Night Extra

“Men like you always surprise me,” Terrell said. “You built the city, sure. But where’s the pride in your work? You let hoodlums run it for you, let it go to hell. Slums, bad schools, inadequate parks — why doesn’t that irritate you? Why don’t you do something about it?”

“You get out!” Bridewell yelled at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t come around threatening me, you hear.”

Terrell shook his head slowly. “You don’t just go to jail for murder, Mr. Bridewell. You go to hell.”

Bridewell didn’t answer; he tried to speak but no words passed his dry lips. And Terrell saw from the frightened look in his eyes that he had finally shaken him. “Good night,” he said.

From Bridewell’s home, Terrell drove to The Mansions, Ike Cellars’ big and brilliant nightclub in center-city. The head — waiter, Miguel, greeted him cordially and sent a message back to Connie Blacker with a bus boy.

“Drink?” Miguel said. “A touch of our old, old scotch? My compliments?”

“No, thanks. Another time, Miguel.”

“As you wish.”

A few early diners sat about the large, graceful room, eating the best food in the city, and listening to a girl on the bandstand who was playing soft, excellent piano. The bartenders stood with arms folded, grave, clean-shaven, white-jacketed, their eyes occasionally checking the tools of their craft, the lemon peel and orange slices, the fat cherries and pale yellow cocktail onions, the racks of glasses and mixers, and the sinksful of ice cubes and shavings. The atmosphere was quiet and expectant; from hatcheck girl to master of ceremonies, they were ready for the evening’s trade.

The bus boy returned and told him Miss Blacker was waiting in her dressing room. Terrell nodded a so-long to Miguel and crossed the floor to the corridor that led to the entertainers’ quarters. She was waiting for him at the door of her room, and in the soft light her eyes seemed very dark.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she said.

“You sounded pretty urgent.”

“Come in, please. It’s cluttered, but there’s a spare chair and an extra ashtray.”

“Men have lived and died with a lot less,” Terrell said. She was nervous as hell about something, he realized. Shaking in her boots.

The room was functional, and not much else; the walls were painted gray, and there was a vanity, a clothes rack, and a few straight-backed chairs.

“How’s your job coming along?” he asked her.

“Pretty well. I’m about one notch above a cigarette girl. I do a chorus with the band in the closing number — and I have a little stooge routine with the MC.” She smiled rather quickly. “Please sit down.”

“You’ll get along,” he said. “Places like this always need icing.” That was putting it clinically, he thought. She was more than just icing. More like something from the top of a Christmas tree. Like a doll. She wore a ribbon in her short, yellow hair, and her skin was like a young girl’s, flawless and clean without make-up. Her costume gave her figure an assist it didn’t really need; a white blouse, triangular shorts and full-length mesh hose — with her tiny waist and long, beautiful legs, the effect was stunning. But Terrell had an illogical feeling that she didn’t belong in Ike Cellars’ elaborately camouflaged clip joint. She was decorative certainly, but she was more than that. She belonged in a home that smelled of clean babies and a pot roast for Sunday dinner, with maybe a log fire and martinis thrown in. But he could be wrong.

“What did you want to see me about?”

She glanced at the door. “If I told you something you could use — what would I get out of it?”

“The usual tawdry things,” he said wearily. “Peace of mind, self-respect, an easy conscience. It’s a good trade.”

She sat down slowly, watching him now. “Nothing else?”

“You mean something clean and idealistic — like cash?”

She crossed her legs and moved her foot about in a quick circle. “That’s it,” she said. The light above the dressing table played with rhinestones on her small black velvet pumps. She glanced toward the door again, and Terrell saw her hands were gripping the edges of the chair.

“I think we might make a deal,” he said.

“How much would you give me?”

“Connie, I’m with a big, rich paper. But we didn’t get big and rich paying for tips in advance. I’ll need an idea of what you’ve got.”

She leaned toward him suddenly. “Get out of here,” she said, in a breathless, desperate voice. “Get out fast.”

Terrell stood quickly, but the door was already opening and he realized that he was too late. Frankie Chance came into the room, his deceptively gentle brown eyes alight with anger and excitement. Behind him was one of Ike Cellars’ bodyguards, a tall, wide man named Briggs.

“I told you not to bother her,” Frankie said.

“She wasn’t complaining,” Terrell said.

Frankie glanced at her. “Soft-hearted, doesn’t want to finger you, that’s all. But I know the story. You had a few drinks, Sam, and you began to get ideas.”

“This is pretty stupid — even for you,” Terrell said.

“Two things Ike won’t stand for are drunks and guys who molest his girls.”