Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief

“I don't believe it; he's just mean. Listen, Jay, could you put in a word for me? If I could get that old buzzard to take a trial run I'd hook him, but I can't get near him.”

Jay promised to do what he could.

“There's another guy who I want to get in with. That's Mendetta. He could use a flock of my cars. I do trucks now, you know. Beggars can't be choosers. I guess that guy could use a lot of trucks. I've been trying to persuade Grantham to get me an introduction, but he doesn't seem keen. I suppose I'll have to offer him a split in my commission.”

“Does Grantham know Mendetta?” Jay asked, suddenly interested.

“Know him? Why, of course he knows him. I thought everyone knew that. Mendetta put up the dough for this Club. He's got his finger in every pie.”

Jay drank some beer. “Aaah,” he said, putting the glass down, “Mendetta's a bad guy. I'd forget about him.”

Benny shrugged. “What the hell. His dough's good, ain't it?” he said. “I don't care who buys my cars as long as he pays.”

Jay finished his beer. “Maybe you're right,” he said.

Just then a blonde came in, followed by a tall young man with heavy, horn−rimmed glasses. The blonde wore a red dress, very tight across her small breasts, and when she climbed up on the high stool at the bar she showed a lot of her legs.

Benny looked at her. He stared so hard that she giggled suddenly and adjusted her skirt. Benny sighed.

“There're an awful lot of swell dames around tonight,” he said to Jay. “She's nice, ain't she?”

Jay wasn't very interested. “Sure,” he said; “they're all nice. Where's your wife? How is she, anyway?”

Benny still looked at the blonde. “Sadie? Oh, she's fine. She's out there with my party. I sort of wanted a drink. Did I? No, that's wrong. I came out for a doings. Seeing you put it out of my mind. I guess I'd better get on.” He shook hands again and went off.

Jay ordered another beer. While he was waiting for it, he saw Grantham come in. Grantham was very tall and thin, with silver−white hair. His face was hard. Two lines ran from his nose to his mouth, and he looked very grey. Jay only knew him by sight, he'd never spoken to him. When he saw him, he turned back to the bar and paid the bartender.

Grantham came up and stood at his elbow. “What do you want?” he said. His voice was very hostile.

Jay looked at him by turning his head. “Should I know you?” he asked. “Are you someone I ought to know?”

Grantham introduced himself. “We don't have newspaper men in here, you know,” he said; “we don't like them in here.”

Jay raised his eyebrows. “That's interestin',” he said. “That's very interesting. No newspaper men, huh?

And who else? Tell me your black list. I bet you don't like the cops in here either.”

Grantham tapped a little tune on the counter. “Don't let's get sore about this,” he said evenly. “I'm just telling you. Maybe you didn't know.”

“Is this your idea, or did Mendetta suggest it?”

Grantham's face hardened. “That sort of talk won't get you anywhere,” he said quietly. “I'm just telling you to keep out of here, that's all.”

Jay shook his head. “You can't do that. This is a place for public entertainment. I should forget about it. A line or two in my paper could upset your business pretty badly.”

Grantham nodded. “I see,” he said; “I was just giving you a hint. You don't have to take it. You're quite right, of course. You have every right to come here. Only you're not welcomed.”

“Leave me now, pal,” Jay said, turning away, “I'm goin' to have a good cry.”

Grantham looked at the barman and then at the clock. “You can shut down, Henry,” he said, and walked away.

Jay finished his beer, nodded to the barman, who ignored him, and went out into the big lounge. People were beginning to move out. He saw Clem Rogers, who played the saxophone in the band, putting his instrument away. He knew Rogers quite well.

He went to the cloakroom and got his hat, and then he went outside. He had to wait ten minutes before Rogers came out, and then he followed him away from the Club. When they got to the main street he overtook him.

Rogers seemed surprised to see him. “You're late, ain't you?” he said, peering at his wrist−watch. It was just after two o'clock.

Jay fell in step beside him. “We newspaper guys never sleep,” he said. “How about a little drink? There's a joint just down here that keeps open all night.”

Rogers shook his head. “I guess not,” he said. “I want to get home. I'm tired.”

Jay put his hand on his arm and steered him down a side turning. “Just a short drink, buddy,” he said, “then you can go home.”

They went down some steps to an underground bar. The place was nearly empty. A short, thick−set Italian dozed across the bar. He raised his head sleepily as the two entered.

“Good evenin',” he said, rubbing the counter−top with a swab. “What will you have?”

“At this time of night, Scotch,” Jay said. “Bring us the bottle over there.” He indicated a table at the far end of the room.