Ride the Pink Horse (10 page)

Sailor said, “I shot at her, yes, but I didn’t kill her. Somebody else did it.” His voice was quiet but distinct “Somebody was coming. I had to get out fast.”

The Sen whispered when he could, “No one will believe you.” He shook his head hollowly. “No one would ever believe you.”

“Maybe not” Sailor said. “But I can blast things wide open if I talk. And I’m in the clear, I can talk. Whether anyone believes me or not.” He stood up and his hand was so tight on his gun, the fingers ached. He had to get out of here. At this moment the Sen would kill him if he could. Kill him with his own hands, not hire a torpedo.

He walked to the door, keeping the Sen covered with his eye and his pocket. The Sen knew what was in his pocket. At the door he said, “I’ll see you at five o’clock.” He wouldn’t come back here again. Not with the Sen having time to plan. He grimaced, “In the Placita. Have the five grand ready for me by then. I don’t care how you get it. Bring me the five grand at five and there won’t be any trouble.”

He opened the door and swung out closed it all in one move. As if the Sen were reaching for a gun, not standing there numb and shriveled and old. As he made his way to the elevators, his hand was still cramped until it ached in his right-hand pocket.

2

He bumped into McIntyre when he turned into the south end of the portal. The end where the big fireplace was. He hadn’t noticed before but there were Indian figures blasted on the fireplace. In the same sand color as that head he’d seen in the Chicago Museum when he was a kid. He didn’t give them more than a quick glimpse because he didn’t want to be reminded of that experience. He had too much on his mind without that.

He didn’t know exactly why he’d turned there into the portal instead of walking straight ahead, following the side portal to the front door and out of the hotel. Maybe he’d had some idea of sitting down on one of the comfortable leather couches and getting hold of himself. He didn’t know why he should have the shakes. Things had gone his way. It had hit him only after he’d sprung the big news, only when he’d known he had to get out of that room, fast, before it was too late. It had been the way the Sen had taken it, like something dead, like a zombie. He’d never seen the Sen like that before. It gave him the creeps.

The mixed-up part was that he knew why the Sen had been hit that way. It was the girl the lovely clean girl waiting for him in the Placita. The Sen wouldn’t have been scared to point of death otherwise. He’d have been the old Sen, crafty and wicked and smart The mixed-up part was that he didn’t want the Sen beaten like that; he wanted the old Sen, the one he’d been waiting to kick in the teeth for months, maybe longer. He didn’t want to kick the teeth out of a zombie. All he wanted to do now was run, get out of town quick, not even wait for his dough. Maybe that’s why he was heading for the couches, to try to put the Sen back together again the way he ought to be, to forget the wizened old man he’d left upstairs.

Because the Sen would put himself back together again. Sailor knew that as well as he knew his own name. And it was up to him to be ready to met the real Sen, not to carry around the image he had right now in his head.

He was making for the couch when McIntyre spoke to him. McIntyre was sitting on that couch. He said, “Hello, Sailor.”

He had to put on an act quick. He had to smile as if the smile weren’t cutting his mouth, pull his cramped fingers out of his right-hand pocket and hope McIntyre wouldn’t see that they had no circulation left in them. McIntyre who saw everything. He said, “Hello, Mac.”

“Been having breakfast with the senator?” McIntyre asked.

Sailor laughed. “Haven’t had breakfast yet. Not even a cup of coffee.” McIntyre thought he and the Sen were having business together. McIntyre was right but he was wrong. He thought Sailor was here because the Sen had sent for him. It wasn’t hard to know what McIntyre was guessing, seeing Sailor coming from the elevators.

He didn’t want any trouble from the copper. His alibi was okay and McIntyre knew it was okay. But he didn’t want Mac trumping up something to send him back to Chicago. He wanted Mac friendly like he’d been up to now. He might have to spill to Mac yet. He said, “Why don’t you come have breakfast with me? In the Placita.”

“Make it lunch,” McIntyre said, standing up and joining him.

It was too quick. McIntyre wanted something. Might be he was getting ready to move in. Might be the Wisconsin yokel had gone to the police after the fellows poured him on the train. But it was done now. He and McIntyre were walking up the portal. Maybe McIntyre knew where the Placita was. Sailor didn’t, he only knew that if he’d see the Sen with the girl again, his fight might come back to him. Rage made a man fighting. He couldn’t collect off the Sen unless he wore bare knuckles.

McIntyre walked like he knew where he was going. Ambling but direct. Sailor cut his stride to match. McIntyre was still wearing the silly black hat and the red scarf around his middle. But he didn’t look silly. He looked more like McIntyre than ever.

Sailor asked, “Where you staying? Here?” He didn’t like walking in silence with a cop.

“Yes,” McIntyre said. “Here.”

“Pretty swell rooms.”

“Not the one I have.” He smiled on that.

“How’d you rate a room here during Fiesta?” The tension was going out of him just by walking with McIntyre. Mac was an easy guy to be with.

“Reservation,” McIntyre said.

He was a liar. He hadn’t made any reservation in advance. He’d come after he’d found out the Sen was here. But the head of Chicago’s Homicide would rate a room. Somebody in Chi would see the Harveys and the Harveys would send word to the Harvey House. Put up McIntyre. Same way the Sen would rate a room.

McIntyre walked to the doorway of the bar, La Cantina.

“Want an ice-cold Daiquiri?” Sailor grinned.

“Little early in the day for me,” McIntyre said. He went on in the bar though and Sailor went along. “You drinking these days, Sailor?”

“Not me,” Sailor said. “A bottle of beer’s my speed.” He wondered if McIntyre had been watching him last night. That was one of the dangers with Mac; you never knew when a shadow wasn’t a shadow, when it might be a man in the shadow.

McIntyre walked through the bar. They couldn’t have had a drink if they’d been drinking men; the bar was shuttered with a scene painted in bright Spanish colors. McIntyre said, “Sunday.” He was still leading and they turned into the Placita, the walled Spanish garden. It was set with white tables and the waitresses were in costume, flowered skirts, flower-trimmed blouses. This was Fiesta from the right side of the tracks. On a bench built around an old shade tree there were Spanish velvet men, girls in shimmering Mexican skirts wearing flowers in their hair. There was Iris Towers, her pale hair wreathed in golden roses, her white skirt painted in golden wreaths. He saw her and the church bells began to chime over the peaceful garden. The chimes grew to a paean of triumph, the band brassed into proud sound, guitars and violins plinked merrily. All because his eyes beheld a fair blonde girl under a tree in an old Spanish garden, and she was fair, not what he’d been afraid of after this morning. And the rage was eating him again. And the rage was good but he mustn’t let McIntyre know.

The bells and the music were real; the sound of them came louder as the parade passed outside the high wall. This time he was on the right side of the wall where the brightest laughter lay. The Placita began to fill after the music faded, and the laughter and noise were more gay. He and McIntyre had a table in the corner by the far wall where they could watch the entrance, where they could see who sat at each table. McIntyre had chosen it.

They ordered and they were silent, sitting in white wrought-iron chairs side by side where both could watch. They were both waiting for the same man. He came, immaculate in white shirt and white flannels, a bright sash wound about his waist. He was fresh and shaven, his hair combed, his mustache brushed. He was neat and he looked like himself unless you noticed the deeper pockets under his narrow eyes.

Sailor didn’t want to talk about the Sen now. He asked, “Ever drink any tequila, Mac?”

It caught McIntyre’s attention but not his eyes. Like Sailor’s they watched the Sen make an undeviating path to the tree, to Iris Towers and the velvet men and glittering women with her. They watched the welcome of the Sen, the Sen’s suave explanation and regret.

McIntyre said, “Never have.”

“I tried it last night,” Sailor kept on talking as if McIntyre were interested. “Couldn’t say no. Funny old duck that runs the merry-go-round insisted. I’m his mi amigo for some reason.”

The Sen and his party were seated at the largest table with the Sen making sure that Iris was beside him. The table was near the one McIntyre had chosen, almost too near. Maybe Mac had known it was reserved for the Sen.

McIntyre said, “It’s because you gave some Indian girl a ride on Tio Vivo.”

Sailor was shot with cold. Mac was keeping an eye on him. Him as well as the Sen. Only Mac couldn’t be after him. Mac was here first. Sailor gave a laugh, a short one. “Checking up on me?”

McIntyre spoke mildly. “I just don’t want to see you get in any trouble. I don’t want anything to happen to the senator.”

He’d been checking to see if Sailor was trying to buy a local torpedo to rub out the Sen. That was a good one on Mac. Pancho, the philosophical old brigand, the man of peace. He really laughed at that. His laughter caught the Sen’s ears and the head turned quickly, the mean eyes saw Sailor and McIntyre, turned quickly back to his party. Maybe his hand shook a little as he put a light to Iris Towers’ cigarette. Maybe his malevolence solidified.

Sailor said, “You don’t think I’m looking for trouble, Mac? I’m here for Fiesta like the rest of you.”

McIntyre turned his look on Sailor at last. “You aren’t here about Jerky Spizzoni?”

McIntyre knew. Sailor was cautious now, cold and cautious. He wasn’t ready to talk. He’d play straight if the Sen played it straight “What about Jerky?”

“He didn’t kill Eleanor Douglass.”

Sailor acted surprise. He was careful not to overact. “Who did?” If McIntyre pointed the accusing finger at him he’d have to spill. Mac didn’t. It might mean the same but it was the McIntyre way. It didn’t require denials. He said only, “I thought you might know who.”

“Me?” Sailor was mildly indignant. “You know damn well I was with Leonard Ziegler all that night in the Sen’s office going over the tax books.” He and Ziggy had alibied each other for that night and the alibi was sound. No one but they and the Sen knew the way out of the building without passing the elevator guy. Through the warehouse on the other street. Or did McIntyre know?

“That’s right,” McIntyre said. “You’re Senator Douglass’ confidential secretary, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” I was. Until I found out what a lying, chiseling weasel the Sen was. Then I quit. Fired myself. “I didn’t even know Mrs. Douglass was dead till you guys showed up that night looking for Jerky.”

“Yes, we found Jerk’s gun by the body. With his fingerprints on it. Too bad we never got to talk to Jerk.”

“Ever find out who bumped Jerk off?”

The waitress brought them their jellied consommé at last. “Coffee right away,” Sailor asked. He smiled up at her as if there weren’t anything on his mind. “Got to have breakfast before lunch.”

She was tall and pert and blonde. She said, “Right away,” and swished her flowered skirts at him.

McIntyre began to eat. “Never did. Plenty who might have.”

“Yeah,” Sailor said. “He double-crossed every gang in Chi.” Including the Sen’s. But you didn’t call the Sen’s a gang. They were employees of the Sen. Because the Sen was mixed up with so many enterprises, not rackets. You didn’t call the mugs, guys; they were fellows. If you fellows will do this, or that— The mugs ate it up; they liked being fed their pap with a silver spoon.

“But he didn’t kill the senator’s wife,” McIntyre said. “She was dead before he got to town that night.”

He couldn’t ask how McIntyre knew. How’d you know that? He acted surprised a little more. “You don’t mean it!”

“Yes,” McIntyre said. “Senator Douglass telephoned the office at ten o’clock. He’d just reached home and found his wife dead. It looked as if she’d surprised a burglar. It looked as if Jerky was the burglar. His gun and his fingerprints on it. It even occurred to us that he might have planned to kill the senator. You know it was the senator’s testimony that sent Jerky up.”

“Yeah, I know. And Jerky got himself bumped off that night.” The blonde poured coffee from a round glass pitcher. “Thanks,” Sailor said. He put two spoons of sugar in his cup, stirred it, and drank. Then he started on his consommé. Iris Towers was telling her table something. Her hands were a delicate gesture and her clear blue eyes were like the sun on a blue lake. The Sen laughed just as if there were laughter left in him. When he put his hand on her arm Sailor’s eyes snarled again to his soup. “What makes you think Jerky didn’t do it?”

“At ten o’clock that night Jerky was just leaving a farmhouse in Wisconsin. He’d been there from quarter of nine on.”

Sailor whistled low. The blonde thought he was whistling at her and she came over and filled his coffee cup. He said, “Thanks, doll.” He put some more sugar in, stirred it and drank. He said, “Where’d you get that dope? Somebody rat?”

“Strangely enough, no. Mr. Yost, the farmer, talked around to his neighbors and the sheriff heard about it. Sheriff sent him down to Chicago to see me. Nice honest man, Mr. Yost. But slow. If he’d talked sooner about the three men whose car broke down by his farm the night of March twelfth—”

“You found out who sprung Jerky that night?”

“Mr. Yost identified one of them. Johann Humperdink was one of them. The other was probably Lew Barrows. They’ve both skipped.” He was quietly certain. “But they’ll turn up again. Or we’ll turn them up again.”

Humpty and Lew had got away in time.

“You know Humperdink and Barrows, Sailor?”

He finished the jelly soup. “Sure I know them. You know where I come from. I know everybody in the old ward. I’ve eaten at Humpty’s hash house plenty. But they aren’t friends of mine if that’s what you’re asking, Mac.” He winked at the blonde as she took the soup dishes. Only because he didn’t feel like winking. The Sen wasn’t paying much attention to the big blonde guy telling some long-winded tale to his table. Iris Towers had her eyes breathless but the Sen was wondering what Sailor and McIntyre were talking so much about. The Sen ought to be sitting in. Sailor would have felt better to have him here. The Sen could turn things off better than Sailor ever could. The only reason Sailor wasn’t walking out on Mac, telling him to go roll his hoop, was because he’d watched the Sen in action. He’d learned some things.

Sailor said, “I’m surprised Humpty was in on anything like that. I always thought he was an honest hasher. Of course Lew had a little trouble in the past He was in Sleagle’s gang once.” He was supposed to know things like that. Not because he’d had a little trouble in the past himself. Because he was the Sen’s secretary and was supposed to know the guys who delivered the votes in the old ward.

“I was kind of surprised myself about Humpty,” McIntyre said.

That was good. That meant McIntyre didn’t know too much about the Sen’s organization. “You sure it was Humpty?”