The Erection Set (8 page)

“Too bad you chaps get rotated so soon. It's really a gorgeous war,” he said. “Tell me, Major, why don't you
want to go
home?”

 

He survived, all right. I wish I could confirm all those rumors that had been seeping out of Europe the past twenty years. But no matter what I heard, they didn't jell with the Dogeron Kelly I knew. Nice guys just don't change. And the rumors were all screwed up too. One told of a darkly lethal character who blew the whole postwar black market business to hell and gone when he creamed out the hard operators, using Stateside mob money to disrupt the economy. Nobody wanted to talk about what happened after that. Then there was the other “El Lobo”
...
the Wolf
...
who tangled with the international financiers and took them for all they were worth. The Dog and The Wolf. There was a sameness there. The difference was that Dog could hardly handle simple mathematics. He never could solve a navigatio
n
problem when he had to use a Weems Computer or triangulate a course. If he hadn't had a pigeon's instinctive memory for time, distance and direction, he couldn't have hit the floor with his hat. But he had, and he was always on target and always back again, sometimes leading strays and once a squadron whose numbers failed them. When it came to finance, he couldn't even make sense out of British money, far less a French franc. If it wasn't the American dollar it was all play money. The only other rate of ex- . change he understood was cigarettes and candy bars.

I never could figure out why people didn't like the rain. A dull day, a little wet and it was growl time. Women brooded in tight little apartments tying up the telephones; husbands fidgeted on barstools, dragging out lunch hours into early hangovers; the few on the streets fought for taxicabs whose drivers seemed to take a sadistic satisfaction out of their predicament. Hell, the rain was nice. It cleaned things out. A good rain in New York was the city's only mouthwash and it gargled happily and rumbled with pleasure as the garbage got spewed out down the drain.

At Park Avenue I turned north and walked a dozen blocks to the old Tritchett Building, found Chet Linden's office number on the directory and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. He grinned when I walked in, waved me toward a chair, finished his phone conversation and swung around toward me. “Having trouble adjusting, Dog?”

“Catching up fast. The town sure has changed.”

“Not for the better.”

“That's for sure,” I said. “When did you get in?”

“A week ago today. I miss London already. Get your ten grand yet?”

I pulled out my last cigarette and lit it. “There's a morals clause attached to it.”

A slow laugh spread across his face. “And you can't beat the rap?”

“Hardly.”

“That's no statement for a quick thinker like you to make,” he said. “Besides, I still figure you for a nut to even bother with the deal.”

“Let's say it's a matter of principle.”

“Sure. You toss over the whole European operation to play games. Oh, not that we're not properly appreciative, buddy. You handed us quite a nut, but I'm not so sure we like you entirely out of the picture. You were the iron fist in the velvet glove that kept everything greased. So far we haven't found anybody who's up to your ability.”

“How about Purcell?”

“Still got too many rough edges. Give him a year and he may mellow.”

“Montgomery?”

“We're considering him. If he makes it on the new assignment he may get the spot. Incidentally, we picked up that other block of stock in Barrin from the Woodring kid. He was glad to dump it at the price. We made you a present of it, and as far as I know it's the last of the stuff floating around. You know a Cross McMillan?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He had tracked it down too, but our price was higher and the kid sold before McMillan could raise the ante.” He stopped a moment, then stared at me, frowning. “You onto something, Dog?”

“Just my ten grand.”

“Somehow I get the feeling you're holding a fungo bat with the bases loaded.”

“Let me have my fun, Chet.”

“Okay, clam. Just keep the repercussions down. Right now we don't need any static. We got things fairly quiet on the Continent, John Bull has retired back into politics and you're nothing but a legend now. That Mafia bunch had a housecleaning, a few mass funerals and even Interpol is sitting back smugly enjoying the scene no matter how it came off. If they only knew.”

“And we're not telling, are we?” I asked him.

“Indeedy no, my crazy friend. The other side carries too much heavy artillery.” He rocked forward and leaned on his desk. “You going to be needing any of the contacts?”

“Unlikely, but keep them open for me.”

“That fungo bat's getting longer.”

“No sweat, kid, it's just that I'm used to thinking that way. Besides, you never know what's going to turn up.”

“Yeah,” he growled sarcastically. “So what's on the agenda?”

I looked at my watch and stretched out of my seat. “Little party tonight. Should be fun.”

“Your buddy Shay showing you the town?”

“He thinks I need reorienting.”

“Do you?”

“It's not like the Old Country, Chet. They've screwed everything up back here. The broads...”

“All broads are alike, Dog.”

“The kind you pick are.”

“Lucky Linden, they call me. My little beauties never give me any trouble. Very clean, very quiet and very commercial. Now take you, what those classy dolls ever saw in you I just can't figure. I'd think you'd scare them to death.”

“I got class.”

“You got more than that, but it's something only the dames can smell.”

I grinned at him and snuffed the cigarette out. “Where's that paper you want signed?”

He slid open the desk drawer, drew out three sheets of printed copy and pushed them toward me. “The dotted line, Dog. Three autographs and you're on your own. If you do use any of the contacts, make damn sure it's an emergency and one foul-up will leave you wide open. From here on in you're out of the picture. Completely. This office is closing down today; the others have already moved. The old numbers and exchanges have been switched and our people have been informed that you're nothing more than another Johnny-on-the-street.”

“The picture's clear, Chet. I know the rules.”

“Maybe you forgot one, Dog.”

“What's that?”

“They wanted you hit. The board was one vote shy of having you knocked off.”

“Yours, Chet?”

“Mine, Dog.”

“Why? I didn't know you were that sentimental.”

“I'm not. I just didn't want to see a lot of our good people go down before they finally tagged you. It was a case of choosing the lesser of two evils.”

I slapped my hat on and grinned at him, reaching for the door.

“Dog,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I though about it a long time before I cast that vote,” he told me.

 

Lee had a pair of TV dinners staying warm in the oven when I finally reached his apartment. A couple of drinks had obviously taken off his jumpy edge and he gave me that old half-silly grin I remembered so well. He took one look at me and shook his head. “They got cabs and subways in this town, buddy. Did you forget how to hustle one?”

“I walked.”

“No kidding. A new suit and you walked. I hope the raincoat worked.”

“Good enough. I'll press the pants dry later.”

“Where were you?”

“Taking care of some business details.”

His grin faded and he held up his hands. “Don't tell me about them, Dog. Whatever they are, I don't want to know.”

“Hell, you wouldn't believe it anyhow.”

“The hell I wouldn't.” He grabbed my arm and led me over to the bar. When he mixed a drink and handed it to me he said, “Look, Dog, about tonight ...”

“Relax. I won't embarrass you. Besides, I told you I had met Walt Gentry.”

“It's not you I'm worried about. They're a pretty hairy bunch, Dog. Me, I know them. We speak the same language. It's when somebody new they can't cross-index comes on the scene that you see the fangs come out. They're nosy as hell and know how to dig things out and I'm just scared they'll latch onto you.”

“So what's there to find out?” I tasted the drink, nodded and put half of it down.

“About all that money, for one thing.”

“Let them call the bank.”

“Dog—I'm not kidding. That Merriman chick who writes the gossip column will be there, Dick Lagen who handles the political stuff from Washington ...”

“For Pete's sake, Lee, I'm not big news.”

“Not news ... just new. And you got that
look.”

“What look?”

“Like you
could
be news. Listen, I know these people...”

“I'm glad you do. How's the female situation?”

“Don't you ever think of anything besides women? It used to be flying ... now all of a sudden you're dame happy.”

I finished the rest of the drink. “They're kind of nice to have around.”

“Pardon me for sounding redundant again, but you're absolutely nuts. Absolutely.”

“That didn't answer my question.”

Lee gave a hopeless shrug and a short pull right out of the Scotch bottle. “Every damn she-wolf in New York will be there—and don't say it.”

“Say what?”

“Good company for an old dog like you.”

I laughed at him and let him make me a refill.

Originally, Sharon had planned to forego the cocktail bash at Walt Gentry's penthouse. It would be the same old crowd; a few live celebrities who owed a favor to the host, a half-dozen oldies still recognizable from their reruns on the late late movies and a host of hangers-on who lived in the fringe areas of show business. A handful of new ones would make an appearance, mainly recently imports from Europe or the West Coast, and a handful of regulars would be missing, either bored with the routine or having shipped out to some remote comer with a stock show or picking up a bit part “on location.”

Sharon had expected to see a special screening of the new Cable Howard production, but S. C. Cable, who long ago had assumed that employees worked for him twenty-four hours a day every day, made a special request that she handle the social action, since it was rumored that Walt Gentry was thinking of dropping a few millions into a coproduction venture on some property he had discovered ... if he could find the right partners. And if Cable Howard Productions managed a deal with Walt Gentry, there would be a nice bonus, or perhaps even a small running percentage for Sharon Cass.