Coolly, she said, “Mandrake the Magician. He goes through doors, walks on ceilings. Now you see him, now you don’t.” One hand fumbled for an ice pack beside her thigh, lifted it against the side of her face. Her eyes closed. “You’re crowding your luck a little, Novak. Anyone but you and I might have pressed the trigger. I’m that jittery tonight.”
“Don’t tell me why,” Novak said and walked toward her. “Let’s keep it a big secret, take our lumps and suffer in silence.” He reached down, picked up the pistol and extracted the magazine. Seven copper-point slugs plus one in the chamber. He slid the magazine back and flicked the safety on. Then he laid the pistol on the coffee table. “You weren’t kidding,” he said thoughtfully.
A short laugh answered him. “The crowd I played with used blanks once a year, Novak—on the Fourth of July.”
“Barada’s crowd?”
One hand shifted the ice pack to the other side of her face. Novak sat down at the end of the sofa and lifted her feet across his lap. He pulled off her slippers and began massaging the arch of one foot.
“Hey,” she called, “that tickles, you oaf.”
Novak grinned. “Endure it, beautiful. It’s a great relaxer. A hockey trainer taught me about feet.” His strong fingers kept up a regular pulsating pressure and when he felt the tenseness leave her leg he shifted to the other foot.
After a while Paula said, “Okay, coach, why the subtle entrance with the master key?”
Novak shrugged. “Last time I came in you were on the floor. I wondered where you’d be this time.”
“With my face the way it is, you knew I’d be here.”
“Yeah. But alive or dead—that was the question.”
She turned on one side, facing the back of the sofa. “You came at a good time at that,” she said huskily. “God knows what he’d have done if you hadn’t come when you did.”
Novak slid the slippers back on her feet and straightened the crease in his trousers. “By then you’d taken your beating,” he said. “Why stop me from slapping him around a little?”
“Maybe I found myself liking you. Guys who slap Ben Barada around don’t live long enough to tell the story in the corner saloon.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Barada copped five spaces at Joliet. The right contacts got him out early on clemency and a floating parole. Armed robbery.”
“Ben’s a gambler,” she said tunelessly. “He drifted into a brace game in Moline, it was a packed deal. Afterward Ben came back for his money. Someone called the cops.” She turned around and sat up. “I thought you never heard of Ben.”
“I’ve done some research, sweetheart, but there wasn’t anything on you. Want to tell me?”
She looked at him for a long time. Then she said, “What for, Novak? I’m checking out tomorrow. You’ll never see me again.”
“Friends call me Pete,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s say it’s for the record—my files. The story of Mrs. Ben Barada.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It’s a lonely life around the Tilden. Other guys with a wife and a TV set go home. Me—I got my files. For those long winter nights.”
She gave him a thin smile. “We were married—you know that. I was a hoofer doing a specialty in a Jackson Park spot when I met Ben. We got along pretty good—he shaved anyway, and he dressed well. I guess I don’t have to tell you what the hoofer’s grind is like, doing the four-and-dirty bit. Sure, my legs don’t look too much like tree stumps and I’ve got a good body but so have ten thousand other shuckers. And no Hollywood agent ever propositioned me.” She breathed deeply. “Ben did. And he added a ring.” One hand opened slowly. “We made out for a while, then he got sent to Joliet for five years.” She leaned forward. “In Illinois a felony sentence is grounds for divorce. I waited a year, two years. Then I met a man. He took me out, sent expensive presents, but that was all. Finally he hired a lawyer and arranged the divorce.”
One hand lifted, her teeth sank into a knuckle. “I didn’t know Ben would get clemency. Three months ago he walked out. By then I’d had enough of the other guy, but Ben heard about him.”
“So he came here to beat you up.”
“Ben wanted a stake,” she said dully. “He figured I’d saved a pile from...from the guy. Well, I hadn’t. Life’s short, Pete. Why stick your green in a clay pig and watch life slip by?” One hand ran through her ash blonde hair. “I’ve got an apartment in Chicago, a car and the clothes on my back. Nothing more.”
Novak reached up and covered her right hand. It felt smooth and cool against his palm. “I don’t much care for the divorce part,” he said quietly, “but twisting your arm for money is worse. What made him think you had any?”
“I told him so. I told him I was collecting it here. In Washington.”
“Have you?”
“Not yet.” Her hand drew away from his. “If you didn’t like the other part, you’ll like this even less: I’m here for a shakedown, Novak. I’ve got something a guy wants. Something he has to pay for. A hunk of dough.” Her eyes found his and her chin lifted aggressively.
“How much?” Novak asked.
“Ninety grand.”
“Ninety grand,” Novak murmured and got up. From his coat he pulled a fresh cigarette, offered it to her. She shook her head.
Novak lighted the cigarette, dropped the lighter into his pocket. “That ought to keep Ben Barada in green baize for quite a while.”
Her eyes lifted slowly. “You don’t know Ben. All right, you’ve heard the Norton story. You asked for it. Any comment?”
Novak peered around the room. “Any whisky handy?”
“There’s a pint in the bedroom.”
He walked away from her, turned on the bedroom light and carried the pint into the bathroom. He broke the seals on two glasses, poured amber fluid into them and added ice cold water from the tap. He carried the drinks back to the sofa and handed one to her.
She brushed hair from her forehead and tossed off the drink. Novak sipped his slowly. She lowered the empty glass to the carpet. “I said any comments?”
“A couple. First, I think maybe you earned a poke on the jaw for the felony divorce. But nothing more. Second, you don’t owe Ben Barada ninety grand or any part of it. Third, I think I know where the dough’s coming from, and fourth, I’d forget about it if I were you.”
Her eyes had widened. “Why?”
“A shakedown’s equivalent to blackmail, sweetie, and this is federal territory. They don’t just let you off with a lecture and a slap on the wrist. They hang the book on you. It’s a federal rap and the payoff takes years. Why?” He leaned over, his face a foot from hers. “Because the game you’re playing is the sort of thing every Senator and Congressman is scared to death some hustler will pull on him. I’m not moralizing, beautiful. I’m telling you hard facts. If you’re going through with it, run, do not walk, from the District of Columbia. Try Baltimore or Delaware. The officials there are elected, not appointed, and there’s less flint in their stare. You’d stand a better chance of having something to show for your trouble.” He lifted his glass, drank again. “But if you’re doing it just so Barada can line his wallet you’re dumber than I think.”
Her face went white around the eyes. “I gave up charity when I quit the Brownies,” she said stonily. “Ben said he’d kill me if I didn’t come through.”
Novak laughed shortly. “I’ve seen this would-be killer and even his eyeballs are yellow.” He shook his head. “Don’t fall for it. You paid him off tonight when you poked your gun in my ribs. Next time he comes around talking tough, shove it in his.”
Her face turned away, her eyes closed and her breasts rose and fell. After a while her eyes opened and she said quietly, “I haven’t had a pep talk in quite a while, coach. I’ll think it over.”
Novak finished his drink and put down the glass beside the chromed pistol. He stared at it speculatively. The girl got up slowly, drew the dressing gown around her body and came to him. Her hands met behind his neck.
