'Let me brood about it a little,' he said, at last. 'I'm kind of getting an idea for beating the bad- check angle, but I want to kick it around for a day or two. If it comes up yes, you're down for ten per cent.'
'Oh, now,' Turkelson protested feebly. 'That's not necessary.'
'Ten per cent-which you'll earn,' Mitch said. 'Meanwhile, we'll take that Zearsdale guest card. I can't get in the action, naturally, but at least I can show Red off.'
Red kissed him, and stuck her tongue out at Turkelson. Chuckling, the manager stood up, promising to bring the guest card right away.
'You'd better not,' Red declared. 'You put that card in our room box!'
'But I'll be glad to-'
'Would you be glad to get killed?' Mitch demanded. 'Red, you must tell this man about the birds and the bees.'
Turkelson departed, chortling.
Mitch and Red returned to the bedroom.
They had a late and light lunch in mid-afternoon. Then, as Red summoned a beautician from the downstairs salon, Mitch went to see about renting a car. He had some trouble deciding between a sedan, a Lincoln Continental, and a black Jaguar convertible-coupй. Finally, feeling that the sedan might be a little showy, he settled on the Jag.
It was not a good choice. He was aware of that around eight o'clock that night, as he turned into the long curving driveway which led up to the club. Ahead of them, in a boxcar-length Rolls with both chauffeur and footman, rode an elderly man in full evening dress. He kept staring back through the rear window, then leaned forward to consult with the two livened servants, who also looked back briefly. Debouching finally at the entrance, the elderly one gave the Jaguar and its occupants the ultimate in quizzical stares, turning away with a look of such wry wonderment-an I'll-be-damned, what-have-we-here look?-that Mitch almost winced.
So the car was all wrong. It was wrong by the mere fact of Red and Mitch being in it. There was prompt proof of that, if any further proof were needed.
A cutdown jalopy came roaring up the drive, throwing gravel over the Jaguar as it skidded to a stop. A half-dozen teenage boys and girls swarmed out of it, dressed in odds and ends of clothing; ran shouting and laughing into the clubhouse. The doorman, dressed like a coachman even to his whip, looked after them fondly. Then, turning back to Mitch, he critically examined the guest card.
'You were meeting someone, sir?' He poked the card back at Mitch. 'Perhaps I could notify them for you.'
'We're not meeting anyone.'
'I see. Hmm. The term guest is used rather literally here, sir. These cards are only honored, ordinarily, that is, at the request of a member.'
'I've used a great many guest cards,' Mitch said coldly, 'and I've never heard of such a practice.'
'Obviously. So under the circumstances…' He signaled with his whip, and a uniformed attendant came running to remove the Jag. 'We'll have the car readily available for you, sir.'
Mitch could feel Red's hand tremble on his arm. Taking her up the three long steps of the club building, he smiled down at her reassuringly. But he felt none of the calm which he was trying to convey. His principal emotion was one of fury; a raging anger with himself for bringing her here.
Turkelson should have known what he was sending them into. Turk probably had known, as much as one could know by hearsay. But he would justifiably expect Mitch to be at least as well-informed. Information was half of Mitch's job. In the Pavlovian maze of the heavy hustle, he must always spot the proper tunnel, correctly associate action and reaction, sound with deed, word with word. Oil was a three-letter word if you were content to get your kicks from birdwatching. But if you liked the big time, you had better spell it Zearsdale. Jake Zearsdale. The unquestioned head of the fabulous 'Houston Hundred.'
Zearsdale was the founder of the club. Its membership was limited allegedly to the families and connections of the Hundred. Presumably, one of them owned the hotel-apartment where Mitch and Red were staying-what more likely owner for such an establishment? So business being business, a few guest cards were made available. Which did not necessarily mean that they would be honored. That would be looked into after the guest arrived. Nor would anyone be a bit interested in whether he was affronted.
He was an outsider, wasn't he? He could neither hurt nor help the Clan. Well, then!
But that, that attitude, wasn't Texas, of course. It was only the wealthiest-people-in-the-world Texas. Mitch had always found Houston an exceptionally friendly city. He had simply been asking for it in coming to a place like this.
Immediately inside the doorway of the club building stood a squat, broad-shouldered man in a dark dinner jacket. He was frowning as he watched the door, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His sharp, cold eyes stopped them like a wall, and for a moment it seemed that he would not unclasp his hands from behind his back and take the card which Mitch extended.
At last he did so, however, and he returned it with a wisp of a smile upon his thick, broad mouth. The cold eyes warmed as he looked from Mitch to Red, and he spoke with a voice which was faintly musical.
'The bar? Allow me to show you, please.'
He guided them down the vaulted corridor to a vast room which whispered with music and the hum of acoustically stilled voices. Then, having led the way through the dimness, he saw them seated at the bar, snapped his fingers at an attendant and departed with a low bow.
Icy martinis were set in front of them. The barman hovered obsequiously, lighting their cigarettes, moving the ashtrays a fraction of an inch closer. Assured that they needed nothing else, he at last left, them alone. Mitch lifted his glass to Red, murmuring that the atmosphere had warmed considerably.
Red agreed that it had, but she still didn't like the place. 'Let's leave as soon as we can, honey. We don't belong here, and this gang knows it.'
'Oh? I'd say we'd made the grade with flying colors.'
'And footprints on the seat of our pants. Please, Mitch…'
'I thought we'd have dinner. Maybe a dance or two.'
'We can have it somewhere else.' She studied his face, frowning. 'You surely aren't going to try for anything here, are you?'
Mitch hesitated, taking a sip of his drink. As she prompted him anxiously, he started to reply, then abruptly broke off. A man was on the point of passing them. A tall man, whose dinner attire was perhaps an unmeasurable fraction too elegant, whose face was completely expressionless.
As he went by, his knuckles rapped Mitch's spine. Lips barely moving, he spoke two words.
'Get out.'
6
In the rationalizing part of his mind, Mitch was inclined to blame his mother for his marriage to Teddy. He was subconsciously seeking a mother, he believed, when he allowed Teddy to trap him. In his leniency with Teddy, he was making amends to his mother for his actions at their last meeting. Their one and only meeting since the death of his father.
Admittedly, his thoughts on the subject were very confused. It was impossible to think of Teddy without being confused. Almost as hard as it was to think of Teddy as a mother-type. What Mitch thought about the first time he saw her was certainly not motherhood, but rather that joyous biological preliminary to woman's noblest estate.
He was night belihopping at the time. Teddy, so he had learned, was the highly-paid night auditor for an oil company. Finishing her duties, she would eat in the hotel's coffee shop just as dawn was breaking, then have a cab called to take her home. It fell to Mitch, his second night on the job, to call the cab.
She was a very wholesome-looking young woman, with corn-colored hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Severely dressed, she still had a lot of stuff to show. And Mitch found himself looking at it as they
