I sat on a boardwalk bench and finished my cigar, watching the stars and the waves breaking on the beach —longing to be out there with Rose on the Sea Princess again, away from all this mess.

I went back to our hotel and with a little smirk the desk clerk informed me Mrs. Anderson hadn't called. I took the key and went up to our room. Opening the door, I saw the place was a wreck. The mattress had been cut open, suitcases turned upside down, drawers out. Like a prize fool I walked straight into the room and heard the swish sound of a blackjack cutting air a split second before the ceiling fell on me. As a curtain of darkness came over my eyes I thought I saw a pair of legs making for the door—one leg limping a bit.

I came to with my head throbbing like a bad motor. The top of my noggin was puffed and touching it made me scream. My side was on fire, too. The bastard had kicked me. It took a long moment to get the room in focus. I made it to my feet and staggered over to the bed, my knees shaking so it reminded me of my wrestling days and the hammy way I'd go rubber-legged. I sat very still for a long time, waiting for my head to land, praying I didn't have a concussion. I went through my pockets. My wallet and the dough was still there.

Going to the bathroom I ran cold water over my wrists. I touched my head tenderly. No blood. I opened my shirt. My left side was an angry red but the ribs seemed okay. I urinated and except for a small pain in my kidney, things were in working order. I held a towel full of cold water to my face and head. My wrist watch said a half hour had passed, but most of that had been sitting on the bed.

I locked the door and asked the elevator operator if he'd taken a man down who limped? He said no and his was the only car working in the early morning. Of course I wasn't sure I'd actually seen the limping legs.

In the lobby I asked the clerk and he said, “No one has entered or left here in the last two hours, except you. Any trouble, sir?”

“No.”

I started for the door and he called after me, “Your clothes are unbuttoned, sir.”

I buttoned my shirt and coat and went out. There was a pale line of light on the horizon and the cold sea air was what the doctor ordered. I was full of a lot of feelings: fear, bewilderment—and for the first time since I'd hooked up with Rose, I was damn angry. I walked toward the center of town and found the bus terminal. I got some change and phoned the boat house again. The same sleepy voice answered and when I said, “This is Whalen....” he said, “Aw now, Mr. Whalen, I don't like to complain but... I told you about the late late show. I hardly ever stay up to watch 'em because I'm a guy who needs his sleep. First you get me up and then about the time I'm closing my eyes again your wife comes and now...”

The only feeling I had was one of pure sweet relief. I cut in with, “Listen, it's worth ten bucks if you'll get her to the phone.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Whalen. Hold on.”

It took fifteen minutes for Rose to walk the dock and reach the boat house phone. I sat there, almost humming to myself. I felt cocky again. It would be a snap for me to reach Asbury, only about thirty miles away. Hell, I could even buy an outboard and make it along the coast. I turned to see if anybody in the bus terminal was watching me. The sudden movement of my sore head made me dizzy.

A couple of other ideas came bubbling to the surface of my cocky mood. I was still angry about the clout on the head, wanted to pay somebody back. Since Rose was safe on the boat, I could go to New York and look up the two “Sour” jokers I'd found in the phone book, perhaps get to the bottom of all this. The other idea was: I had to solve things, or at least give it a good try. Now that I was certain a Federal man was after Rose, I'd best damn well know what sort of mess she was in. Not that I was really frightened. I mean, no matter how badly she was wanted by Washington, I'd never leave her. Still, it was better knowing what I was facing and this would be my last chance. I had to go to New York, follow even a slim clue like the phone book names that... Rose's voice interrupted my thinking.

The words coming fast, she asked, “Where are you phoning from?” Her voice was hoarse but full of the warmth I knew.

“A public booth. Don't worry, it won't be traced. I promised the boat house guy a ten spot, give it to him. Are you okay, honey?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you?”

“Fine. Maybe pooped from looking for you...”

“Where are you?”

“Still in Atlantic City.”

“Oh God, what's keeping you? Mickey, I expected to find you waiting here for me. We must sail at once.”

“It took me some time to get your message,” I wisecracked. “Look, I'd like to get to the bottom of all this. Long as we're here and...”

“No, Mickey!” Hysteria was back in her voice. “We've had it! Promise me you'll come directly here, and be very careful.”

“Okay, but it will take time. I don't want to bring any company. Are you certain you weren't followed?”

“Yes. I managed to get a bus to Philly, a train to New York. Then a subway to Newark where I hired a cab to drive me to Elizabeth, and a few more cabs to here.”

“Damn,” I said, full of admiration. “Now listen, sit tight and don't worry. I'll be along. But it will take time. I mean, I'll have to do all that twisting and turning, too, and at this hour in the morning there may not be any trains. No matter what happens, you wait on the boat.”

“I will, but hurry. Darling, you're really not hurt or in trouble?”

“No. I won't try to call you again, too risky. I'm leaving here now and I should be with you by late afternoon.”

“Be careful, Mickey.”

“Yeah. And you stay put and wait.”

I hung up and called the other hotel, asked for the house man again, and hung up. To be even safer, I phoned our hotel and asked for their rates. With two cover calls, we couldn't be traced—unless the movies were liars.

I was in luck, there was a direct bus to New York leaving in five minutes. I watched the people boarding it and didn't see anybody looking like a dick. But then I didn't know how to make a tail. Obviously big boy had been following me around ever since I left the club last night. Although he could have easily checked the hotels for a Mickey Anderson.

It was a four hour ride to New York on the turnpike and I had a headache most of the way. But when I walked out into Times Square I had coffee and felt better. I couldn't comb my hair so I bought a hat. For a few minutes I wandered around Broadway, and seeing the rushing people, the big buildings, was a charge. I glanced around like a hick, somehow expecting Hal among the crowds. I had to find out about train and bus schedules and the safest way was the phone. It turned out to be a snap to reach Asbury Park almost any time I wanted to. And now that Rose was safe, what did I have to lose by digging around a little? Maybe Rose had been telling the truth—I was sure she had— but her story was so weird there had to be more to it.

Really wasn't much looking I could do, except checking on the “Sours" in the phone book, and that wouldn't take more than an hour.

I rode a subway uptown, to say I'd been on one, and when I got off and asked for the address on West 113th Street, a street cleaner told me I'd taken the wrong train and I finally took a cab.

I found myself in a colored neighborhood and William Saure turned out to be an elderly brown man who thought I was a cop and had never heard of any Willie Sour or Josef Fedor, and was quite relieved when I told him it was all a mistake.

That left Willy Sowor on Cork Avenue—wherever that was. A cab let me off in front of a seedy looking brownstone rooming house in a block of old houses and swank new apartments. I rang the basement bell and when I didn't get any answer, trotted up the stoop steps, rang another bell.

A little old guy who could have been a retired jockey answered the door. He wore a dirty grey turtle neck sweater, stained slacks, and slippers. His face was too narrow for his features, causing them to look wrinkled and tense. When I asked for Willy Sowor he gave me a blank look and whispered something. He didn't seem to have any voice. When I asked what he'd said, he cupped his ear and told me to step inside. We were in a little hallway which looked a hundred years old, but at the same time this must have been a ritzy house a hundred years ago. A neat carpeted stairway with a fancy polished wooden banister ran up to the next floor. Several closed, thick wooden doors, with fancy scrolls and designs on them, opened on the hallway. The house sure looked far better kept on the inside.

The little man made this whispering sound again. When I asked, “What?” he opened his mouth to show he didn't have any teeth. I asked loudly, “Does Willy Sowor live here? S-o-w-o-r?”

He nodded.

“The guy has something wrong with his nose?”

He worked his head in another nod.

“Where is he?”

Motioning for me to bend down, he put one arm around my shoulders—and let it fall to my hips—as he whispered hoarsely, “He—out.” A strong blast of stale food went with the words.

I had an idea he was frisking me. “Well, when will Sowor be back?”

“Him... return... one hour. You wait?”

I straightened up. “I'll be back in an hour. One hour.” I held up a single finger like a loony. “You tell him it's important, to be sure and wait.”

The old guy gave me a gummy smile. “Me tell. Who you?”

“Friend.” The pidgin English gave me a brilliant idea. I winked at the little guy and told him, “I want to see Willy about some gals. Rose and a doll called Lucy. You know her, Me-lucy-ah?”

“I tell.”

“Good. I'll be back in an hour. Tell Willy to wait.”

“He wait.”

I went out and wondered how to kill an hour. Despite the jockey's breath I was still hungry. There was a stool joint on the corner. I had eggs and toast, juice and coffee, felt like my old self again. I was sitting so I could watch the house through the window—and see what Willy looked like. My side ached and the top of my head was still floating, but I'd felt worse than this after some of my wrestling acts.

Above all, I was quite pleased with my luck in finding Willy-boy. The quiet private house was a break, too. If Sowor didn't talk straight I'd either bribe or beat some info out of him. One way or another, in an hour I'd know the score. I bought a cigar and sat there, watching the house and belching, feeling like a stuffed Sherlock Holmes. I didn't know exactly why I was watching the house. I suppose it wasn't so much I wanted to see what Sowor looked like walking up the steps, but I had an idea he was home all the time and might leave the house.

The joint began to fill up with construction workers, all of them wearing plastic helmets and full of loud, corny talk. It was noon and my stool was being eyed, so I went outside to take a little walk, buy a roll of tape and put it on my sore side. As I stood on the corner, looking around for a drugstore—debating about being out of sight of the house—two big kids stopped and asked if I could spare a match. They looked like college students and the one with the cigarette in his mouth was as tall and thin as a basketball player.

The last thing they looked like were pros. The tall one with the cigarette stood in front of me, while the other one, a tweedy, stubby character wearing heavy frame glasses, stood at my side and back. I took out a pack of matches and started to say he could keep them—when I felt guns pressing my stomach and back. The basketball type said softly, “No trouble, please. We will not hesitate to use these.”

I was so astonished I couldn't talk. This kid could be nineteen or twenty and he wasn't hard looking or a nut, yet his eyes said he wouldn't worry a second over plugging me. Whoever they were, they weren't cops. I asked, “What is this?”

Tweedy at my back said, “Don't go for dumb.” He had a deep, rough voice.

The basketball player held his right hand in his pocket and with his left gently pulled my cigar from my mouth, lit his cigarette, and shoved the cigar back between my lips. It was a simple movement, and it gave me a helpless feeling. He said softly, “Walk with us.” He suddenly laughed and putting his arm around my shoulder, kind of pushed me up the avenue. His gun was on the wrong side, away from me, but deep voice walking behind us warned, “One false move and you get it. Be smart and we won't hurt you.”

We walked up the avenue, the tail one talking loudly about baseball, slapping me on the back now and then. Maybe he was an actor; the three of us looked like buddy-buddies.

We turned into a side street, walked a short block. This was where the construction workers came from and it was a startling sight—like the shelled cities I'd seen on the Italian coast during the war. For several blocks on either side of us there was this leveled area full of the rubble of torn down old buildings, with part of a wall standing here and there. A block or two over were the bulldozers and cranes but where we walked was deserted. The one at my back said, “Let's get to work. Where is it?” He ran his hand over my clothes.

“Where is what? I don't know what you jokers are talking about. What is this?” A punch in the long gut of the basketball player would take him out but there wasn't anything I could do about tweedy behind me.

The tall one said, “You asked for Sowor. We don't know who you are or on what side. We have no desire to kill you, but we will if necessary. That's up to you. Where is it? Where's the girl?”

“What the hell is 'it?'“ I wished I had on one of the construction helmets, another crack on my sore head would...

Basketball whipped out his small automatic and tried to push it through my belly. “Who are you? What do you want to see Sowor about? Did she send you?”

1 ... 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 ... 22

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