The voice was cold and vicious. “She’s not herself tonight, Novak. A great little kidder. She meant to say she wants you to come and straighten a few things out. Any objections?”
“No,” Novak said in a cracked voice.
A snotty chuckle. “The sooner you get here the sooner she can relax. And stash the heater home. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“You got ten minutes to get to the corner of Vermont and Fourteenth. South side. Any cops and the lady gets hurt.” The line clicked off, and Novak lowered the receiver. Stiffly his fingers released it on the cradle. His eyes traveled to his wristwatch and marked the time. He could make it in five minutes if he hurried.
Novak spun around, jogged to his office. He flipped on the lights and spun the safe dial. He missed it the first time, swore and forced unsteady fingers to retrace the combination. This time the drawer opened, and he pulled out Paula’s chrome-plated automatic. He jacked a shell into the chamber, clicked off the safety and bent over. Pulling up his right trouser leg he lowered his garter, tightened it and slid the automatic down against the back of his leg below the bulge of the calf. The garter would hold it in place until he needed it.
Jerking off his coat he shed the shoulder holster and jammed the .38 in his inside pocket. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out a bone-handled folding knife. The knife he dropped in his right coat pocket. Then he snatched his hat from the rack and raced out of the office.
On K Street he dodged through ebbing sidewalk crowds, pulse throbbing in his temples, throat tight and raw. It was cool enough for gloves and a topcoat but there was sweat around his neck and his palms were damp, fingers stiff.
Past the Investment Building, then only a short block to Vermont. Traffic swarmed past, tires snicking like knives in green wood. A blur of neon signs, the lighted window of a drugstore jammed with cheap toys and plastic skeleton models. Straining he peered through the darkness and saw the lighted statue at Thomas Circle. Below it a steady whirl of cars rounding the circle, cutting off, converging within the close-packed maze. His lips were dry. He moistened them, glanced at his watch. Two minutes to go. They had planned it neatly.
Past the Burlington Hotel. Now he could see the point where Fourteenth cut across Vermont. The spot where he was supposed to wait. Inside his coat the revolver banged loosely against his ribs. His hip sockets ached. He sucked cold air into his lungs, coughed and kept going. Dimmed headlights of circling cars stared like unseeing eyes. Novak reached the point and rested against the lamppost. Breathing deeply, he saw that there was a minute to go.
Slowly the pounding in his temples eased and his pulse slowed. His hatband was clammy. He took it off, wiped it on his sleeve, fitted it on his head again.
His eyes searched each car that followed the outside lane. Beige, blue, dandelion yellow; new, old, dented fenders, paint spots on the doors. All anonymous. No way to tell which was the contact car. Glancing down he saw hands clenched into hard fists. He straightened the fingers, flexed the stiff joints and rubbed the palms against his legs. His left foot toed the back of his right leg. The pistol was still in place. Paula’s garter gun.
Squinting at the traveling wheel of cars he saw one cross to the outside lane and head for the lamppost. The driver stuck out his hand, slowed and stopped beside Novak. A dark blue Chevy sedan.
From the rear seat a voice barked, “We ain’t got a world of time.”
Blocked cars honked their horns. Novak stepped off the curb, yanked the door open and got in. The car jerked forward, slamming him against the seat. A voice rumbled, “You’re covered, Novak. Lift the arms.”
Novak raised his arms, felt a hand patting his pockets, his chest. It prodded the revolver, dipped into his coat and pulled it out.
“Naughty boy,” the voice chided. “You was told not to bring the iron.”
Novak grunted, lowered his arms, fitted himself into the seat corner.
The man who had taken his revolver stowed it in a coat pocket and leered at him. “That gives me two. And none for you. Like it?”
“Not much,” Novak croaked and saw the man’s head turn.
“Okay, Tags. We ain’t followed. Feed it some gas. Ben’s waiting.”
The car had made a half circle and come onto Vermont Avenue again. It headed north, picking up speed.
Novak’s hands gripped his knees. His face looked dejected, defeated. His eyes studied the other man. Hatless and hair too long. The eyes were narrow and his forehead was too thin. One of the guys who had played soccer with him in the alley.
Novak leaned forward, said softly. “How’s the nose coming along, Tags?”
The driver snarled.
Novak leaned back and grinned in the darkness. “Someone ought to invent a new word. That’s all I get called these days.”
Beside him the other man grunted nastily. “Be grateful you lasted so long, pal.”
Novak nodded soberly. “I ought to be at that. Only last night you had me in the headlights, an easy target. This pickup looks like afterthought.”
“Never mind, pal. You’ll find out soon enough. You ain’t getting this ride so’s you can jawbone us helpless. Keep the mouth shut. Get it?”
“Suits me. The bad grammar gets boring anyway.”
A hand cuffed the side of his face. Novak rubbed the spot tenderly. The guy spat, “That’s only the beginning. Keep the lip zipped.”
Novak gripped his knees harder, felt the car lurch to the right and saw a street sign flash past.
A slewing turn to the left, half a block more and the car bumped over a curb driveway and slowed to a stop beside the back door of a dark house.
Tags turned off the engine, got out. He poked his face in the rear window. “Let’s move, Al.”
“Cover him,” Al said, opened the door and got out. He held the door opened and drawled, “Last mile.”
Novak’s teeth bared, he shifted along the seat and stepped down, hands lifted to protect his head against a whistling sap.
It was an old frame house with a screened back porch. He followed Tags up four wooden steps, through a creaking screen door and waited. Al jabbed a gun in his ribs. “Slow and easy,” he breathed. “Nothing fast, pal. Just follow the man.”
Through a crack in the door shade Novak could see a glimmer of light. Tags turned a key in the rusty lock and pushed ahead. A kitchen with a linoleum floor. No smell of recent cooking.
A dark narrow hallway. The heavy clump of their feet on the dusty floor.
Tags elbowed the door open and Novak followed him into the living room. The shades were down and the light came from two wooden floor lamps. A fringed imitation oriental carpet, worn smooth in patches. Rockers with stained petit-point seats, a low stuffed sofa, a round writing table and a couple of Windsor chairs in bad repair.
Ben Barada sat on the sofa staring up at Novak. He wore a yellow silk shirt, cuffs rolled back and no tie. His face looked hard and desperate. The girl was tied in one of the chairs, hands behind the chairback, cords around her ankles. Even in the amber light angry patches stood out on her face. Her hair was disarrayed and the torn linen blouse showed one bare shoulder, marked with deep finger bruises. Her lips were puffed and her cheeks showed traces of dried salt. Her eyes prayed to Novak.
Barada smiled thinly, blew smoke at Novak and said, “At last everyone’s together. Glad you came, Novak?”
Al said, “He tried to sneak a rod, Ben.”
“He would.” Eyes flickered back to Novak. “Everyone together,” he repeated. “You, my faithful ex-wife and me.” He got up slowly and walked to Novak. “Funny what a dame sees in a guy. Paula says you’re okay. To me you’re just another dumb sucker. Anything to say, cheapy?”
“Hello, jailbird.”
Barada’s face convulsed. His right hand stabbed out, slamming Novak’s belly. Novak doubled over. Nausea
