12 Chinks and A Woman

     Nightingale peered at Fenner from under his hat. The sun, coming in through the slotted blinds, reflected on his glasses. “You might do me some harm, too,” he said drily.

     Fenner resumed his eating. “Hell!” he said. “This is a hell of a burg, ain't it?”

     When they had finished their meal, Fenner pushed his chair away and stood up. “Okay, pal,” he said. “I'll see you some time.”

     Nightingale said, “We might talk some time.” He said it hopefully.

     Fenner took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don't know,” he said vaguely, “I don't know.”

     He nodded to the little man and went out to the office. The hotel manager was busy at the desk. He looked up as Fenner passed and gave an oily smile.

     Fenner said, “I'm goin' to sleep. This place's killin' me.”

     Before the manager could say anything, he went on up the stairs to his bedroom. He shut the door and turned the key. Then he took off his coat and hat and lay on the bed. He went to sleep almost immediately, a pleased smile on his mouth.

     The phone woke him. He sat up with a jerk, glanced at the clock, saw he had slept for two hours, and reached out for the phone.

     A voice said, “Come over to the Flagler Hotel right away. The boss wants you.”

     Fenner screwed up his eyes. “Tell the boss I came this mornin'. I don't visit the same place twice,” and hung up.

     He lay back on the bed and shut his eyes. He only lay there a minute or so before the phone went again.

     The same voice said, “You'd better come. Carlos don't like bein' kept waitin'.

     Fenner said, “Tell Carlos to come out here, or tell him to go roll a hoop.” He put the receiver on the prong with exaggerated care.

     He didn't bother to answer the phone when it rang again. He went into the little bathroom, bathed his face, gave himself a short shot from the Scotch, put on his hat and coat and went downstairs.

     The heat of the afternoon sun was blistering. The hotel lobby was deserted, and he went over and sat down near the entrance. He put his hat on the floor beside him and stared out into the street. He knew that he wasn't going to get very far with this business unless he turned up Marian Daley's sister. He wondered whether the cops had found the two Cubans and the remains of Marian. He wondered what Paula was doing. From where he sat he could look into the hot, deserted street. A big touring car suddenly swept into the street, roared down to the hotel, and skidded to a standstill.

     Fenner relaxed into the long cane chair and, reaching down, picked up his hat and put it on.

     There were four men in the car. Three of them got out, leaving the driver sitting behind the wheel.

     Fenner recognized Reiger and Miller, but the other guy he didn't know. They came up the few steps quickly and blinked round in the semi-gloom. Reiger saw Fenner almost at once. He came over.

     Fenner looked up at him and nodded. “Want to see anyone?” he said casually. “The clerk's gone bye-bye.”

     Reiger said, “Carlos wants you. Come on.”

     Fenner shook his head. “It's too hot. Tell him some other time.”

     The other two came and stood round. They looked mean. Reiger said softly, “Comin' on your dogs, or do we carry you?”

     Fenner got up slowly. “If it's like that,” he said, and went with them to the car. He knew Reiger was itching to slug him and he knew it wouldn't do any good to make too much fuss. He wanted to see Carlos, but he wanted them to think he wasn't too interested.

     They drove fast to the Flagler Hotel in silence. Fenner sat between Reiger and Miller, and the other man, whom they called Bugsey, sat with the driver.

     They all went up in the small elevator and along to No. 47. As they entered, Fenner said, “You could have saved yourself a trip by playin' ball this mornin'.”

     Reiger didn't say anything. He crossed the room and rapped on another door and went in. Bugsey followed behind Fenner.

     Carlos lay on a couch before a big open window. He was dressed in a cream silk dressing-gown, patterned with large red flowers. A white silk handkerchief was folded carefully in a stock at his throat, and his bare feet were encased in red Turkish slippers.

     He was smoking a marihuana cigarette, and round his brown, hairy wrist hung a gold-linked bracelet.

     Carlos was young. Maybe he was twenty or maybe he was twenty-four. His face was the color of old parchment and he had very red lips. Thin lips, paper-thin lips, and red, just like someone had slit his throat with a razor and moved the wound above his chin. His nose was small, with very wide nostrils, and his ears lay tightly against his head. His eyes were large and fringed with dark curly eyelashes. He had no expression in them. They were like dull pieces of black glass. His hair grew away from his forehead on either side of his temples. It was black, glistening and inclined to wave. Take a quick look at Carlos and you'd think he was a pretty handsome guy, but when you looked again you got an eyeful of his mouth and his lobeless ears, and you weren't sure. When you got to his eyes you were dead certain that he was bad.