Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

Stone-eyes came out and walked down along the bar to where Judy Meredith was still sitting. She followed him back to the room.

“Whose idea was this?” I asked Glen. “You don’t look any more like a cop than if you were wearing the blue. What do you hope to get out of this, except a hangover?”

“On beer?” Glen said. “I’m just sitting here. It’s Devine’s idea, and Devine’s my boss, and you hadn’t oughta run him down. If he wants me to sit here and drink beer, I will.”

The bartender, not Jim, came over, and I ordered rye.

“You should have a tuxedo,” I said, to Glen.

“I’m no waiter,” Glen said. “I’m a guest.” He sipped his beer. “You know, that Moose Lundgren didn’t have enough to get buried on. And not a relative. They’re planting him in Potter’s Field tomorrow, Jonesy.”

The cold ground, I thought. Deep and cold and all alone. The violin was back, crying in its throaty way, making the bartenders look unhappy again.

“That fiddler gives me the willies,” Glen said.

Miss Judy Meredith, that lovely gal, would now be hearing the riot act. And from a joker like Every, There was no logic in love.

Judy came out after a few minutes looking no less happy than when she had gone in. She came directly over to where I was sitting, and climbed onto the adjacent stool.

Glen lifted his eyebrows, and coughed quietly, but I ignored him.

Judy said quietly: “Your friend’s from headquarters, isn’t he?”

“You’d have to ask him,” I said.

“Val,” she told me, “is burning out a bearing. He’s not fit company for man or beast.”

“Wait’ll he sees the papers,” I said. “You’d better find a place to hide, after that.”

She ordered a rye and water. She said: “Mr. Every won’t mind. He just said I could have one or two.”

He went to get it, and she turned to me. “What’s in the papers?”

“Lundgren was killed with a twenty-two,” I said.

“So—”

“So that’s what his boy carries, the little round man with the slate eyes.”

“Don’t others, too? Is that so unusual?”

“It’s very unusual. At least, among torpedoes.”

The man in white set her drink down in front of her. Glen coughed again, and I looked over at him, and then looked away.

“Do we have to stay here?” Judy asked. “We could get drunk anyplace, though it might cost you a little more.”

“Every wants me to wait,” I said.

“Oh. Then — you are working for him?”

“Let’s go,” I said. “Let’s find some place where the lights are dim, and the music soft. Let’s go some place and dance.”

“I’ll get my coat,” she said.

She left the bar. Glen said: “You’re rude. You know that, I guess. You should be more familiar with Emily Post.”

“She knows you’re a cop,” I told him. “I didn’t want her to get the idea we were too thick.”

He made no comment. He looked at me as — though I had just crawled out from under a stone, and then looked away.

Judy came with her coat, and we left. The doorman looked surprised when he saw me leave with the boss’s girl, but he made no comment.

We went to the Grotto, a fairly quiet spot on 41st, where the band is more concerned with danceable rhythms than trick arrangements, where there isn’t any floor show.

We danced and talked and drank. We didn’t get drunk. We didn’t talk about Every, or Flame or Stone-eyes.

About eleven-thirty, we left, and drove out the drive, way out beyond Brown Deer, beyond the hills, to the bay. There, on a high point, overlooking the water, I parked.

I was aware of her, you can bet. I was ready to sign on the dotted at the moment. But I just lit us a pair of cigarettes, and turned on the radio, and we sat, looking out at the water.

There wasn’t much conversation, and what there was I can’t remember now. All I remember is the perfume she wore, and the way her voice seemed to match the quiet of the night.

Then she said: “You might as well kiss me. I’ve been kissed before I met Every, and I’ll be kissed after he finds the grave he’s headed for. There’s no reason we should think of him.”

I kissed her. And for the moment, I know she wasn’t thinking of Every.

She sighed, as we drew apart again. She said: “You’re all right, Mortimer Jones. You’re the first man I’ve wanted to kiss in a long, long time. Maybe I ought to tell you about this.”

“You don’t need to,” I said. “Every wanted you to go, didn’t he? He sent you?”

“That’s right. He wanted me to find out who you were working for.”

“Do you want to know?”

“I don’t give a damn, personally,” she said. “And if Val wants to know, he can ask you himself.”

I didn’t kiss her again, though it was a struggle. We sat quietly listening to the radio and smoking, and about one o’clock we started back to town. We took our time, going back, and it was about two when I pulled the Dusy up in front of her apartment building.

It was a tall building, set back on a wide, deep lawn. Up around the seventh floor, there was a light burning in one of the apartments.

“That’s mine,” she said, “the one where the light is burning.”

“You leave it on?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “I didn’t.”

“Must be the maid,” I said.