Door open, he felt for the light switch and saw the staircase materialize before him like a slide thrown on a wall. His head throbbed like a deep Brazilian drum. Half pulling himself with his left arm, he made it to the top of the stairs, found the key to his apartment door and opened it.
He tottered into the room, pulling off his coat, loosening the leather shoulder strap and opening his collar. The revolver dropped to the sofa and he angled dizzily toward the bathroom.
No marks on his face. He leaned against the washbasin and unbuttoned his shirt with the fingers of his left hand, cursing their clumsiness.
Blue-black welts marred his chest. His back ached. The way his right shoulder looked he was lucky the cosh hadn’t snapped the collarbone. Turning, he ran hot water into the tub, stripped and swallowed two codeine tablets.
The bathwater was so hot he could barely stand it. Wincing, he entered it slowly and when it covered him entirely he closed his eyes and felt a wave of nausea surge over him. Shock and pain, old friends, both. His lips twisted and then the codeine began to take hold.
He opened his eyes and studied a bruise on his left thigh. The hoods had done their work well, but he had given one of them a bloody souvenir. Barada’s boys. Cheap alley muggers. One named Tags. Just a warning this time, no knife at the gullet, no throttle-cord tightening around the throat. He smiled grimly. Lucky I didn’t really get Barada mad at me.
His left hand massaged his right shoulder tenderly. The pain was bearable. He’d caught plenty of slashing hockey sticks on both arms, how many years ago was it? No trainer now to bake out the pain and strap his ribs. Maybe Doc Bikel would know a remedy. Possibly a dram of cherry-pepsin syrup from an unlabeled brown bottle. Not a natural substance, Doc. Smelled highly artificial. Don’t let the Nature brotherhood know, they might call it unethical.
In the living room the telephone rasped. Novak felt his scalp hairs rise. It buzzed again like a rattler under a forked stick. Barada probably. Yeah, Barada. Calling to hiss out another warning. Well, pal, I read you loud and clear. I get the message.
Shivering, he closed his eyes.
After a while the phone stopped ringing.
The back of his head was sticky with drying blood. He cleaned it off slowly and threw the streaked washcloth into the corner. Drying himself slowly, he felt giddiness return and steadied himself against the wall. Then he pulled on pajama bottoms and staggered off to bed.
The next time the phone rang the clock showed nearly one o’clock. He awoke stiffly, reached for the receiver, then drew back his hand. Barada again, or one of his boys. Why give them the satisfaction of jeering at him?
He rolled over and tried to forget the telephone but it shrilled insistently. Finally he grabbed it and snarled, “Novak here, what’ll it be?”
The voice that replied was reedy with terror. Paula Norton’s voice. “Pete—I...I called before. Something’s happened.”
“Well, Mrs. Barada, I’m scarcely answering the phone these days—the effort’s so painful.”
“Pain?...Pete, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing mortal. Your ex-husband sent around a couple of muscle boys to kick my teeth out. All they did was cave my ribs.”
Her throat made a sucking gasp.
Novak said, “Let’s not talk about my little problems; alongside yours they’re probably trivial.”
Her voice came back, pitched a little lower. “I have no right to ask you anything—I know that. But I’m in trouble. Bad trouble, Pete.”
He sat up slowly. Along his spine the skin was icy. “You wouldn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
“No.”
“And it can’t wait until morning? I could use a—”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. No, it can’t wait until morning. By then you’ll have to talk with me through bars.”
He wiped sweat from his upper lip. “Mix yourself a drink,” he said levelly. “Mix another for me. I’m on my way.”
The receiver clattered into place, the ceiling light flared on and Novak pried himself off the bed. Dressing took a long time; when he bent over to pull on his shoes the effort made his temples pound painfully.
Finally he was dressed. He strapped on the shoulder holster and walked down the stairway.
Opening the garage doors took more effort. Setting his teeth he told himself he should have downed another pain pill. Then he was backing the Pontiac out of the alley, driving down Seventeenth toward the Tilden.
He found a parking place two blocks away and went in by the service entrance. No one paid any attention to him as he slipped into the room service elevator and punched the up button.
Leaning in one corner he closed his eyes and sucked deep breaths to steady himself. The elevator hummed to a gentle stop at the fifth floor.
Novak stepped out. The doors closed behind him.
Before he turned into the corridor he listened for voices and footsteps but the floor was silent. Even so he moved quietly along the wall until he was at her door. Touching the buzzer lightly he opened the door with the master key and closed it behind him.
She was sitting in an upholstered chair, wearing black toreador pants and an indigo blouse with puffed sleeves. Her knees were drawn up and held by laced fingers. Her eyes had a vacant, brooding look. Below them her cheekbones were as white as ivory.
As he walked toward her she said, “I didn’t mix your drink. Ever since I called you I’ve been sitting here as if I were frozen.” Her eyelids fluttered and her hands released her knees.
“The drinks can wait. Tell me what you couldn’t over the phone.”
Her eyebrows raised and she began to giggle. The tone was false, rising. Her shoulders shook.
“Stop it!” he snapped.
She moved her head helplessly as an ugly guffaw racked her throat. Novak slapped her face. The crack was like a pistol shot.
Shocked eyes stared up at him. Her face had gone rigid but the hysteria had drained away.
Blinking, she drew one hand across her forehead and said, “I needed that. God, I’m a softy.”
He sat slowly on the sofa, a yard from her, and waited.
Her breasts lifted, her head drew back and she said, “After you left I felt lousy. No one’s talked to me about right and wrong in so long I’d forgotten there was a difference. Then you walked out on me.”
“It seemed like the thing to do.”
She nodded slowly. “I let you go—a big mistake. How big you’ll find out. Anyway, I called you and when you didn’t answer I couldn’t stand being cooped up here with my conscience and the four walls. I decided to go out for a walk. I looked up the vet’s address and went over there—to see Toby, I told myself, but it was really to get away. Do some thinking.” In the hollow of her throat a nerve fluttered lightly. Her tongue darted out, moistened her lips. “I don’t know how long I walked—an hour maybe—and when I came back here I had company.”
“Barada?”
One hand gestured at the dark bedroom doorway. “In there.”
Novak levered himself off the sofa and trudged to the doorway. He groped for the wall switch, pressed it. White light flooded the room.
There was a mirrored dressing table, a jade-green bureau, a stool, a laden luggage rack, two chairs and twin beds. One of them had been turned back, exposing the pillow and the undersheet. The other bed had a jade green cover with white piping.
On it lay a man.
His eyes stared at the ceiling light as though they had never seen. His mouth was open but it would never speak. His arms lay slackly alongside his large body, the empty hands slightly curled. Light glinted from buffed nails.
Across his dark vest lay a golden chain, a charm of carved ivory. The cheeks of the once-hearty face had a waxy, caved-in look.
Novak moved closer.
