Honky-Tonk Girl (15 page)

She drew a shuddering breath. Her face was all twisted and agonized. She raised her eyes and suddenly she was older and not so pretty. “Something—something happened to me when I was younger, Johnny. I was just out of high school, running around with a fast, expensive crowd. My folks lived here then. And Sam Cowles, even then, was the big shot in this town's society. He used to give parties up at his place. He had everything you'd ever want—liquor, marihuana, heroin. We'd go to his parties—I thought he was glamorous.”

Johnny died inside. He felt as if there was nothing left in him except scraps of old scorched paper blowing away in a dry wind. “Sam Cowles,” he said in a voice a hundred years old. “You and....”

“Yes, Johnny,” she admitted. “Sam Cowles. The man you despise more than anybody else in the world. I let him make love to me when I was just a little more than a baby.”

She turned away from him. “He's the only one, Johnny. There never has been anybody else until you. I didn't want to do anything with him that night. But there was something in my drink. I passed out. When I woke up everybody else had gone. I was alone in his big house with him.” She shuddered. “He made me do it, Johnny. I didn't want to, but he forced me to do all sorts of terrible things with him and he took pictures....”

“I had a nervous breakdown after that. I didn't dare tell my folks what had happened. Dad worshipped me. He thought I was the cleanest, purest angel in the world. He's terribly ill with a heart ailment. The shock would have stopped his heart. So I went to Dr. Nathan. That was the first time he treated me. I told him all.”

She shook her head, squeezing back tears with tightly closed eye lids. “That's why I've lied to protect Raye Cowles. Sam still has those pictures and records. He threatened to make them public, send them to my father unless I kept quiet about Rays shooting Miff. It would have killed Dad. I had to think up something. People saw me go up to Miff's Monday night. It was a desperate, crazy idea, I guess, but I decided to pretend I couldn't remember anything that happened that night. I don't think I fooled Ed Nathan, but he thinks as much of my Dad as I do and guess he wanted to protect him, too. I—I didn't want to lose the two men I loved most in the world...Dad and...you, darling—”

Well, here she is, Johnny. The clean, pure youngster you were so afraid to touch—because she was too innocent! The girl you thought you might marry some day—if you ever came out of this mess alive!

And now you knew you'd never be able to forget what she'd just told you. For the rest of your life you'd be wondering if Sam Cowles really forced her that night—or if she'd lied about that too. You'd always wonder if she'd gone to him of her own free will, seeking a cheap thrill like all the other women who visited Sam Cowles. And in case you ever did forget, there'd always be something to remind you every time she took off her clothes to nestle into your waiting arms—a little memento of that night with Sam Cowles—the initials “S.O.” that he had burned in her left breast....

Johnny felt as if he were going to be suddenly and violently ill.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

TIME TO KILL

Friday Evening, 11:00 P.M.

Johnny walked around in circles for a long time. There was an aching in his throat. People bumped into him. He was on the street and the night air blew against him, but now it was warm like a tepid, enervating breath off the desert. Still, he was not aware of any particular sensation. He walked through an alley where a pair of tramps were sitting on a curb and he might have been one of them, with his wrinkled, stained suit, his scuffed shoes white with dust, and his haggard face.

Slowly, the full consciousness of Ruth Jordon's confession spread through him and took root in his conscious mind which had been shying away from it like a woman averting her eyes from a sordid, revolting object, not wanting to think about it. But it was a fact that he was going to have to live with for the rest of his life so he had to begin thinking about it. He had to distill it into an ordinary cold fact, had to catalogue it in his mind's store of trivia, along with his name, and who was president of the United States, and the exact amount of his union dues.

He had to think of the girl with whom he had fallen in love—her clean young eyes and fresh mouth and sweet, golden body, all of that a plaything for a lecherous man whose only god was power and his own rotten ego. He had to hurt himself with the same masochistic pleasure as a person gets from grinding down on a throbbing tooth. He had to imagine the whole scene—Cowles' hands going over her, his mouth on her—and Ruth returning the dirty caresses in a drunken orgy, groaning with the pleasure of it.

He came out of a mental fog, hearing his own hoarse curses in his ears and feeling blinding flashes of white hot pain wracking his body. And he realized that he was standing in an alley, ramming his fist against a wall, splattering the wall and his coat sleeve with his own blood. He shook his head like a stunned bear and began to walk again. He took out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the bleeding knuckles of his left hand and kept on walking.

“Boy, you sure can pick 'em, Johnny Nickles,” he swore at himself. “First Christine, now this one. When it comes to women, you got about as much sense as a kid in first year of Junior High.”

He went back to the hotel and telephoned George Swenninger. “Okay,” he said wearily, “we're all set now. I have the address of the place where Raye Cowles is hidden out and I have an eyewitness who will swear that she killed Miff Smith. Yeah. Ten minutes? Okay. Yeah, here in the lobby.”

Johnny sank down in a moth-eaten easy chair in a dim corner of the hotel lobby. He half-closed his eyes and sat motionless until George Swenninger came into the lobby and, glancing around, spied Johnny and came over and sat down beside him.

“You,” Swenninger told him, “have gotten yourself into one hell of a mess.”

“I know,” Johnny said wearily.

“Botello has every cop in town out looking for you. This witness you have cooked up had better be good. They're after your hide. Botello says if he can bring you in, he can get a conviction.”

“The witness,” Johnny assured him, “is good.”

“Who is it?”

“Ruth Jordan.”

Swinger leaned forward excitedly. “You mean she got her memory back?”

“She never lost it,” Johnny said wearily. “Look, I'll give you the details later. But if we take her along and she puts the finger on Raye Cowles as Miff's murderer, that will sew it up, won't it?”

Swenninger assured him that Cowles would have a sweet time finding a loophole out of that one for his daughter.

“Where is the Jordon girl?” Swenninger asked.

“Upstairs in a room. I've been sitting here watching to see that she doesn't leave.”

Swenninger started to get up, but Johnny put a hand on his arm. “Look, about Tizzy...has everything been taken care of?”

The newspaperman nodded. “The boys in the band have chipped in to give him a good sendoff. I—” Swenninger reached in a pocket. “I was at the morgue. They gave me the few things that were in his pockets when they picked him up. I thought you might want them.”

He gave Johnny a small parcel. Nickles turned it over in his hand, staring at it blindly. “The poor guy,” he whispered. “I—don't think it was an accident, his getting run over that way, George.”

Swenninger shook his head. “I don't think so, either, Johnny.”

“I have a hunch,” the bandleader muttered, “that when we have a showdown with the Cowles bunch, we'll find more than Miff Smith's murderer. We'll also find out who shot at Ruth and me over in Mexico and who ran Tizzy down and who shot Jean Nathan.”

“You think Raye is behind all of it?”

“I think Sam Cowles is. He's been knocking himself out to cover-up all the loose ends that might drag his precious brat into this thing. With Ruth and Jean, the two principal witnesses, hushed up or dead, he felt comparatively safe. Then they could find a patsy like me to hang it on and wind the whole thing up to the satisfaction of the newspaper and the public.”

“That sounds like it, all right,” Swenninger agreed. “But how about Tizzy Mole?”

Johnny shook his head. “I'm not sure yet, unless he also stumbled on one of the loose ends and Sam wanted him shut up.”

“By the way,” Swenninger put in, “I sent a man out on that Jean Nathan shooting the minute you called. They had just gotten her to the hospital. She's still alive and conscious. More, it looks as if she's going to keep on living. And she can identify the man who attacked and shot her. From the description she gave, I'd say that big blond monkey Sam Cowles keeps around as a bodyguard is the guilty party.”

Johnny nodded. “Things are beginning to close in on Sam Cowles...from all sides. You wait here. I'll get Ruth Jordon. Perhaps we can draw the noose even tighter around his neck.”

He went up to Ruth's room. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face pale and drawn. She looked like a little girl again with a blue ribbon in her hair.

Johnny stood near the door. They were not able to look at each other directly. He glanced around the room where he had found, then later walked out on a love, all in less than twenty-four short hours.

He told her what they wanted her to do. “You know what it will cost you. Every newspaper will eat it up. The town will know about you and Cowles right down to the last juicy detail. You'll probably get kicked out of school. And your father....” He stopped and shook his head.

“It's all right,” she answered woodenly. “Too many people have probably died because I've been a coward.” She lifted her chin. “You can't protect someone you love at the cost of letting a murderer go free. “I should have known that, Johnny....”

The light fell across the planes of her face as she lifted her chin. She looked exactly as she had looked the night Johnny first saw her, clean and young and vulnerable.

She was, in fact, the same person. The only thing that had changed was something in Johnny's mind. His heart raced at the same old fast tempo when he looked at her.

He would go right on being in love with her, he knew then. Nothing, not even ghosts out of the past, could change it. It was just something he had to live with.

He touched her hand. “Let's go, youngster....”

They drove to No. 439 Cambridge in George Swenninger's car. Swenninger and Johnny rode up front. Ruth sat huddled silently in the back seat. As they neared the house, Johnny had the publisher stop the car and wait.

“I have a little score to settle first,” Johnny muttered. “If I don't come out in a few minutes, you'd better come in after me.” He walked off, went up the front porch steps and touched the doorbell. In a moment the front door opened and Gene Hargiss-Jones stared at him through the screen door.

“Well,” remarked the blond giant. “I will be damned!”

Johnny asked if he might come in.

Hargiss-Jones grinned. “Really, old chap, you certainly don't imagine I would allow you to depart now!” He pushed the door open with his free hand. The other was occupied at the moment with a small snub-nosed nickel-plated 38 automatic. Johnny stared at it with interest.

“And to what,” inquired Hargiss-Jones politely, “do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Johnny grinned tightly. “I thought it might be getting lonesome for you two girls out here alone.” He added, “I thought you might like someone of the opposite sex.”

Hargiss-Jones' face remained serene but his eyes looked like two rattlesnakes about to strike. He was dressed in heavy tan shoes with inch-thick crepe soles, Cashmere woolen slacks and a cotton T-shirt under which his muscles did a smooth, flowing rhumba when he moved.

Johnny glanced around the interior of the house. It was a small bungalow. The living room walls were paneled in oak. Some low-priced prints were hung around the walls. It all had a dusty, unlived-in appearance.

Raye Cowles came out of a back room. Her brown hair was awry, several strands hung down over her face and her make-up was on crooked. She was dressed in a loose negligee which she made a halfhearted attempt to hold together in front. Her other hand clasped a partially filled glass of whiskey and a cigarette. She was drunk. She blew at the strands of hair that had fallen over her face and squinted around them at Johnny.

“Well, damn, if it isn't lo' Johnny,” she hiccoughed gaily. “BSN' musi-musi-trumpet player'n town. Boyoboy 'm I glad t' see somebody human. Getting' the creeps sittinere alla time with this damn pansy.” She indicated Hargiss-Jones with a nod and a lurch. “Nothin to do but lissena damn radio'n watch this Yogi fruit take 'is sittenup exercises.” She hiccoughed again and giggled. “Wanna drink, Johnny?” She lurched over to him.

“Go back to the kitchen and be quiet,” Hargiss-Jones snapped.

“Oh, b'quiet yourself,” she retorted pettishly. Then she smiled loosely at Johnny and lost her grip on the dressing-gown. “Li'l Raye was getting lonesome, Johnny boy. You gonna keep me cop'ny?”

Sure,” Johnny said. “In fact, I'm going to take you for a little ride.”

“Wheee! Lemme get shome clothes on. Tireda sittin' roun' here with thish ol' fruit.” She put out her tongue at Hargiss-Jones. Then she placed her drink in Johnny's hand, turned and weaved toward the bedroom. Halfway there, she suddenly wriggled out of her negligee. She turned and grinned at Johnny and tossed it to him. She winked, put her fingers to her lips and set her course for the bedroom again.

Johnny stood with her silk negligee in one hand, the drink in his other.

Hargiss-Jones picked up the telephone. “I'll say you're going for a ride, old boy,” he muttered. He spun the dial. Then he spoke into the instrument. “Sam? You'd better get over here right away. Yeah, there's—”

Johnny weighed the objects in his two hands. Then he braced himself and threw the whiskey at Hargiss-Jones' face. The telephone clattered out of the tall blond man's hand and he clawed at his eyes, cursing. Johnny followed up with the silk robe, slinging it around Hargiss-Jones' head like a scarf. Then he splintered the edge of the whisky glass against a chair and threw all his weight at the blinded giant. They crashed over the telephone table.

Hargiss-Jones emitted a muffled cry through the silk as he fell across the table, Johnny on top of him. He clawed at the silk with one hand while he blindly swung the gun up with the other. Johnny caught his hand and raked the jagged edge of the whiskey glass across his wrist. A hoarse scream came through the silk. A warm fountain of blood squirted over the two struggling men. Johnny brought the glass down again, this time severing ligaments. Hargiss-Jones bellowed and the gun tumbled to the floor. Johnny kicked it away, freed himself from the tangle of Hargiss-Jones' arms and grabbed up a chair. The big man came to his feet like a cat, dragging the robe from his head, still bellowing. Then Johnny splintered the chair over blond hair. Hargiss-Jones went down to stay.

Johnny amused himself by breaking a few of Hargiss-Jones' ribs with the toe of his shoe. After a few minutes of that, he pocketed the fallen automatic and went into the bedroom.

Raye Cowles was sitting in front of a mirror, trying to hit her lips with a lipstick. She wasn't having much luck. She had succeeded in getting her panties, one stocking, a shoe, and her hat on. “You boys playin' gamesh?” she asked, making a face in the mirror.

Johnny hunted in a closet for another robe. “Here, put this on and let's go.” He threw it at her. She just looked at it in a drunken stupor.

“No,” she pouted with sudden obstinacy.

“Put it on,” he swore, losing patience.

“Don' wanna. Daddy tol' me t' stay here.” She got up. The hat slipped over one eye. She hiccoughed and limped over to Johnny on one high heel. “I gotta better idea,” she grinned, twisting her finger in the buttonhole of Johnny's jacket lapel. She jiggled warmly against the front of his shirt.

“I'll bet you do,” Johnny grunted. He yanked a sheet off the bed, threw it over her and tossed her over one shoulder. She set up a howl, kicking and pounding at his back with her fists. Her one shoe flew across the room. Johnny carried her into the living room and dumped her on the sofa.

He found George Swenninger and Ruth Jordon already in the house. Swenninger was propping Hargiss-Jones into a sitting position against a wall. The blond man was coming around, groaning softly. Ruth stood near the door.

Johnny showed the gun to Ruth. “Is this the one Raye used on Miff?”

She looked at it. “Well, it was one just like that. A small shiny pistol. The kind that would fit into a woman's purse. I was too scared to remember exactly what it looked like.”

Ray Cowles was sobering up fast. She was beginning to look scared. “What the hell is this?” she demanded, looking at Ruth Jordon.

“It's the end of the lane for you, honey,” George Swenninger told her. “Miss Jordon here is an eyewitness to the murder of Miff Smith. And she's ready to testify that you killed him and shot at her.” He turned to the moaning Hargiss-Jones “And you might be interested to know that Jean Nathan didn't die. She's in the hospital now and she's given a complete description of the man who attacked and shot her, and it fits you very well, my friend.”