queer, he was thinking. Not that he could blame him. If he had that port wine stain spread over his puss like Pete had, he'd be queer himself.
'Until that bum Louis sez we can go.' He shovelled ham into his mouth, chewed for a moment, reached for his coffee and took a long drink. 'Wad gets up my bugle is why the hell yuh should be the guy to hit the frill. Why pick on yuh? Wad's the matter wid me? I've hit scores of guys. Yuh ain't hit any yet, have yuh?'
Pete shook his head.
'I've got to start some time.' He leaned forward and picked up Frances Coleman's photograph and stared at it. 'I wish it hadn't to be her.'
'Jay-sus!' Moe said, grinning. 'That's right. I could do plenty to her without hittin' her. Plenty!'
Pete stared at the photograph. The girl's face had a queer effect on him. It wasn't that she was so pretty; she was pretty, but not more than the average girl you saw around Pacific City. There was something in her eyes that moved him: an eager, joyous expression of someone who found life the most exciting adventure.
Moe watched him. He took in the neat grey flannel suit, the brown brogue shoes and the white shirt and neat blue and red stripe tie. The guy, Moe thought a little enviously, looked like a freshman from some swank college: he talked like one, too.
He couldn't have been much older than Moe himself; around twenty-two or three. If it hadn't been for the birth-mark, he would have been good-looking enough to get on the movies, Moe decided, but that stain would have put paid to the best-looking movie actor in the world: bad enough to haunt a house with. Moe told himself.
'Did Seigel say why we had to do this job, Moe?' Pete asked abruptly.
'I didn't ask him. Yuh only ask that bum a question once, and then yuh go an' buy yuhself a new set of teeth.' Moe poured himself more coffee. 'It's a job, see? Ain't nothin' to worry about. Yuh know how to do it, don't yer?'
'Yes, I know,' Pete said, and a frozen, hard expression came over his face. As he stood in the light from the window, his eyes staring down into the street, Moe felt an uneasy twinge run through him. This guy could be tough, he told himself. Sort of crazy in the head. When he looked like that Moe didn't like being in the same room with him.
Just then the telephone bell began to ring.
'I'll get it,' Moe said, and dived out of the room to the pay booth in the passage.
Pete again looked at the photograph. He imagined how she would regard him when she saw him. That lively look of excitement and interest would drain out of her eyes and would be replaced by the flinching, slightly disgusted look all girls gave him when they came upon him, and he felt a cold hard knotting inside him; a sick rage that made the blood beat against his temples. This time he wouldn't pretend not to notice the look; he wouldn't have to force a smile and try to overcome the first impression she would have of him; not that he had ever succeeded in overcoming any first impression; they had never given him the chance.
As if he were some freak, some revolting object of pity, they would hurriedly look away, make some excuse – anything so long as they didn't have to stay facing him, and she would do that, and when she did, he would kill her.
Moe charged back into the room.
'Come on! Let's go! We've exactly half an hour to get there, do the job and get away, and the goddamn joint's the other side of the town.'
Pete picked up a bundle of magazines, checked to make sure the three-inch, razor-sharp ice-pick was in its sheath under his coat, and followed Moe at a run down the dirty rickety stairs and out to the ancient Packard parked at the kerb.
Although it looked old, the Packard's engine was almost as good as new under Moe's skilful handling, and the car shot away from the kerb with a burst of speed that always surprised Pete.
'Here's what we do,' Moe said, talking out of the side of his mouth. 'I stay wid the heep and keep the engine running. Yuh ring the bell. If she comes to the door, give her the spiel about the magazines, and get her to invite yuh in. If someone else comes to the door, ask for her: Miss Coleman, see? Get her alone. Make out yer coy or something, see? Then give it to her. Hit her hard, and she won't squeal. Then beat it. Use yer rod if yuh have to. Get back in the heep. We beat it to Wilcox an' 14th Street and ditch the heep. Dutch'll pick us up and take us to the club. We take a speed-boat to Reid Key an' an airplane to Cuba.'
'Okay,' Pete said irritably. 'I know all that by heart.'
'Yeah, so do I, but it don't hurt to run over it again. The worse spot'll be getting to the club. If we get there, it's a cinch. Cuba! Gee! Yuh ever been to Cuba? I seen pictures of the dump. Terrific! And the women . . . !' He pursed his thin mouth and gave a shrill whistle. 'Brother! Just wait until I get among those brown-skinned honies!'
Pete didn't say anything. He was scarcely listening. He was thinking that he was at last approaching the climax of his life. For months now he had thought about this moment: the moment when he would take a life; when he would inflict on someone something worse than had been inflicted on him, and he felt the cold knot tighten inside him.
'This is it,' Moe said after five minutes' driving. 'Lennox Avenue. She's staying with some frill called Bunty Boyd. I dunno wad yuh do about her. Hit her too if yuh have to.' He slowed down to a crawl and drove the car past a long row of four-storey houses. 'There it is, across the way.' He swung the car across the road and pulled up. That's the one; three houses up. I'll wait here. I'll have the heep movin' towards yuh as yuh come out.'
Pete picked up his bundle of magazines, opened the car door and got out. He had a sick feeling inside him, and his hands felt like ice.
'Yuh okay?' Moe asked, staring at him through the car window. 'This is important, Pete.'
'I'm okay,' Pete said. He looked at his wrist-watch. The time was two minutes past half-past ten. He had twenty-one minutes to do the job and get clear.
He walked quickly towards the house, emptying his mind of thought. It would be all right, he told himself,
