Lay Her Among The Lilies

got himself engaged to Janet Crosby, the millionairess, but that didn’t last long. He dropped

out of sight for about six months, and then suddenly reappeared as owner of the Dream Ship:

a three-hundred ton schooner he’s converted into a gambling-den which he keeps anchored

just outside the three-mile limit. He has a fleet of water taxis going to and fro, and the

members of the club are as exclusive as an investiture at Buckingham Palace.”

“And gambling’s not the only vice that goes on in that ship.” Olaf said, and winked. “He’s

got half a dozen hand-picked girls on board. It’s a sweet racket. Being three miles outside the

city’s limit, he can thumb his nose at Brandon. I bet he makes a pile of jack.”

“What foxes me,” Hughson said, reaching for the whisky I had bought him, “is how a heel

like Sherrill ever found enough money to buy a goddamn great schooner like the Dream

Ship.”

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“They say he floated a company,” Olaf said. “If he had come to me and offered to sell me a

piece of that ship, I’d have jumped at it. I bet whoever owns shares in her makes a packet,

too.”

I listened, thinking what a marvellous thing it was to meet two guys in a bar and hear the

very thing I wanted to hear without even asking.

“That ship sounds fun,” I said casually. “I wouldn’t mind being a member.”

Hughson sneered.

“And you’re not the only one. You haven’t a hope. Only guys in the White Book stand a

chance. Every member is hand-picked. If you haven’t got dough Sherrill doesn’t want you.

The entrance fee is two hundred and fifty dollars, and the sub works out at five hundred a

year. He caters for the big boys, not the proletariat.”

“What kind of a guy is Sherrill? “I asked.

“One of those smooth Alecs,” Hughson said. “Handsome, slick, tough and bright. The kind

of heel women fall for. Curly hair, blue eyes, big muscles, and dresses like a movie star. My

idea of a genuine, top-drawer, son-of-a-bitch.”

“Any idea why Janet Crosby broke the engagement?”

“That girl had sense. I don’t know what happened, but it’s my guess she saw the red light.

All he was after was her money, and I guess she realized that before it was too late. Any girl

who marries a runt like Sherrill is heading for trouble.”

Olaf, who was getting bored with this conversation, said, “Do you fellas think the Dixie

Kid would make a show against O’Hara? I gotta chance to match him, but I’m not sure it

would be much of a fight.”

For the next fifteen minutes we argued back and forth about the Dixie Kid’s merits, then

looking at the clock above the bar I saw it was time I got moving.

“I’ll have to leave you guys,” I said, and slid off the stool. “I’ll be around at the gym one of

these days. See you then.”

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Olaf said he would be glad to see me any time, and would I give his best respects to Paula.

Hughson said to tell Paula he dreamed of her most nights. I left them buying more whisky.

As I crossed the room to the exit I spotted the Wop with the dirty shirt cuffs sitting at a

table near the door, still engrossed in his newspaper, and as I pushed open the double swing

doors, he casually folded the paper, shoved it into his pocket and got to his feet.

I walked swiftly to where I had parked the Buick, got in, started the engine and drove down

the dark alley. From somewhere in the rear another car engine roared into life and a set of

parking lights swam into my driving-mirror.

I drove along Princess Street, keeping my eye on the driving-mirror. The car following me

was a Lincoln. The blue, anti-dazzle windshield prevented me from seeing the driver, but I

guessed who it was.

At the bottom of Princess Street I turned right into Felman Street. The traffic was thinning

out, and I drove fast, but the Lincoln had no trouble in sitting on my tail. Ahead of me I could

see the red neon sign of the cafe where J had arranged to meet John Stevens. Just before I

reached the cafe I pulled sharply into the kerb and braked hard. The Lincoln was following

me too closely to do anything but drive straight on. It went past, slowing down.

I nipped out of the Buick and dodged into a dark shop doorway. The Lincoln had pulled

into the kerb fifty yards ahead. The Wop got out and looked down the street without

attempting to conceal his actions. He was quick enough to spot I had left the Buick, and he

walked towards my parked car, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.

I stepped back into the shadows and watched him glance into the empty car, look right and

left, and then walk on. He didn’t seem disconcerted when he couldn’t see me, but continued

on down the street just like any Spick out for an airing.

I watched him out of sight, then crossed the street by way of the subway and nipped into

the cafe.

The wall clock facing me as I entered showed five minutes to nine o’clock. There were

only about half a dozen people at the tables: a blonde Bobbysoxer and her boy, two elderly

men playing chess, two women with shopping-bags, and a girl with a thin, pinched face at a

corner table, drinking milk.

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