The Golden Gizmo (5 page)

Shake licked his lips. "Game leg? An' she lives all alone?"

"Well," Toddy said conscientiously, "she
does
have three or four big Persian cats. I don't know whether they'd give you any trouble or not."

"I could handle 'em," said Donald grimly. "I could handle the dame. I ain't seen no dame or cats yet that I'm afraid of."

Toddy gave him an admiring look. Shake still hesitated.

"How do I know you ain't lying to us?"

"Because you've got
brains
," said Toddy. "Elaine was murdered. Murders aren't done for peanuts. It all adds up. Donald sees it. You're as smart as Donald, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but-but-" The words Shake searched for would not come to him. "But two hundred!"

"Two hundred as of the present moment," said Toddy, glancing at his watch. "I just thought of another party I can go to who'll give me-"

"Two hundred!" Shake scrambled hastily from his chair. "It's a deal for two hundred!"

Toddy sat in a quiet booth in the bar, sipping a Scotch and soda while he studied the classified ads in the evening paper. He was not content with what he had done. No revenge could be adequate for the brutal and hideous death Elaine had suffered. He had, however, done all he could. For the time being, at least, it would have to do. He had felt for a long time that Shake and Donald needed a lesson. Their threats tonight had done nothing to ameliorate that impression. Now they would get that lesson, one they might not live to profit by, and Elaine's murderer, the chinless man-the "old lady" they expected to rob-would get one. There'd be enough ruckus raised, perhaps, to bring in the cops. It was too bad that Chinless wouldn't know he'd been paid off, that Toddy had got back at him. But nothing was ever perfect. He'd settled two urgent accounts. He'd got a nice piece of scat money. He'd done all that he could, and no man can do more.

He took out his billfold and, under cover of the newspaper, inventoried its contents. Three-three hundred and twenty-seven dollars all together. Not very good. Not when you had to buy some kind of car out of it; and he would have to buy one. He had no way of knowing when Elaine's body would be discovered. He did know that the bus, plane and railway terminals would be watched as soon as it was. They might be looking for him already. He couldn't take any chances.

He slid out of the booth, sauntered past the bar stools and out to the walk.

It was quite dark now, and the dark and the smog condensed the glare of neon signs to a blinding intensity. Still he saw. He had to see and he did, although nothing in his manner indicated the fact.

He strolled straight to the curb, his attention seemingly fixed on the large wire trash basket which stood there. He dropped the newspaper into it and stared absently at the large black convertible. It was no more than ten feet away, parked in the street with the motor idling. The back seat was empty. The girl was at the wheel. The talking dog sat hunkered at her side, his front paws on the door.

With an effort Toddy suppressed a shudder.

He saw now that he hadn't really taken a good look at the dog that afternoon. The damned thing wasn't as big as he'd thought. It was bigger. And his imagination hadn't been playing tricks on him; it
did
talk.

The girl beckoned to Toddy. "Come," she called softly. The dog's jaws waggled. They yawned open. "C'm," he said. "C'm, c'm, c'm…"

Toddy looked over them and through them. He turned casually and stood staring into the bar. No way out there. The place had a kitchen, a busy one, and the rear exit lay beyond it. Up the street? Down? Pawnshops. A dime store. A butcher shop. All closed now.

He heard the softly spoken command in Spanish. He heard the scratch of the dog's claws as it leaped.

It was not good, this way, but no way was good. He was entering a semi-slum section, the area of flyblown beaneries, boarded-up buildings, flophouses and wine bars which lies adjacent to the Union Station. No cab would stop for him here.

So now he ran. Now for the first time he knew the real terror of running-to run without a goal, to be hunted by the upper world and his own; to run hopelessly, endlessly, because there was nothing to do but run.

Sweat was pouring from him by the time he reached the end of the street. And just as he reached its end he saw a huge black form, a shadow, whip around its head… The dog on his trail, behind him; the girl circling the block to head him off. That was the way it would be. He'd have to get in someplace fast. In and out. Throw them off. Keep running.

The dusty windows of a deserted pool hall stared back at him blankly. Next, a barber shop, also dark. Next, a burlesque house.

Across the grimy front, cardboard cutouts of bosomy women. Purple-eyed, pink-haired women in flesh tights and sagging net brassieres. Sprawled beneath them and gazing lewdly upward, the cutout of a man-putty-nosed, baggy-trousered, derby-hatted. Names in red and white paint, Bingo Brannigan, Chiffon LaFleur, Fanchon Rose, Colette Casitas. And everywhere on streamers and onesheets and cardboard easels, the legend: "Big Girl Show- DON'T DO IT SOME MORE."

"Yessir, the beeg show is just starting!" A cane rattled and drummed against the display. "Yessir," intoned the slope-chested skeleton in the linen jacket. "Step right in, sir."

He coughed as he took Toddy's ten-spot, but there was no surprise in it. He had always coughed; he could not be surprised. "Yessir"- -he was repeating the instructions before Toddy had finished them-"Split with the cashier. Haven't seen you. Close the door."

"Exit?"

"Tough." The skeleton coughed. "Over the stage."

Toddy went in, anyway. It was too late to turn back. He moved past the half-curtains of the foyer and stood staring down the long steep aisle.

Not that he wanted one, but there didn't seem to be an empty seat in the joint. It was packed. Twin swaths of heads, terrazos of grays and blacks and bald-pinks stretched from the rear of the house to the orchestra pit. In the pit there was only a piano player, banging out his own version of the "Sugar Roll Blues." It must have been his own; no one else would have had it.

Toddy's nose crinkled at the stench, a compound of the aromas of puke, sweat, urine and a patented "perfume disinfectant." All the burly houses used that same disinfectant. It was the product of a "company" which, by an odd coincidence, also manufactured stink bombs. It was the only thing that would cover up the odor of a stink bomb.

He went slowly down the aisle, ears strained for sounds of the danger behind him, eyes fixed on the stage. Three chorus "girls" were on it-the show's entire line, apparently. They were stooped over, buttocks to the audience, wiggling and jerking in dreary rhythm to the jangling chords of the piano.

As Toddy advanced, the women straightened and moved off the stage, each giving her rear a final twitch as she disappeared into the wings. A man in baggy pants and a red undershirt came out. In his exaggerated anxiety to peer after the girls, he stumbled-he appeared to stumble. His derby flipped off, turned once in the air, then dropped neatly over his long putty nose.

Laughter swelled from the audience and there was a burst of hand clapping. The comic removed the derby and spat into it. He pulled the baggy pants away from his stomach and went through the motion of emptying the hat into them.

"Keep our city clean," he explained.

More laughter, clapping, stamping feet.

"Mi, mi, mi," chortled the comic, tapping his chest and coughing. "With your kind indulgence, I shall now sing that touching old love song, a heart-rending melody entitled (pause) 'If a Hen Lays a Cracked Egg Will the Chicken Be Nutty?"

Laughter. A chord from the piano.

Toddy swung a foot to the pit rail and stepped across to the stage. The comic stared. He grasped Toddy's hand and wrung it warmly.

"Don't tell me, sir! Don't tell me. Mr. Addison Simms of Seattle, isn't it?"

No laughter. It was over their heads. Beneath the grease paint, the painted grin, the comic scowled. ("
What you pullin', you bastard?
") "Why, Mr. Simms," he said aloud- simpering, twisting. "We can't do
that!
Not with all these people watching."

Howling laughter; this was right up the audience's alley. The scowl disappeared. The comedian released Toddy's hand and flung both arms around him. Head cuddled against Toddy's chest, he called coyly to the audience:

"Isn't he dar-ling?"

("
How do I get out of here?
")

"Don't you just lah-ve big men?"

("
Dammit, let go!
")

"You won't hurt me, will you, Mr. Simms?"

Above the whistling roar of the crowd, Toddy heard another sound. In the back of the house a brief flash of light marked the opening of the door… A shouted, distant curse; the stifled scream of a woman. Toddy tried to jerk free and was held more tightly than ever.

"Kee-iss me, you brute! Take me in yo-ah ahms and-
oof!
"

Toddy gave him another one in the guts for luck, then a stiff-arm in the face. The comedian stumbled backwards. Stumbling, waving his arms, he skidded across the top of the piano and fell into the audience.

Over his shoulder, Toddy got a glimpse of people rising in their seats, milling into the aisle. He did not wait to see more. He darted into the wings, ducked a kick from a brawny man in an undershirt, and gave a blinding backhanded slap in return. A chorus girl tried to conk him with a wine bottle. He caught her upraised arm and whirled her around. He sent her sprawling into another girl-a big blonde with a pair of scissors. The third girl whizzed a jar of grease paint at him, then fled screaming onto the stage.

The exit was locked. He had to give it two spine-rattling kicks before the latch snapped. He stumbled out into the night, wedged a loaded trash barrel against the door-
that wouldn't hold long
-and ran on again.

He came out of the alley onto another side street. And this was more hopeless than the first one. No lights shone. Several of the buildings were in the process of being razed. The others were boarded up.

He started down it at a trot, panting, nervous sweat pouring into his eyes. He ran wearily, and then his head turned in an unbelieving stare and he staggered into a doorway. There was a double swinging door with small glass ports on either side. Through the ports drifted a dim, almost indiscernible glow. He went in.

He was looking up a long dimly lit stairway, a very long stairway. What had once been the second floor was now boarded off. Except for the former second-floor landing, the stairs rose straight to the third floor.

Gratefully, he saw that the swinging doors were bracketed for a bar; not only that, but the bar was there, a stout piece of two-by- four, leaning against the wall. He picked it up and slid it into the brackets. He put a foot on the steps. The boards gave slightly under his tread, and somewhere in the dimness above him a bell tinkled.

He hesitated, then went on. A man was standing at the head of the stairs. He had a crew haircut and a mouthful of gum and a pair of pants that rose to his armpits. He also had a sawed-off baseball bat. He twiddled it at his side as he stared at Toddy with incurious eyes.

"Yeah, Mac?"

"Uh-I want to see Mable," said Toddy.

"Mable, huh? Sure, she's here. Agnes and Becky, too." The man chuckled. He waited, then jerked his head impatiently. "You can't jump 'em on the stairs, Mac. That's the only way they won't do it, but they won't do it that way."

Toddy ascended to the landing. He reached for his wallet, and the man moved his hand in a negative gesture. "Just pay the gal, Mac… Now, le's see…" Doors, perhaps a dozen of them, extended the length of the hallway. Doorways with half-doors-summer doors- attached to the outer casing. The man nodded, pointed to a patch of light.

"Ruthie's free. Go right on down, Mac."

He gave Toddy's elbow a cordial push; then his arm tightened on it in a viselike grip. "What the hell's that racket?"

"Racket?" said Toddy.

"You heard me. You bar that door down there?"

"Why the hell would I do that?… Wait a minute!" said Toddy. "I had to boot a wino out of the doorway to get in. He must have come back again."

The man cursed. "Them winos! And the goddam cops won't do a thing about them!" He headed down the stairs scowling, twirling the sawed-off bat. Toddy moved away from the stairwell.

There was no window at either end of the hall. There was nothing to indicate which of the rooms opened on the fire escape. There'd be one, surely, even in a whorehouse. But he'd have to hunt for it.

Come on, gizmo
, he thought.
Be good to me
.

He rapped once, then entered the room the man had indicated. He hooked the summer door behind him. He grinned pleasantly as he closed and locked the other door.

"Hi, Ruthie," he said. "How've you been?"

"How you, honey?" She made a pretense of recognizing him. "Ain't seen you in a long time."

She might have been twenty-five or ten years older, depending on how long she'd been at it. Red-haired. Piled together pretty good. She wore sheer silk stockings, high-heeled black pumps and a black nylon brassiere. That was all she wore.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, shaving her calves.

"You mind waitin' a second honey? I kinda hate to stop an' start all over again."

"Let me help you," said Toddy promptly.

He took the razor from her hand and pushed her gently back on the bed. He said, "Sorry, kid," and snapped his free fist against the point of her chin.

Her eyes closed and her arms went limp. Her feet slipped from the mattress, and he caught and lowered them to the floor.

Stepping to the window, he ducked under the shade and looked out. Wrong room. The fire escape opened on the next one. He might-but, no, it was too far. He could barely see the damned thing. Trying to jump that far in the dark would be suicide.

Ducking back into the room, he stepped to the tall Japanese screen and moved it aside. There was a low door behind it, a door blocked by a small bureau. Toddy almost laughed aloud at the sight of it. A bureau joint, for God's sake! He'd thought that gimmick had gone out with "Dardanella." Probably it had, too. This one probably wasn't used any more… but it might still be working.

In this little frammis, one of the oldest, you were persuaded to leave your clothes on the bureau… You see, honey? No one can touch 'em. The door swings in this way, and the bureau's in front of it. You can see for yourself, honey…

Toddy pulled out the top drawer and laid it on the bed. Reaching into the opening, he found the doorknob. Would the dodge work from this side, that was the question. If it didn't-

The knob turned slowly. There was a quiet
click
. Then, a little above the level of the bureau, the mortised panels of the door parted and the upper half swung toward him.

The head of a brass bedstead blocked the doorway on the other side. The man in it stared stupidly through the rails at Toddy. He was a young man, but he had a thick platinum blond beard. Or so it seemed. Then, he raised his head, bewilderedly, and Toddy saw that the hair spread out on the pillow beneath him was a woman's.

"F-for gosh sake!" the man gasped indignantly. "What kind of a whorehouse is-"

Toddy's hand shot out. He caught the guy by the back of the head and jerked it between the bed rails.

The man grunted. The platinum hair stirred frantically on the pillow to an accompaniment of smothered groans. Toddy gave the bed a push. It slid forward a few inches, and he entered the room.

He stepped out the window, and stared down the fire escape. He took two steps, a third. The fourth was into space. Except for his grip on the handrail, he would have plunged into the alley.

He drew himself back, stood hugging the metal breathlessly… Should have expected this, he thought. Building's probably been condemned for years. Now… He looked upward. No telling what was up there, but it was the only way to go.

All hell was breaking loose as he started up again. Doors were slamming, women screaming, men cursing. There was the thunder of overturning furniture-of heavy objects swung wickedly. And with it all, of course, the fearsome threatening snarl of the talking dog.

Suddenly, arms shot out of the window and clutched at Toddy's feet. He kicked blindly and heard a yell of pain. He raced up the remaining steps to the roof.

Stepping over the parapet, his hand dislodged a brick, and he flung it downward, heard it shatter on the steel landing. He pushed mightily with his foot, and a whole section of the wall went tumbling down. That, he thought, would give them something to think about.

Slowly, picking his way in the darkness, he started across the roof. There was no way out on either of the side streets he had been on. That meant he'd have to try for something on the parallel thoroughfare-up at this end, naturally, as far as he could get from the burly house.