down the steps.
A taxi slid out of the shadows and the driver leant forward to jerk open the door. “Where to, boss?” he asked.
Jason looked back over his shoulder, but Miss Gellert had shut the door. He looked up at the tall building and frowned.
Then he turned his attention to the driver. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve only been in New York a few hours. I’ve got a room about ten floors up which seems to me completely isolated from any earthly contacts. I want to find company. What do you suggest?”
The driver thought for a moment. “The Gaucho Club is a good spot for a pick-up, boss,” he said. “If you’re wanting someone to sleep with, I’d say that’s your spot.”
Jason raised his hat. “Never mind,” he said politely, “I think I’ll walk.”
SKIN DEEP
You know how it is when you keep sticking your thumb up, and the cars go on by, just like you weren’t there. You think, “O.K., I’ll let this flock through and wait for a truck.” Then you pound away on your dogs, hoping for a truck to show up, but it doesn’t.
That’s the way it took Hienie. Not that Hienie was a bym, he wasn’t. Fate, or what ever you like to call a lousy break, had dealt him one from the bottom of the deck. He and Johnny Frost had got together to do a job. It was simple enough. Hienie had seen to all the details and that meant something. Hienie was a smart guy when it came to details.
All they had to do was to walk into a cafe, show the guy behind the counter a gun, open his cash-box, and beat it. Hienie knew this guy took the cash round to the bank every Friday. During the week the cash-box got good and full. The guy was crazy to have a system like that, but then, Hienie and Frost lived on crazy guys.
You’d think you couldn’t go wrong on a simple set-up like that—you couldn’t, but Frost got it into his nut that you could. He started making plans and getting smart, until Hienie got sore.
Hienie kept telling him all they had to do was to blow in, show the gun, and collect. You didn’t have to hang around checking the time when the coppers would be around. You didn’t have to turn your clothes inside out, so you wouldn’t be spotted, or do any of the other cock-eyed ideas Frost kept squawking about.
Frost wouldn’t do the job the easy way. They were still arguing when they set off by road to Jefferson City. Finally, Hienie got mad, and that’s where he came unstuck. Frost was a big guy and he owned the car. He listened to Hienie for a couple of minutes and then hoofed him out of the car. “O.K., smart guy,” he said, letting the clutch in with a bang, “go bowl a hoop. I’ll handle the job myself.”
Hienie was so mad that he let him go. He had a childlike faith that he could collect a lift from one of the many glittering cars that continually roared past. He’d get a lift to Jefferson City and beat that hop head to it.
It was only after the sixteenth car had ignored his frantic signals that doubt began to cloud his optimism. After the twentieth car had choked him with dust, he gave up and decided to wait for a truck.
He sat by the roadside and lit a cigarette. He cursed Frost viciously, groping far back in his loose mind for suitable terms. If ever he caught up with that guy he’d give it to him. He’d walk right up to him and say, “Hello, pal,” and then he’d let him have it in the guts. He’d stand over him and watch the heel croak.
As he sat there brooding, he noticed a car approaching in the distance. One glance made him get to his feet hurriedly. It wasn’t a private car; from where he was standing it looked mighty like a hearse.
“This guy ain’t passin’ me,” Hienie thought, moving out into the middle of the highway. “He’ll have to run me down first.” He began waving his arms violently.
As the car approached, he could see a small red cross painted on the front, and for a moment he almost stepped aside; but the thought of Frost made him stand firm.
The ambulance made as if to swerve, then slid to a standstill. A little guy in a white coat, and wearing a peaked cap, rolled down the window and looked at Hienie with interest.
“What’s bitin’ you, pal?” he asked, resting two powerful fists on the wheel.
Hienie took off his hat and blotted his face. “Jeeze! I was just givin’ up when you blew along.”
The little guy shook his head. “You can’t ride on this wagon,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d give you a lift, sure thing, but I’m on duty. I gotta patient.”
Hienie didn’t care if he’d got elephants on board. He was going to ride now he’d succeeded in stopping something on four wheels.
“Forget it,” he said sharply, his thin wolfish face going hard. “There’s room in the cab. I don’t want to get inside.”
The little guy shook his head again. “Can’t do it, pal. I’d lose my job. Some other guy will be along soon. I gotta get on. Maybe you’d like a smoke or somethin’?”
Hienie stepped round the ambulance, jerked open the offside door and got into the cab. He slammed the door shut.
“I’m ridin’,” he said briefly. “Get goin’.”
The little guy twisted round in his seat, so that he faced Hienie. “Don’t let’s have any trouble; I may be a little guy, but I’m tough. Beat it, before I start somethin’.”
Hienie could handle this sort of talk. He reached behind him and pulled his gun. He showed it to the little guy. “I don’t have to be tough,” he said.
The little guy’s eyes popped. “Jeeze!”
“That’s it,” Hienie said, putting the gun away. “Let’s go.”
The little guy engaged the gears. “I’m going to lose my job,” he said regretfully.
Hienie leant back against the well-cushioned seat. “You ain’t losin’ nothin’,” he said. “You get me to Jefferson and you’ll make yourself somethin’.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Hienie said: “You ain’t worryin’ about the rod, are you, pal?”
The little guy gave him a quick glance. “Sure, I ain’t,” he said hastily.
“You’re O.K. with me,” Hienie assured him, “it’s just the way I’ve got when guys get tough. I just gotta pull a rod. Maybe it’s goin’ to get me into a little trouble one day.”
“I ain’t so tough,” the little guy said rather bitterly. “I oughtta’ve taken a chance and hung one on you.”
Hienie grinned. “You’re all right. You’re a wise guy. It ain’t healthy to tap a guy with a rod. Take it from me, pal, I know.” He fumbled for a cigarette and offered one.
When they had lit up, Hienie said, “What’s your name, pal?”
The little guy looked at him suspiciously. “Joe,” he said, with obvious reluctance.
Hienie grinned. “A swell name for a swell guy, huh?”
Joe didn’t say anything, he kept on driving. Hienie watched the road for a while, then he shut his eyes and dozed. It was hot inside the cab, so he let himself drift for a while. Then curiosity made him ask lazily, “Say, Joe, what’s wrong with the patient?”
“Aw, she’s nuts,” Joe said, leaning forward to switch on the side lights.
Hienie sat up. “You mean she’s crazy?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s tough. Gee! I’d hate to be a nut.”
Joe shrugged. “When you’re crazy, you don’t mind so much. It’s goin’ crazy that’s bad.”
Hienie thought this over. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess that’s right.” He lit another cigarette. “Crazy guys give me the heebies.”
“You get used to it,” Joe said, rolling down the window to spit into the dark. “It’s the tough ones I don’t fancy.”
“Is she tough?” Hienie asked with morbid curiosity.
Joe hesitated. “Yeah,” he said; “I ain’t allowed to talk about the patients.” He slowed down as they approached a gas station. “Keep outta sight, pal,” he said, “I got my job to think about.”
Hienie sat back. “I could use a drink. Yes, sir, right now I could use a lotta drink.”
