Fenner grinned, and, swinging his hand, he gave her a gentle smack on her fanny. “Don’t you worry your brains about me,” he said.
She leaned towards him, raising her face; so, because he thought she was pretty good, he kissed her. She wound her arms round his neck and held him, her body close to his. They stood like that for several minutes, then Fenner pushed her away gently.
She stood looking at him, breathing hard. “I guess I’m crazy,” she said, color suddenly flooding her face.
Fenner ran his finger round the inside of his collar. “I’m a bit of a bug myself,” he said. “Scram, baby, before we really get to work. Beat it, an’ I’ll see you in church.”
She went out quietly and shut the door. Fenner took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands thoughtfully. “I think I’m goin’ to like this job,” he said aloud. “Yeah, it might develop into somethin’,” and he went back and sat down by the open window again.
Nightingale led him through the crowded lobby of the Flagler Hotel. Fenner said, “This guy does himself well.”
Nightingale stopped before the elevator doors and thumbed the automatic button. “Sure,” he said; “what did I tell you? Pio’s the boy to be in with.”
Fenner studied the elaborate wrought ironwork of the gates. “You’re tellin’ me,” he said.
The cage came to rest and they stepped in. Nightingale pressed the button for the fifth, and the cage shot them up. “Now I’ll do the talkin’,” Nightingale said, as the lift stopped. “Maybe you won’t get anythin’, but I’ll try.”
Fenner grunted and followed the little man down the corridor. He stopped outside No. 47 and rapped three times fast and twice slowly on the door.
“Secret signs as well,” Fenner said admiringly.
The door opened and a short Cuban, dressed in a black suit, looked them over. Fenner shaped his lips for a whistle, but he didn’t make any sound.
Nightingale said in his soft voice: “It’s all right.”
The Cuban let them in. As he shut the door after them, Fenner saw a bulge in his hip-pocket. The hall they found themselves in was big, and three doors faced them.
“The boys in yet?” Nightingale asked.
The Cuban nodded. He sat down in an arm-chair by the front door and picked up a newspaper again. As far as he was concerned they weren’t there.
Nightingale went into the centre room. There were four men lounging about the room. They were all in shirt- sleeves and they all were smoking. Two of them were reading newspapers, one of them was listening to the radio, and the fourth was cleaning a rod. They all glanced at Nightingale, and then fixed wooden looks on Fenner.
The man with the rod got up slowly. “Who is it?” he said. He’d got a way of speaking with his teeth shut. He wore a white suit and a black shirt with a white tie. His wiry black hair was cropped close, and his yellow-green eyes were cold and suspicious.
Nightingale said, “This is Ross. From New York. Crotti knows him. He’s all right.” Then he turned to Fenner. “Meet Reiger.”
Fenner gave Reiger a wintry smile. He didn’t like the look of him.
Reiger nodded. “How do,” he said. “Stayin’ long?”
Fenner waved his hand. “These other guys friends of yours, or are they just decoration?”
Reiger’s eyes snapped. “I said, stayin’ long?” he said.
Fenner eyed him. “I heard you. It ain’t no goddamn business of yours, is it?”
Nightingale put his hand on Fenner’s cuff. He didn’t say anything, but it was a little warning gesture. Reiger tried a staring match with Fenner, lost it and shrugged. He said, “Pug Kane by the radio. Borg on the right. Miller on the left.”
The three other men nodded at Fenner. None of them seemed friendly.
Fenner was quite at ease. “Glad to know you,” he said. “I won’t ask you guys for a drink. Maybe you don’t use the stuff.”
Reiger turned on Nightingale. “What’s this?” he snarled. “Who’s this loud-mouthed punk?”
Miller, a fat, greasy-looking man with a prematurely bald head said, “Somethin’ he’s dug outa an ash- can.”
Fenner walked over to him very quickly and slapped him twice across his mouth. A gun jumped into Nightingale’s hand and he said, “Don’t start anythin’—Don’t start anythin’, please.”
Fenner was surprised they took any notice of Nightingale, but they did. They all froze solid. Even Reiger looked a little sick.
Nightingale said to Fenner, “Come away from him.” His voice had enough menace in it to chill Fenner a trifle. Curly was right. This guy was a killer.
Fenner stepped away from Miller and put his hands in his pockets.
Nightingale said, “I won’t have it. When I bring a friend of mine up here, you treat him right. I’d like to measure some of you heels for a box.”
Fenner laughed. “Ain’t that against etiquette?” he said. “Or do you take it both ways? Bump ’em an’ bury ’em?”
Nightingale put his rod away, and the others relaxed. Reiger said with a little forced smile, “This heat plays hell.” He went over to a cupboard and set up drinks.
Fenner sat down close to Reiger. He thought this one was the meanest of the bunch and he was the one to work on. He said quietly, “This heat even makes me hate myself.”
Reiger looked at him still suspiciously. “Forget it,” he said. “Now you’re here, make yourself at home,”
Fenner rested his nose on the rim of his glass. “Carlos in?” he said.
Reiger’s eyes opened. “Carlos ain’t got time for visitors,” he said. “I’ll tell him you’ve been in.”
Fenner drained his glass and stood up. Nightingale made a move, but Fenner stopped him with a gesture. He stood looking round at each man in turn. He said, “Well, I’m glad. I looked in. I thought this was a live outfit, an’ I find I’m wrong. You guys are no use to me. You think you’ve got this town by the shorts an’ you’re fat an’ lazy. You think you’re the big-shots, but that’s not the way I spell it. I think I’ll go an’ see Noolen, That guy’s supposed to be the south end of a horse. All right, then I’ll make him the north end. It’ll be more amusing than playin’ around with guys like you.”
Reiger slid his hand inside his coat, but Nightingale already had his rod out. “Hold it,” he said.
The four men sat still; their faces made Fenner want to laugh.
Nightingale said, “I asked him to come along. If he don’t like us, then let him go. A friend of Crotti’s is a friend of mine.”
Fenner said, “I’ll drop round some time an’ see you again.”
He walked out of the room, past the Cuban, who ignored him, and took the elevator down to the street level.
The commissionaire at the door looked as if he had some brains. Fenner asked him if he knew where he could find Noolen. The commissionaire said he’d got an office off Duval Street, and beckoned a cab. Fenner gave him a fin.
The commissionaire helped him into the cab as though he were made of china.
Noolen’s office was over a shop. Fenner had to go up a long flight of stairs before he located the frosted glass-panelled door. When he got inside, a flat-chested woman whose thirties were crowding up on her, regarded him suspiciously from behind a typewriter.
“Noolen in?” he asked, smiling at her, because he felt she could do with a few male smiles.
“He’s busy right now,” she said. “Who is it?” .
“Me? Tell him Ross. Dave Ross. Tell him I ain’t sellin’ anythin’, and I want to see him fast.”
She got up and walked over to a door behind her. Fenner gave her a start, then he took two strides and walked into the room with her.
Noolen was a dark, middle-aged man, growing a paunch. He’d a double chin and a hooked nose. His eyes were hooded and mean. He looked at Fenner and then at the woman. “Who’s this?” he snapped.
The woman jerked round, her eyes popping. “Wait outside,” she said.
Fenner pushed past her and wandered over to the big desk. He noticed a lot of spots on Noolen’s vest. He
