noticed the dirty nails and the grubby hands. Nightingale was right. Noolen was the south-end of a horse.
Fenner said, “Ross is the name. How do?”
Noolen jerked his head at the woman, who went out, shutting the door with a sharp click. “What do you want?” he asked, scowling.
Fenner put his hands on the desk and leant forward. “I want a hook-up in this burg. I’ve seen Carlos. He won’t play. You’re next on my list, so here I am.
Noolen said, “Where you from?”
“Crotti.”
Noolen studied his dirty finger-nails. “So Carlos couldn’t use you. What’s the matter with him?” There was a sneer in his voice.
“Carlos didn’t see me. I saw his flock of hoods an’ that was enough for me. They made me puke, so I scrammed.”
“Why come to me?”
Fenner grinned. “They told me you were the south-end of a horse. I thought maybe we could do something about it.”
A faint red crept into Noolen’s face. “So they said that, did they?”
“Sure. With me, you might have a lotta fun with that gang.”
“Meanin’?”
Fenner hooked a chair towards him with his foot and sat down. He leant forward and helped himself to a thin greenish cigar from a cigar-box on the desk. He took his time lighting it. Noolen sat watching him. His eyes intent and bright.
“Look at it this way,” Fenner said, stretching in the chair; “my way. I’ve come from Crotti. I want a chance like the rest of you for some easy dough an’ not much excitement. Crotti said either Carlos or Noolen. Carlos’s mob is too busy big-shotting to worry about me. I can’t even get in to see Carlos. You—I walk in an’ find you sittin’ on your can, with a flat-chested, bird outside as your muscle guard. Why did Crotti tip you? Maybe you’ve been someone an’ Crotti’s getting behind in the news. Maybe you are someone, an’ this is a front. Take it all round, I think you an’ me might get places.”
Noolen gave a little shrug. He shook his head. “Not just now,” he said. “I don’t know Crotti. I’ve never heard of him, an’ I don’t believe you’ve come from him. I think you’re a punk gunman bluffing himself a job. I don’t want you an’ I hope I’ll never want you.”
Fenner got up and yawned. “That’s swell,” he said. “I can now grab myself a little rest. When you’ve looked into things, you’ll find me at the Haworth Hotel. If you know Nightingale, have a word with him—he thinks I’m quite a boy.”
He nodded to Noolen and walked out of the office. He went down the stairs, called a cab and drove to his hotel. He went into the restaurant and ordered a turtle steak. While he was eating, Nightingale came in and sat down opposite him. .
Fenner said, with his mouth full, “Ain’t you got any boxes to make, or is business bad?”
Nightingale looked worried. “That was a hell of a thing to do—walking out like that.”
“Yeah? I always walk out when I get a Bronx cheer. Why not?”
“Listen, Reiger ain’t soft. That ain’t the way to handle Reiger.”
“No? You tell me.”
Nightingale ordered some brown bread, cheese and a glass of milk. He kept his eyes on the white tablecloth until the waitress brought the order, and when she had gone away he said, “This makes it difficult for me.”
Fenner put his knife and fork down. He smiled at the little man. “I like you,” he said. “You’re the one guy who’s given me a hand up to now. Suppose you stick around, I might do you some good.”
Nightingale peered at Fenner from under his hat. The sun, coming in through the slotted blinds, reflected on his glasses. “You might do me some harm, too,” he said drily.
Fenner resumed his eating. “Hell!” he said. “This is a hell of a burg, ain’t it?”
When they had finished their meal, Fenner pushed his chair away and stood up. “Okay, pal,” he said. “I’ll see you some time.”
Nightingale said, “We might talk some time.” He said it hopefully.
Fenner took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said vaguely, “I don’t know.”
He nodded to the little man and went out to the office. The hotel manager was busy at the desk. He looked up as Fenner passed and gave an oily smile.
Fenner said, “I’m goin’ to sleep. This place’s killin’ me.”
Before the manager could say anything, he went on up the stairs to his bedroom. He shut the door and turned the key. Then he took off his coat and hat and lay on the bed. He went to sleep almost immediately, a pleased smile on his mouth.
The phone woke him. He sat up with a jerk, glanced at the clock, saw he had slept for two hours, and reached out for the phone.
A voice said, “Come over to the Flagler Hotel right away. The boss wants you.”
Fenner screwed up his eyes. “Tell the boss I came this mornin’. I don’t visit the same place twice,” and hung up.
He lay back on the bed and shut his eyes. He only lay there a minute or so before the phone went again.
The same voice said, “You’d better come. Carlos don’t like bein’ kept waitin’.
Fenner said, “Tell Carlos to come out here, or tell him to go roll a hoop.” He put the receiver on the prong with exaggerated care.
He didn’t bother to answer the phone when it rang again. He went into the little bathroom, bathed his face, gave himself a short shot from the Scotch, put on his hat and coat and went downstairs.
The heat of the afternoon sun was blistering. The hotel lobby was deserted, and he went over and sat down near the entrance. He put his hat on the floor beside him and stared out into the street. He knew that he wasn’t going to get very far with this business unless he turned up Marian Daley’s sister. He wondered whether the cops had found the two Cubans and the remains of Marian. He wondered what Paula was doing. From where he sat he could look into the hot, deserted street. A big touring car suddenly swept into the street, roared down to the hotel, and skidded to a standstill.
Fenner relaxed into the long cane chair and, reaching down, picked up his hat and put it on.
There were four men in the car. Three of them got out, leaving the driver sitting behind the wheel.
Fenner recognized Reiger and Miller, but the other guy he didn’t know. They came up the few steps quickly and blinked round in the semi-gloom. Reiger saw Fenner almost at once. He came over.
Fenner looked up at him and nodded. “Want to see anyone?” he said casually. “The clerk’s gone bye- bye.”
Reiger said, “Carlos wants you. Come on.”
Fenner shook his head. “It’s too hot. Tell him some other time.”
The other two came and stood round. They looked mean. Reiger said softly, “Comin’ on your dogs, or do we carry you?”
Fenner got up slowly. “If it’s like that,” he said, and went with them to the car. He knew Reiger was itching to slug him and he knew it wouldn’t do any good to make too much fuss. He wanted to see Carlos, but he wanted them to think he wasn’t too interested.
They drove fast to the Flagler Hotel in silence. Fenner sat between Reiger and Miller, and the other man, whom they called Bugsey, sat with the driver.
They all went up in the small elevator and along to No. 47. As they entered, Fenner said, “You could have saved yourself a trip by playin’ ball this mornin’.”
Reiger didn’t say anything. He crossed the room and rapped on another door and went in. Bugsey followed behind Fenner.
Carlos lay on a couch before a big open window. He was dressed in a cream silk dressing-gown, patterned with large red flowers. A white silk handkerchief was folded carefully in a stock at his throat, and his bare feet were encased in red Turkish slippers.
He was smoking a marihuana cigarette, and round his brown, hairy wrist hung a gold-linked bracelet.
