Night Extra

“I’ve been talking to Caldwell,” she said. She sat down on a huge yellow ottoman and crossed her slender legs at the ankles. She turned her face away from Terrell. “I wanted to pay-off Frankie Chance because he... well, there’s no point going into that. It was a stupid, bitchy thing to do — I know that. But after I got started it seemed the right thing to do. That sounds corny, doesn’t it? But it happens to be true. Maybe you don’t know Caldwell. He’s an honest man, and he’s big and gentle and straight.” She shrugged and smiled. “More corn, I know. But that’s it, Sam. I fell for the guy. In a funny way. I respect him and I want him to respect me. What will Ike Cellars do? I don’t know. I can’t say I’m not afraid. But I’m going ahead with it. He can’t stop me, Sam.”

“He may not be in a position to,” Terrell said thoughtfully. “But tell me this, Eden: do you have anything specific and serious to tag him with? Names, dates, documents, witnesses — that’s what you need. Gossip and guesses are manufactured on street corners every hour on the hour. They don’t hurt Cellars or Ticknor.”

“I’ve got things that will hurt them.”

“What?”

“It’s for Caldwell. What he does with it is up to him.”

Terrell was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “Well, I wish you both luck. You deserve a medal, Eden. You may never get it, but you deserve it just the same.”

“Sure, sure,” she said.

Terrell smiled at Connie, “Could I buy you a cup of coffee sometime?”

“Watch for me round the automat,” she said coldly.

“So long then, girls.”

Terrell rode down to the lobby feeling depressed and irritable. Something was wrong. The whole business stank. Dramatic revelations inspired first by vengeance, then a growing sense of duty and virtue — Eden’s act was a script-writer’s dream, preposterously pat.

But who was being cast as the fall guy? That’s what Terrell wanted to know.

Terrell cabbed back to the paper and ate lunch at his desk while he worked out the first draft of his next day’s column. When he had it in shape he called Mike Karsh, whom he could see sitting in his office leafing through the latest edition. Karsh said hello, then turned and waved to him. “Come on in,” he said. “I’ve got a minute.”

“I need at least ten, Mike”

“What’s up?”

“A story, a good one. I’d like your reaction to it.”

“Look, Sam: let’s have a quiet dinner tonight. Steak, beer, apple pie. We’ll kick things around. All right?”

“Fine. Where?”

“Let’s make it the Ridgeland, about eight. Okay?”

“See you then.” Dinner at the Ridgeland wouldn’t be a quiet affair, but if Karsh wanted to kid himself, Terrell didn’t mind; he felt he understood Karsh’s needs.

3

The Ridgeland was a new hotel in center-city that catered to people with expensive tastes and important connections. Karsh lived here and Terrell wondered how he stood it, both financially and esthetically. The tariff was outrageously high, but Karsh enjoyed extravagance; he liked to feel that he was spending his money brilliantly and pointlessly. He saved nothing, sneered at market tips, and could drop twice Terrell’s monthly check in one bet at the track.

The management of the Ridgeland treated him like solvent royalty. They had knocked together two suites to give him a four room apartment on the twentieth floor, and had installed a bar, kitchenette, a barbecue pit for the balcony, and practically wall-to-wall television. All of this seemed to amuse Karsh. He had only to glance around to reassure himself that he wasn’t spending his money sensibly.

Esthetically, Karsh’s tolerance for the Ridgeland and its clients bewildered Terrell. He was a mark for every shill, tipster and peddler who hung out in the place. Now, as Terrell paused in the entrance to the dining room, he saw that Karsh had already been attacked by supplicants — a syndicate salesman, a gambler and two press agents had joined him at his regular corner table. They weren’t bad sorts, Terrell knew, just greedy — slavering for a bite at the still-fat carcass of Mike Karsh.

George, the headwaiter, led him across the dance floor, and Karsh grinned when he stopped beside the table. “Find a seat, Sam. Our quiet little dinner has turned into a convention.” Karsh wore a dark gray suit of beautiful cut, a white linen shirt and a neatly figured blue silk tie. He looked very distinguished and slightly drunk; his thick gray hair and deeply tanned features were elegantly handsome, but his smile was lopsided and weary. The humor in his face was touched with cynicism; his expression, though blurred with liquor, was that of a man who was truly puzzled by the whole idea of laughter.

Terrell sat down beside him, and George, the headwaiter, said, “You want to order yet, Mr. Karsh? Or do you intend to keep us in suspense?”

“Go water your whiskey,” Karsh said. “I’ll whistle when we’re ready.”