Slug Moynihan eased his weight against the lamp-post and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. The hard light from the lamp threw his face into dark shadows, hiding his eyes and lighting his square jaw. He was wearing a light sport’s coat over a white polo sweater, and his shabby flannel trousers were noticeably frayed at the turn-ups.
People who passed, glanced at him curiously, and then, as he turned his head, they looked away hurriedly. Slug was a tough bird and he didn’t like people looking at him. He belonged to a team of third-rate boxers who fought at Henklestien’s saloon twice a week. He made a little money and took a lot of punishment. He was still under twenty-five, so he found that the punishment didn’t affect him. All the same, it sometimes worried him when he watched the older fighters gradually going slug nutty. He could see that happening to him before long.
Right now he wasn’t worrying about that. He had other things to worry him. He had got Rose Hanson on his mind. Usually, Slug was particularly callous with women. When he wanted one, he’d find one, take her and then forget her. He generally got what he wanted without any trouble. Chiefly because he was careful whom he chose. There were still a lot of dumb blondes who fell for a fighter, but apart from their physical use, Slug just didn’t give them a second thought. Now Rose Hanson had blown along and things were different. Slug didn’t realize it, but he had got Rose in his system in a bad way. He had made his usual overture to her, saying: “Listen, honey, you and me could get places. How about settlin’ down in bed together?” which generally proved effective. Rose had looked through him and had given him the air. She didn’t even give him the pleasure of embarrassing her as some of the more prudent ones had done. She simply ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken, and that certainly had done things to Slug.
He had first met her at the Ciro Dance Hall, which stood at the corner of Forty-third and Western Avenue. She was dancing with a tall, thin guy who looked as if he’d got a lot of dough. Slug considered starting trouble, then decided that it would only get himself in bad with Rose. All the same, his fingers itched to get a grip on this thin guy’s neck, and the temptation had been so strong that he had left the hall and gone home.
He thought he could forget about Rose, but he found that she was continually coming into his daily existence. He saw her several times on the street and once in a snack-bar having lunch. The tall, thin guy was with her and Slug saw them come out together.
Every time he saw Rose, his desire for her mounted until he decided that something had got to be done about it. He found out with considerable difficulty where she worked. She was a manicurist at a smart little barber’s saloon run by a guy named Brownrigg. Slug decided that he’d go and have a manicure. It cost him a lot to get himself in the saloon. He was sweating visibly to think that his companions might see him undergoing sissy treatment to his broken fists. However, he walked in and nodded ferociously at Brownrigg, who was a little guy, with a lot of black wavy hair and a pencilled moustache.
“You gotta dame here who fixes nails, ain’t you?” Slug asked, taking off his cap and mopping his face.
Brownrigg opened his eyes. “Sure, Mr. Moynihan. Come right in and sit down.”
Slug looked at him suspiciously. “How the hell do you know I’m Moynihan?” he asked.
Brownrigg smiled. “I follow your fights,” he said. “You’re goin’ to get somewhere one of these days. I know a champ when I see one.”
Slug grunted and sat down. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, hustle this dame along. I ain’t got all day.”
Brownrigg went behind a curtain at the end of the saloon and then came back after a few minutes. “Miss Hanson’s just comin’,” he said. “Would you like a hair-cut or a shave as well?”
Slug scowled at him. “No,” he said, “get out in the front of the shop. I want to talk to this dame.”
Brownrigg hesitated, and then said: “That’s all right, Mr. Moynihan, you go ahead.”
Slug sneered at him. “Sure it’s all right,” he said. “Get movin’, Clippers, an’ don’t come back till I’ve gone.”
Brownrigg went into the shop meekly enough, but he left the saloon door open an inch or two. He didn’t like the look on Slug’s battered face.
Rose Hanson came from behind the curtain, wheeling a little table on which was set out all her manicure paraphernalia. When she saw Slug, her face hardened.
She was a swell-looking dame with curves in the right places and thick auburn hair. “Oh, it’s you,” she said disdainfully. “What do you want?”
Slug looked at her admiringly. “Just fix my nails, baby,” he said, “and I’ll tell you some bedtime stories.”
She shook her head. “You don’t want a manicure,” she said. “You want a pneumatic drill with hands like yours.”
Slug flexed his huge hands and grinned foolishly. “Listen, baby,” he said, “these mitts earn me a nice slice. I thought maybe they oughtta have a birthday present. Come on, give ’em a treat.”
She pulled a stool up close to him and sat down, then she crossed her leg, showing him a neat knee. Slug looked openly at her shapely legs. “That’s a grand pair of stems you got there,” he said. “You’re certainly a red-hot number.”
She took one of his hands. “Don’t tell me,” she said, “I know.”
Slugs pursed his mouth. This dame was hard-boiled all right, he thought. It was going to be mighty hard work to make her. “Like a ticket for one of my fights?” he said, trying the best trick of all his stock-in-trade. “There’ll be a grand show tomorrow an’ I can get you a ringside if you say the word.”
She was looking rather hopelessly at his hand. “What did you say?” she asked.
Slug heaved a heavy sigh and repeated his invitation.
“I don’t like fights,” she said, beginning to work on his nails. “But I could give the ticket to a friend of mine if you have one to spare.”
Slug blew out his cheeks. The crust of this dame, he thought. “Is that the long guy you float around with?” he asked.
Rose glanced up at him and then concentrated on his nails once more. “You seem to know a lot about me,” she said. “Harry is crazy about fights. He’ll be pleased to get the ticket.”
“Maybe he’ll get a fight too,” Slug snarled. “I don’t like guys like him.”
Rose arched her eyebrows. “I could hardly imagine you would,” she said coldly.
There was a long pause, then Slug, feeling that he was not gaining ground, said: “I’ll have a nice roll of dough after tonight, suppose you an’ me go somewhere an’ spend it?”
“Where should we go?” Rose asked cautiously, still intent on his nails.
Slug thought rapidly. “Aw, I guess you could fix that yourself,” he said generously. “Just say where you’d like to go.”
“Well…” She paused, then she shook her head. “No, I guess that place isn’t quite what you’re used to.”
Slug scowled. “Come on,” he said, “where is it?”
“I’ve always wanted to go to the Miami Club, but that’s where all the swells go. You couldn’t rise to that, could you?”
With a sinking heart, Slug said fiercely: “Who says? Let me tell you, baby, there ain’t no place that I can’t go. If you want to go to that joint it’s O.K. with me.”
Rose sat back and looked at him. Her big eyes regarded him almost with admiration. “Gee!” she said. “Why, even Harry won’t go there. Do you really mean it?”
Conscious of a great victory, Slug committed himself, regardless of the cost. “Sure,” he said, “you wantta line up with the big-timers. A baby like you don’t want to run around with a lotta dopes. I tell you that sortta dump is just canary seed to me.”
“Why, Mr. Moynihan, I didn’t realize that you were such a big-shot. Look, let’s not go to Miami Club, let’s go to the ‘Ambassadors’. That’s a place I’ve really wanted to go to.”
Slug gulped. He saw too late where his boasting had led him. Miami Club was bad enough, but the ‘Ambassadors’ was one of the most expensive night-clubs in town. Not only that, but it was a stiff-shirt joint, and Slug hadn’t got a tuxedo. He felt the sweat coming out from his body at the very thought of what the evening was going to cost him.
Rose went on brightly. “Let’s make it tomorrow,” she said, “I haven’t a date then. Suppose you pick me up here at nine o’clock. Gee! I am looking forward to that. Do make yourself smart. I must get Mr. Brownrigg to give you a haircut.”
Before he could protest she had called Brownrigg, who whipped a snowy white towel round him and, with a cold gleam in his eye, proceeded to give him the works. He had a haircut, a shampoo and a face massage and Brownrigg kept up such an incessant flow of chatter that he had no further opportunity of talking to Rose. After enduring what seemed to him a series of undignified tortures, he found himself in the street, three dollars poorer in pocket, and committed to the most expensive evening of his life.
However, he was grimly determined to see it through. With a furtive step he went into Izzy’s dress shop and spent a long time haggling over the renting of a tuxedo. By his usual threatening attitude he managed to obtain the complete outfit at a not too ruinous figure. Gingerly, he tried on an opera hat which Izzy insisted was the thing to wear. He stood before the long mirror and stared at his reflection. He couldn’t make up his mind whether or not he liked himself in the hat until he noticed Izzy hiding a grin behind a grimy hand, then he realized just how awful he looked in it. He took the hat off hurriedly and gave it back to Izzy. “Gimme a black felt,” he said, “an’ take that grin off your mug before I wipe it off.”
The clothes were carefully packed in a large cardboard box and, having paid a substantial deposit, Slug made his way home. He spent the rest of the day at the gymnasium loosening up for the evening’s fight, his mind more intent on Rose and the evening he had to face at the ‘Ambassadors’.
He took Pug O’Malley, one of his sparring partners, into his confidence. “Listen, Pug,” he said, offering a cigarette, “I gotta take a dame to the ‘Ambassadors’ tomorrow night.”
Pug looked at him suspiciously, suspecting that Slug was just blowing off hot air. “Huh,” he said, “so what?”
Slug scratched his chin uneasily. “You ever been there?” he asked hopefully.
Pug shook his head. “I ain’t a sucker,” he said. “That joint charges you every time you breathe.”
“This dame wants to go,” Slug explained.
“I’d tell her where she got off. Jeeze, that joint is so expensive F.D.R. won’t go there. I tell you when the dame takes your hat she charges you so much that you think she’ll give you your hat and herself when you leave—only she just gives you the hat.”
Slug became more worried. “What’ll it cost me?” he asked. “Think twenty bucks will cover it?”
Pug pursed his lips. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess so. This dame must be mighty good. Why not give her the twenty bucks and save yourself the trouble of goin’. You could make her for that, couldn’t you?”
Slug shook his head. “She ain’t that sort of a dame,” he said. “She’s class, see? When she’s had a nice time, then we’ll go back to her joint an’ have a little tumble, but she likes a nice time first.”
Pug shook his head. “Looks like you’re goin’ to ride high, buddy,” he said. “The ‘Ambassadors’ ain’t your style.”
Nothing further was said about it after that, and Slug went through with his fight in rather an abstract manner. He was a good enough fighter, and didn’t have to exert himself to beat his opponent. The shouts of appreciation from the crowd did a lot to bolster up his confidence, and when the manager paid him fifty dollars, he did not hesitate to demand another twenty-five advance. This he got after some unpleasantness, and he immediately went back to his lodgings, refusing any attempt to persuade him to join in the celebrations that were in progress. He knew that he’d want every dollar he could lay hands on for tomorrow evening, and he was not spending anything until then.
When he got home he searched in the back of one of the three chest of drawers and brought out a further twenty-five dollars, which he always kept handy for emergencies such as this. He now had a hundred dollars and some small change, and he felt confident that he would get by with that amount of money. All the same, it was all the dough he had in the world, and he had got to keep something to live on for the next week or so until he fought again.
“Aw, to hell with it,” he said, and put the small roll in his pocket. He couldn’t spend all that in an evening. It was enough for him to live on for a month.
The next evening came round and found Slug struggling with his stiff shirt. With the aid of the landlady and her daughter, who were quite immune to his somewhat obscene ravings, he got his collar and tie fixed at last. When he finally took stock of himself in the glass he was agreeably surprised. The stiff black-and-white effect of the evening clothes softened the brutal coarseness of his features and his great bulk assumed a sharper outline in the carefully cut suit, making him look big and well built.
The landlady’s daughter, a monkey-like little creature with a bad squint, declared that he was as handsome as Dempsey, which pleased his vanity.
He pulled on his slouch hat, put his small roll in his trouser pocket and left the house. He stopped at the nearest saloon and had three stiff whiskies, noting with a mixture of pride and irritated embarrassment the nudging that went on amongst his acquaintances.
By the time he reached the barber’s shop he was feeling pleasantly tight, and had got fairly used to the collar and shirt which had threatened to strangle him. He found Brownrigg closing up, and he entered the shop with a swagger that was plainly to impress.
Brownrigg looked him over not without a certain admiration. “Say, Mr. Moynihan, you’re looking swell tonight,” he said, “that’s a grand suit you’ve got there.”
Slug flicked an invisible speck from the coat. “You think so?” he asked. “Well, boy, this suit cost plenty. It oughtta look good.” He glanced round the room. “Ain’t she here yet?”
Brownrigg jerked his head towards the manicure parlour. “She’s gettin’ ready,” he said with a wink. “Where are you takin’ her, Mr. Moynihan?”
Slug selected a cigar from a box on the counter. “The ‘Ambassadors’,” he said carelessly. “I like to take my dames to the right joints.”
Brownrigg whistled. “Say,” he said, “you certainly are goin’ places.” He hurriedly struck a match and lit Slug’s cigar.
Slug didn’t offer to pay for it, and Brownrigg, after a moment’s hesitation, decided to let it ride. Just then Rose came out from behind the curtained doorway and stood looking at Slug with a little smile.
Slug could hardly believe his eyes, she looked so beautiful. Her dress clung to her figure, revealing curves that he had suspected but was never quite sure were there. It was a bottle-green affair, tight in the bodice and round her neat hips and then flowed loosely to her feet. Her hair was dressed low to her shoulders, and her make-up was flawless, startling and provocative. He thought she looked like a high-class movie star.
“You look swell,” he said, and meant it.
She moved a little to the right and then to the left so that he could admire her more easily. “You like me?” she asked. “That’s fine. You don’t look such a tramp yourself, you know.”
Brownrigg nodded his approval. “You look a grand couple,” he said. “Now get along an’ enjoy yourselves, I want to shut down.”
Rose moved past Slug and he caught the scent of a heady perfume. He followed her out, feeling a little dazed. It was as if he were experiencing a magnificent dream.
As soon as they were outside, Rose glanced up and down the street and frowned. “Where’s the car?” she asked.
Slug, who had every intention of taking a trolley, felt a sudden twinge of apprehension. “I ain’t gotta car,” he said.
“Oh, don’t say ain’t, it’s vulgar,” she said a little sharply. “I thought you were bound to have a car. Well, get a taxi. It’s quite cold standing here.”
Slug said, “Sure, sure,” rather feebly, and waved at a yellow cab that cruised by on the opposite side of the road.
The driver recognized him and gaped, then he looked past Slug and saw Rose. His eyebrows went up and he pursed his lips. “Where to, buddy?” he asked. “A run round the park?”
Slug scowled at him. “’Ambassadors’,” he said shortly, jerking open the door.
The driver whistled. “O.K., big-shot,” he said, “’Ambassadors’ it is.”
Slug climbed in and sat down beside Rose. She had settled herself in a corner and had arranged her dress carefully on the seat so that Slug had to squash himself up in the far corner to avoid crushing it. Behind this brittle but impassable barrier, she surveyed him with a bright smile.
“Gee! I can hardly believe that we’re going to the ‘Ambassadors’,” she said. “Harry will be green with envy when I tell him.”
Slug scowled. “You better lay off seein’ that guy any more,” he said. “You’re my girl now, an’ I don’t like other guys hornin’ in on my ground.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m nobody’s girl. I go where I like and do what I like and no one dictates to me.”
Slug looked at her and decided that it wasn’t time to try any heavy stuff. This dame was tough and would want a lot of handling; but looking at her in the flickering lights of the passing street lamps, he decided that any trouble would be well repaid with a dame of this class.
He reached out a hand and tried to take hers, but she avoided him. “Please don’t,” she said a little sharply. “I don’t want my dress to get creased.”
Slug sat back with a little scowl, but she immediately went on to ask him about the fight and talked to him gaily until his good humour was restored.
The cab slowed down and then swung into the kerb. The door was opened by a tall, uniformed porter, who touched his peaked cap respectfully with a snowy white glove.
Slug got out hurriedly and stood in the bright lights from the big neon sign that spelled ‘Ambassadors’. He paid the cab-driver and gave the porter some small change. Then he followed Rose through the revolving doors that were kept on the move by two bell-hops dressed in white with scarlet pill-box hats.
The big hall was crowded with people who stood about laughing and talking, waiting for their parties to arrive. Feeling that he would like the earth to open and swallow him up, Slug slunk along behind Rose, who moved across the hall towards the ladies’ room. She turned for a moment and said, “I’ll meet you here in a few minutes,” and disappeared through a group of expensively dressed women.
Slug looked helplessly round, conscious that the women were eyeing him with interest. A guy suddenly appeared at his elbow, dressed in what looked like a fantastic fancy dress, and took his hat from him. “This way, sir,” he said, in a soothing voice, and led Slug over to the cloakroom, where a hat-check girl was checking in a big party of men.
Slug watched with round eyes the casual way these guys tossed dollars into a plate on the counter as each received a check. Finally his turn came and the girl looked at him with a friendly smile as she gave him his number. Slug thought she’d make a nice tumble, and put his dollar in the plate without any regrets.
“Some joint,” he said hoarsely, “sortta puts the White House in the shade, don’t it?”
The girl gave him a quick, puzzled glance, smiled again automatically and went on giving out numbers.
Slug drifted back towards the ladies’ room and concealed himself as best he could behind a large clump of palms that swayed a little from a huge brass tub.
He hadn’t been standing there more than a few minutes, when a tall, distinguished-looking man, holding an elaborately designed leather folder, approached him. “You are taking the dinner, monsieur?” he asked, bowing to Slug, who gave ground.
“What the hell’s it to do with you what I’m doin’?” Slug asked fiercely.
The man remained quite unperturbed. “You will pardon me, monsieur,” he said quietly, “I am merely here to make your visit a pleasant one. Is monsieur alone? Has monsieur booked a table?”
It dawned on Slug that this guy was trying to help him, and he clutched his arm as if he expected him to lose patience with him and go away.
“Listen, pal,” he said urgently, “you’re just the guy I was lookin’ for. I gotta dame here, see? She’s class, do you get it? I want this little business to go off good. I got the dough, an’ I want you to fix the rest for me. O.K.?”
The man bowed. “Certainly, monsieur,” he said; “you would like to leave all the arrangements to me?”
“You got it, pal, you got it,” Slug said feverishly. “Just give the dame a good time.”
The man made a little note inside the folder. “When you are ready, monsieur, your table is number eighteen. Just through that door on your right. Everything will be to your entire satisfaction.”
He went away smoothly as if he were being drawn along on wheels.
Feeling that he had at least one friend in the camp, Slug took up his position rather impatiently behind the palm again.
Rose came out of the ladies’ room eventually, looking cool and beautiful. She seemed to fit in with the luxurious background.
Slug said, “Gee, I thought you’d got lost.”
She shook her head. “Have you arranged anything?” she asked, as if she quite expected that he had done no such thing.
More confident, Slug put a hot, heavy hand on her arm. “Sure,” he said, “I fixed all this up yesterday. We got number eighteen table. The eats are all ordered, so come on in an’ get the nosebag on.”
She moved her arm, trying to escape his touch, but Slug was grimly determined that she should begin to realize that this wasn’t going to be all her outing.
The splendour of the dining-room shook him considerably, but the head waiter was there to receive him, and under a battery of staring eyes Slug eventually sat down at a little table near the band.
Unfortunately, the dinner was quite beyond Slug’s powers to appreciate. In fact, he hated nearly all of it. The champagne irritated the back of his nose and the various French dishes made him feel slightly sick. The problem of the mass of silver cutlery before him reduced him to limp, sweating embarrassment.
On the other hand, Rose thoroughly enjoyed herself. She did not appear to notice his silence, but talked gaily about the people, the band and the luxury of the place. She laughed heartily at the various cabaret turns and made Slug shuffle round the tiny dance-floor.
It seemed to go on for ever. New, clean plates kept appearing before him, dishes holding food he could not name were offered to him. His glass seemed to fill itself, and he became more and more sour as he realized how completely out of touch he was with this world.
In fact, when a tall, strikingly handsome man suddenly stopped at their table and asked Rose for a dance, he just sat there and watched them go away together. He was almost relieved to have a few minutes to himself.
The head waiter glided up to him and asked him if everything was satisfactory. Slug knew he had done his best for him, and he grinned ruefully.
“I guess this ain’t quite my mark,” he said frankly, scratching his head. “Maybe some guys get a kick out of this, but to me it’s just one big pain.” He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly one o’clock. “I guess we’ll blow,” he said. “Gimme the check before she comes back.”
The head waiter bowed and put a folded slip of paper on a plate and then handed it to Slug. He took it and glanced at it indifferently. He knew the evening was going to be an expensive one, and he was too far gone to worry about how much it was going to cost. When he saw the neat, pencilled figures he sat up. “What the hell’s this,” he asked—“a hundred and twenty-five bucks?”
The head waiter bowed. “That is correct,” he said gently. “It is our usual charge.”
Slug went cold from head to foot. Any moment Rose might come back. He pushed back his chair hurriedly and was about to stand up.
“A moment, monsieur,” the head waiter said. “I’m afraid the amount embarrasses monsieur?”
Slug blew out his cheeks. “You got somethin’ there, pal,” he said. “I got a hundred bucks towards it. Hell! I didn’t know this joint went in for daylight robbery.”
“Monsieur is mistaken. We have never had any trouble before with our bills. Perhaps monsieur shouldn’t have come.”
Slug nodded miserably. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “The dame wanted to come, so I just fell for it. What are you goin’ to do—send for the cops?”
The head waiter glanced round quickly, then he slid a twenty-five dollar note on to the plate. “Perhaps monsieur would accept a loan?” he suggested. “I have been in similar situations myself when young.”
Slug gaped at him. “Gee!” he said at last. “Why, hell, that’s white of you. You’ll get it back, pal, you’ll get it back all right.”
The head waiter lifted his shoulders. “If monsieur will now settle his bill, I will call a taxi.”
Slug hurriedly dropped the hundred dollars on the plate and stood up. He had exactly two dollars left in his pocket. “Sure,” he said, “I guess I won’t be around here any more.”
The head waiter bowed. “Monsieur would be a lot happier somewhere else, no doubt,” he said, and went away, holding the plate before him.
The band had stopped playing and Rose was coming back to the table. The tall, handsome guy was laughing and talking with her. They looked very happy. However, as they approached he caught Slug’s eye and decided that perhaps it would be wiser to retire, and with a few words to Rose he disappeared into the crowd that was surging back to their tables.
Rose sat down. “I hope you didn’t mind,” she said gaily; “he could dance. Isn’t this a lovely evening? Is there any more champagne left?”
Slug kept his temper under control with an effort. “We’re goin’ home now, honey,” he said. “Come on, let’s scram.”
“Home?” she said. “I don’t want to go home. It’s not late. Let’s have another dance.”
Slug stepped round to her and drew her upright. “I said we’re beatin’ it,” he said tensely; “c’m on.”
As people were already glancing at them, Rose followed him out of the dining-room. Slug snatched up his hat from the check girl and hurried Rose into the street. A taxi was waiting for them.
As soon as they had settled down in the taxi, Rose rounded on him. “What’s the idea?” she asked. “You’ve quite spoilt the evening. I was havin’ such a good time. Why did you come away like that?”
Slug slid over to her corner. “I just wanted to get you alone for a while, baby,” he said, feeling that, at all costs, he was not going to see his money spent for nothing.
“Oh, do get away,” she said irritably, “you’re crushing my dress,” and she tried to push him back.
He slid his arm behind her and pulled her to him. “Never mind about your dress,” he said, trying to smile, “you’ve had a good time, ain’t you? How about givin’ me a good time for a change?”
His thick lips pressed down on her mouth, holding her tightly to him. Her lips were hard and cold, but she did not struggle, and he finally drew away from her, feeling frustrated and suddenly hating her.
She drew her hand across her lips. “You’re rather coarse,” she said. “Don’t think that I allow men to kiss me after a few hours’ acquaintanceship, because I don’t. I am sure you would feel no respect for me if I gave in to you now. I would have no respect for myself. Please sit away from me.”
Slug drew further away. His mind was completely fuddled. His instincts told him to take this woman and break her as he had done others, but there was a barrier around her that he just could not break through. Her contempt held him at bay as effectively as if a bayonet were placed at his throat.
They sat in silence all the way to the barber’s shop, and when they got out into the street she said: “Thank you for the evening. I’m sorry it wasn’t as nice for you as it was for me. Perhaps we had better not meet again.”
Slug was too angry and too bewildered to say anything. He suddenly felt horribly deflated. The realization that he had lost all his money in one worthless evening, committed himself to a debt of fifty dollars to his manager and to the headwaiter, made the prospects of the next few weeks drab and colourless. His rules of life, though primitive, were simple enough. If you paid for anything, you got it. Well, he had given this dame a night out that ought to go down in history and she wasn’t playing ball. All he had from her was a kiss that could not even be termed sisterly.
She said quite brightly: “Well, good-bye, I live just across the way. You needn’t bother further,” and with a casual wave of her hand she crossed the road and disappeared into a large apartment house.
Slug spat on the pavement. A little spark of rage was beginning to kindle in his brain, but so far he was still too dazed to do anything about it. He wanted a drink badly, so he walked with great slouching strides to an all-night bar on Forty-ninth Street.
Joe Renshaw, his manager, was sitting at the bar drinking neat Scotch. He looked at Slug in astonishment.
“For Gawd’s sake,” he said, “where did you get the outfit from?”
Slug suddenly realized that he had still to meet the hire charge for his clothes. He sat down on the stool close to Joe’s and swore obscenely.
The barman and Joe regarded him with interest. They saw that he was in a very ugly mood and they wisely refrained from interrupting him.
Slug abruptly stopped swearing and snarled for whisky. After he had had a few quick drinks Joe ventured to ask him what was wrong, and glad to have someone to unburden to, Slug told him all about it.
Joe said, when he had finished, “You’ve had a bad break, pal,” and patted him on his knees. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me what you were going to do? I could have warned you. Rose Hanson is well known for that trick.”
Slug looked at him suspiciously. “What the hell do you mean?” he demanded.
“The ‘Ambassadors’ trick,” Joe said. “That dame is bad, Slug, really bad. She married a guy two years ago and he found out what type of dame she was. Well, I guess she sort of sickened him, and he found some other dame he liked a lot better. He tried to get this Rose to divorce him, but she wouldn’t do it. She liked to see this guy suffer, so she just wouldn’t give it to him. He had her watched, hoping that she would slip up, but they never caught her with anything. She heard about it, so she took a boy-friend around to the ‘Ambassadors’ every now and then to torture her husband. Just so that he’d spend more dough having her watched; but she made sure that the boy-friend didn’t get anything out of it. That’s why she took you there.”
Slug half closed his eyes. “Why the hell should she want to go to the ‘Ambassadors’?” he asked.
“Why, her husband works there. He’s head waiter or something.”
Slug stiffened. “You mean the tall guy with the good manners?” he asked. “The guy that slipped me twenty-five bucks?”
“Did he give you twenty-five bucks? That’s like Johnny. He knew the game she was playin’ with you an’ felt sorry for you, I expect.”
“This dame won’t divorce him?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Slug took another long pull from his glass. “I see,” he said. “I guess that guy was pretty good to me; I’d like to do him a good turn.”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, he deserves the breaks for once,” he agreed, yawning. “I’m goin’ home. Gee! It’s late. Comin’?”
Slug shook his head. “I guess not,” he said. “I wantta kill this bottle.”
Joe patted his arm. “Don’t worry about the dough I advanced you. You can pay that back easy from time to time. I ain’t goin’ to rush you.”
Slug nodded absently. He was thinking of other things.
“Well, I’ll be blowin’. ’Night, pal,” and Joe went off with a slight roll in his walk.
Slug sat for some time drinking steadily, thinking about Rose and her husband. The fumes of the whisky mounted to his brain. The longer he sat there brooding the more convinced he became that he had to do something. At last he crawled off the stool and nodded to the barman.
“That’s three bucks, pal,” the barman said hastily.
Slug squinted at him. Everybody seemed to want money out of him, he thought. “Put it on the slate,” he said, “I ain’t got it now.”
The barman hesitated, then, knowing that he often saw Slug, nodded. He thought it would be wiser to tackle him when he was sober, as, right now, Slug looked very mean.
Slug went out into the street and began to walk back towards the barber’s shop. “I gotta see that dame, and fix this waiter guy up,” he told himself. “He was pretty good to me, an’ I don’t like the way she’s treated him. Yeah, I’ll go right up an’ see her, an’ fix it.”
He arrived at the apartment block and let himself in. He had to go to the very top before he found Rose’s name neatly printed on a card on the door. He tried the door very carefully, but found it locked. He went down the corridor to a window, pushed it up and glanced outside. A fire-escape ran past Rose’s window, as he expected, and, pushing up the window, he got on to the escape and moved along the iron balcony until he came to the next window, which was partly open. Very softly he raised it and stepped into the room.
It was very dark, and he couldn’t see anything. He struck a match, found the light-switch and turned it on.
Rose sat up in bed with a little scream. She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, then she swung back the bedclothes and slid out of bed. She whipped up a wrap and flung it round her.
“How dare you come here, you great oaf!” she said. “Get out at once, before I call the police!”
The little red spark in Slug’s brain began to blaze and he reached out his great hand and slapped her very hard across her face. She fell backwards over the bed with a little wail of terror.
All his lust for her rose in him and he ripped her nightdress from her with brutal violence. She tried to turn on her side, drawing her knees to her chin, but he hit her again, this time with an open hand on the side of her head. The blow stunned her and she went limp, breathing in short, gasping jerks.
He knelt over her and his hands outraged her. She struggled feebly, too breathless to scream, but his savage strength overwhelmed her. His hands on the softness of her body found no satisfaction, and when she began to scream faintly, his fingers shifted up to her throat.
He did not know exactly when she died, because he continued to maul and shake her body long after life had gone out of it, and when the red spark in his brain died to a dark, twisted ember, he drew away from her, swearing softly.
He knew then that he had meant to kill her. As he stood looking down at her carefully painted face, so horribly contorted in her death struggle, he felt a satisfaction far in excess of any sexual ecstasy he had ever experienced, and he knew also that he need not worry any more about paying the head waiter his twenty-five bucks. He had given him service instead.
He sat on the bed beside her and touched her breasts gently. The drink was dying on him and he felt very tired and a little sick of things. He sat there for a long time trying to keep the fading warmth in her body by putting his hands on her, but when her flesh became cold and hard to his touch he drew away from her.
He tried to reason things out, but his brain failed him. He just couldn’t be bothered to make any plans, and after some time he reached out for the phone and called the police. He didn’t quite know how to tell them, but they were very helpful, and in a surprisingly short time they came into the room and took him away.
THE END