June 4th, midnight.
THERE WAS a cop at the street corner, standing watching the traffic, swinging his night−stick aimlessly.
Raven saw him as he came out of the alley, and he stepped back hurriedly into the shadows. Obscenities crowded through his brain, and his thin wolfish face twisted with frustrated rage.
The cop wandered to the edge of the kerb, hesitated, then began to pace down the street.
Raven edged further down the alley, further into the sheltering darkness. He’d let the cop go past. Across the road he could see the large block of apartments with their hundreds of brightly lit windows. On the sixth floor, Tootsie Mendetta had a six−room suite. From where he stood Raven could see Mendetta’s windows.
He stood against the wall, his head thrust forward and his square shoulders hunched. He looked what he was, a bitter, screwed−up thing of destruction.
The cop wandered to the mouth of the alley. Raven could see him looking carelessly into the darkness. The cop took off his cap and blotted his face with a large white handkerchief. It was a hot night. Standing there, his mind dwelling on a long, cold drink, he was completely unaware that Raven waited so patiently for him to go away. He put his cap on again and moved on past the alley, on towards the bright lights, towards the cafe where he could bum a drink on the quiet.
Raven gave him a few seconds, and then he walked to the mouth of the alley and glanced up and down the street. He saw nothing there to alarm him, and squaring his shoulders he stepped into the light of the street lamps.
In his apartment Mendetta amused himself with a pack of cards. He held a cigar between his thick lips and a glass of whisky−and−soda stood at his elbow. He played patience.
The apartment was silent except for the faint shuffling of cards as Mendetta altered their position. He liked patience, and he played with tense concentration. He heard Jean, in the bathroom, drawing off water, and he glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after twelve.
The phone suddenly jangled. He half shifted his bulk, his brows coming to a heavy frown, and stared at the phone.
Jean called from the bathroom, “Shall I answer it?”
He got up and walked with heavy steps across the room. “No, no. It’ll be for me,” he said, raising his voice so that she could hear. He picked up the receiver. “Who is it?”
“That you, Tootsie? This is Grantham.”
Mendetta frowned. “What’s the trouble?” he said sharply. “This is a hell of a time to ring me.”
“Yeah, but this is a hell of a spot we’re in.” Grantham had a cold, clipped voice. “Listen, Tootsie, that little punk Hamsley’s dropped us right in it.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Mendetta sat on the edge of the small table, which rocked under his weight.
“Dropped us where?”
“Hamsley’s been digging Poison’s wife. He’s been playin’ her for a sucker for weeks. She’s spent a heap of jack on him.”
“That’s what he’s at the Club for, ain’t it?” Mendetta demanded impatiently. “Ain’t he givin’ you a cut?”
Grantham laughed bitterly. “It’s not that. The old siren fell for him, and he couldn’t take it. She took him out last night and tried to rape him. He ran away, the yellow punk.”
Mendetta’s fat face relaxed a little. “Well, what of it? You can’t hold the boy up for that. Hell! I’ve seen that dame. She’d turn anyone’s stomach.”
“That so? Well, know what she’s done? She’s squawked to Poison. Said Hamsley’s tried to rape her. How do you like that?”
“She’s crazy. Poison ain’t goin’ to believe a yarn like that.”
“No? Well, let me tell you he’s hoppin’ mad right at this moment. Maybe he doesn’t believe it, but she’s got herself in such a state, she does. That’s enough for Poison. She’s makin’ him get mad. Listen, Tootsie, this is serious. Poison’s goin’ to try an’ close us up.”
Mendetta sneered. “Let him,” he said. “What the hell do we care? They’ve got nothin’ on us. He can’t close us up.”
Grantham cleared his throat. “You don’t know Poison as well as I do. He’ll attack us in that rag of his. He might turn somethin’ up.”
Mendetta considered this. “Not as long as I’m alive,” he said at last. “I’ll go round an’ see that guy. We’ll give him Hamsley, but he’s got to lay off us.”
“Will you do that?” Grantham sounded relieved. “Get round tomorrow early, Tootsie. This ain’t the time to he down on it.”
Mendetta stood up. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll fix him,” and he hung up.
Jean came out of the bathroom. She looked strikingly beautiful in her silk wrap. Perhaps her mouth was too large, but it gave her a generous look that was not in her nature. She was tall, with square shoulders, a narrow waist and thick hips.
“Who was it?” she said.
Mendetta went over to the table and gathered up the cards. He didn’t feel like patience any more.
“Grantham,” he returned, putting the cards carefully in their container. He was a very tidy man. He took two little sips from the whisky.
She looked over at the clock. “What did he want? It’s late.”
Mendetta nodded his big head. “I know,” he said. “Go to bed. I’ll come in a little while.”
She turned her head so that he couldn’t see the sudden vicious look that came into her eyes. “Don’t be so secretive,” she said lightly. “Is he in trouble?”
He stubbed out his cigar. “He’s always in trouble. That’s why I’m hereto pull him out.” He plodded over to her. His big heavy hand rested on her hip. “Go to bed. I shan’t be long.”
“Tootsie, I must know,” she said. “Has something happened at the Club?”
He looked at her with a curious expression, half angry, half amused. He turned her towards the bedroom door. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Go to bed,” and he smacked her across her buttocks very hard.
She went away from him, her knees weak and her inside coiled into a hard ball of hatred. She went across the bedroom to the window and pulled back the curtains. Leaning against the window−frame, she looked down into the street below. She remained like that for several minutes before she regained control of herself.
If Mendetta had seen her expression as she stood by the window he would have been uneasy. As it was, his indifference to her feelings prepared the way for what eventually happened.
In the street, Raven crossed the road casually and walked towards the apartment block. When he neared the lighted entrance he stopped and knelt down to adjust his shoe−string. From under his slouch hat, he surveyed the doorway thoroughly. He was not satisfied with the empty doorway, so he crossed the street again and passed the block on the opposite side. His caution rewarded him.
A little guy, dressed in black, lounged against the wall in the shadows near the entrance. He kept so still that Raven wouldn’t have noticed him at all if he’d come straight into the blinding light of the doorway.
The little guy had his hands deep in his coat pockets, and he watched Raven pass on the other side of the street, indifferently.
Raven went on, crossed the road again and turned down a side street. He turned to his right after a few minutes’ walking and approached the rear of the apartment block. This time he kept to the shadows. He hadn’t gone far before he spotted another little guy, also dressed in black, lounging near the rear exit.
So it wasn’t going to be the easy way. He might have known it. It was a cinch that if Mendetta had guards outside the block, there would be guards inside as well.
Raven went on, his head thrust forward, the line of his jaw fixed, and his thin lips compressed. He knew Mendetta couldn’t escape from him. It was just a matter of time.