“Why didn’t you take him up on it?”
“Because I’m not too sure he won’t have regrets about my past. Most men want to start out with a fresh one.”
“Not Lee, baby. He wants to ride a mount already broken to the saddle. He means what he says.”
“You sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
After a few moments she smiled and nodded, her lips pursed in thought. “Okay, I’m convinced.”
“Then get to work.”
“Roger, boss man.”
Leyland Hunter waited until she left, then walked over to me. “You’re taking a big chance.”
“Not really,” I said. “One of my guys will be standing by if things get rough.” I stayed in the corner out of sight scanning the faces of the crowd. Another bunch had come in through the main entrance and were shaking hands all around. In the center of the group, Cross McMillan had Sharon on his arm and Walt Gentry escorted Sheila. S. C. Cable was a smiling producer with a bundle of white fox with hair to match holding his hand. His new leading lady was strictly from England via old-style Hollywood.
I said, “Take care of things, mighty Hunter.”
“Yes, I suppose I had better pay my respects to the rest of the tribe. For old times’ sake, of course.”
“Naturally. Be sure to line up their proxies.”
“I’m afraid there won’t be that much among them to help. They’ll commit to your cousins out of family loyalty, but their shares are nominal. Am I going to be able to reach you if necessary?”
“Let me call you, Counselor. I don’t want you exposed to my presence any more than necessary.”
He gave me one of his courtroom glares, nodded and walked off, picking his way through the chattering crowd of minor celebrities and local big wheels.
A lone waiter spotted me in the dim corner, cut around the piano and held out a full tray of bubbling champagne. “Drink, sir?”
“No thanks.”
“Very good, sir.” He started to swing around when the nameplate on his jacket hit me like a short hard jab.
I said softly, “Ferris.”
He kept on walking.
“Ferris!”
“Sir?”
I tapped his plastic nameplate.
He glanced down, then smiled and shook his head. “Oh ... I’m sorry, sir. No, I’m not Ferris. I’m Daly, John Daly. Apparently the jackets they fitted us with got mixed up. You see, we were only hired for the night. Ferris must be here someplace wearing my name tag.”
“Who did the hiring?”
“There was an ad in the paper two days ago. We simply answered it.”
“All local help?”
“Well, I do know most everyone who applied. A few were strangers to me. If I see the one with my tag shall I send him over?”
“No, I’ll find him. And thanks.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Ferris 655. The seed in my mind that had germinated into a stalk that bore leaves now began to sprout a blossom that would erupt into fruit. Ferris. Ferris. It was something from a long time ago. Something obscure, but supposed to be remembered.
I went out the side door cf the ballroom, took the back corridor that led to the parking lot, let my eyes get adjusted to the darkness and picked my way between the cars to the street ramp. Traffic seemed normal enough and the few pedestrians on the sidewalk didn’t pay any attention to me at all. I stayed in the shadows, found my car two blocks away, checked out the one parked in front of me, then got behind the wheel and sat there looking up at the stars. Ferris, I thought.
Hell, I had been concentrating too long on the name. I had damn near ignored the numbers, and now I had half of the cryptic message right in front of me.
Twenty-three years ago, 655 was a post office box number and a picture postcard to that address was an alert signal that a shipment of contraband was ready for a drop and I had to designate the time and place through old Mel Tarbok. But Mel had been dead for fifteen years now and that post office box had long been discarded.
Which left Ferris and I didn’t have the slightest idea who or what Ferris was.
I turned the key and let the engine idle a minute, then pulled out into traffic behind a bakery truck. I turned left at the next intersection when I saw the car behind me finally flip on its lights and when it slowed for the next turn it was still behind me. When it turned I was already parked and waiting in a doorway with the .45 in my hand. The lights from the window threw a good, solid glow across the roadway and lit up the faces inside the sedan. A pair of teen-agers were laughing and one was taking a pull from a can of beer. They cruised right on past and farther down the street one leaned out the window to whistle at a lone girl walking by.
I put the gun away and got back in my car. I was getting spooked again and almost got annoyed at myself until I remembered that getting spooked easily had saved my neck more than once. This time I made sure nobody was behind me and I picked up the old Stillman road that headed out into the country hoping I could remember Tod’s directions.
Curiosity had made me look over the old bawdy house that was falling apart, then led me into making an inquiry at a real estate place. The old man told me the place had never been put up for sale as far as he knew and Tod had confirmed it. Over the phone he had told me, “Hell, Dog, Lucy Longstreet never did go far. She and that colored maid moved out on a little farm where the old way station was when the buses first started.coming through. Still there as far as I know. Saw them about a year ago, playing Scrabble on the porch. Doesn’t want nothing to do with nobody, though.”
And now she was still there playing Scrabble on the porch with Beth, the colored towel girl, both of them old and tired with screechy voices, armed with huge, dog-eared dictionaries. Years had taken the fat off Lucy, leaving the flesh dripping in folds from her arms and chin, but her hair was still the same off-color red that didn’t belong there at all and the diamonds still glinted on her fingers, only this time the pudginess wasn’t there to hold them on and the jewels hung on the underside of her hand.
It was Bath, aged but timeless, who recognized me and simply said, “My, oh my, look who’s here, Miss Lucy.”
Madam Longstreet had a mind that could dip back, bend and reform like a steel spring and after a five-second inspection she closed her dictionary and nodded. “Cameron’s bastard grandson with the idiot name.”
“You made me, Lucy,” I said.
“Been reading about you too.” She pointed to a chair. “Have a seat. Beth, go make us all a drink.” I tossed my hat on the table and slid into an overstuffed wing-back. “Good to see you, kid,” she told me.
“You haven’t changed much.”
“Who you kidding, sonny? Take a good look.”
“I was talking about your attitude.”
Beth came in with a bottle and three glasses on a polished silver tray. I remembered that being passed around her old parlor. Beth poured out the drinks over ice, added some ginger ale and went back to her dictionary. “Don’t mind me,” Lucy said, and spilled down her drink in one long pull. “Very seldom get a chance to have one anymore.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have retired.”
“Hell, the amateurs get all the action these days. Nobody can run a decent operation anymore.” She pulled a long cigar out of her pocket, stuck it in her mouth and held a lighter to it.
