Hot Bullets for Love. Gentry Nyland
had affected when he first came to New York. Joe took it. He looked around to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then he called Pete. As he swung through the street door the rain-washed cab skidded to a stop at the curb. Joe made a dash for it and climbed in.
Pete said, “Lousy weather we’re havin’, ain’t it?”
Joe grinned and gave him the 78th Street address.
The Raleigh residence was typical of others in the immediate neighborhood. Built when quality of workmanship meant something, and Dutch conservatism still exercised its influence with moneyed New Yorkers, the house stood with quiet dignity in the shadow of streamlined apartment buildings to the right and left.
Pete looked at the hundred-dollar bill in Joe’s hand.
“Aw, Joey. I told you I couldn’t change that. Who d’ya think I’m workin’ for? Brink . . .” Joe silenced him with a lifted hand. He said.”
“Don’t worry, Pete. I’ll have the change later on. Stick around somewhere. I might need you this evening.”
The button Joe pressed emitted low, musical chimes. Light footsteps approached. Through the translucent glass the figure looked trim and neat.
“Not bad, maybe,” Joe mused.
The girl who opened the door was as black as Joe’s Homburg. Her figure was not as inviting as Gannon’s. Joe said, “Holy cripes!”
She said, “Peace, it’s wonderful!” and grinned widely, showing glistening teeth. One of Father Divine’s educated converts. He followed the neatly clad maid through the foyer into a spacious, beautifully appointed room.
“That fire’ll be fine to get some of the rain out of me, but I need a drink, too. How about it?”
She grinned, took the reversible, hat and stick and hung them in a closet. She returned a few minutes later with a syphon of seltzer, whisky in a cut-glass decanter and a small silver dish of ice cubes, which she put down on a table.
“My name is Precious Lamb,” she informed him. There was no trace of Dixie in her voice. She probably had never been south Of Newark. “Just pull the cord when you want to go to your room.”
Joe was pouring whisky into the glass. At the door she turned and said to his back, “Peace! It’s wonderful.” He swung around, but she was gone. He added ice to his glass and addressed the door. “Not from you, sister. Not from you.”
Chapter Three
JOE SLUMPED into a wing chair in front of the fire and pushed a footstool into position. All the comforts of home. Somebody else’s home. Three hundred and fifty dollars a month for sitting around in front of a fireplace drinking somebody else’s liquor. Somebody else’s maid to wait on you. To hell with Communism.
He took a sip from his glass and surveyed the room. In one corner was a Chickering grand piano. He picked up his drink and fingered the keys. In the middle of Dinah a telephone rang in the room across the hall. When the bell continued to ring he followed the sound and picked up the receiver. The voice that came over the wire was high and arrogant. Joe explained his presence.
“Oh yes.” It was Richard Raleigh. “Uncle Park said you’d be getting in this afternoon. I’m anxious to meet you.” Joe thought the voice was mocking. “Have you had dinner?”
When Joe answered in the negative, Richard said, “Why don’t you come down and join us? We’re at the Timbuctoo. You’ll be in time for a round of cocktails. The Timbuctoo is on 52nd Street between Sixth and Seventh.”
Joe agreed and hung up. He was startled by a small sound and turned to find Precious Lamb in the doorway dressed for the street.
“This is my night off,” she told him. “I think I’d better show you to your room before I leave.” She picked up his bag and he followed her upstairs. She opened a door into a pleasantly proportioned bedroom facing the rear of the house.
She busied herself arranging his things in a highboy. When she had finished she moved toward the door.
“I think you’ll find everything you need for tonight. I’ll be back early to get your breakfast.”
Joe said, “Peace! It’s wonderful.”
She grinned and went without comment.
Whoever had given the Timbuctoo its name had chosen it for euphony. Joe couldn’t see any other reason. There was little to distinguish it from other night clubs in the vicinity.
Richard Raleigh was seated in a far corner and as Joe approached he rose. Opposite him was a girl who was all eyes and mouth. Raleigh said, “You’re Mr. South, aren’t you? I’m Raleigh.” They shook hands. “And this is Miss Evans,” Raleigh added.
The girl acknowledged the introduction with a giggle. She wore long straight black hair in a braid over her head. On closer inspection she had more than just eyes and mouth to recommend her. So this must be the little “momma and poppa” gal the guy was trying to horse up with. She had things all right—maybe net the kind it takes to get a bid to a brass-hat frolic—not by the front deer, anyway—but things.
Richard Raleigh waited for Joe to be seated. He was about five-feet-eleven and well built. His hair had begun to thin back over an onion-shaped forehead that made him look several years older than his twenty-six years. A wispy mustache partially concealed a weak mouth. There was nothing about him to suggest kinship with Parker Raleigh. The waiter pulled up a chair for Joe and they sat down.
The Evans girl studied him over the rim of her glass. She raised it as she caught his eye and smiled through the liquid. She rested her cheek on a palm and inspected him with appraisal. She said, “Let me think. Who do you remind me of? Um-m . . . Oh, I have it. Jack Oakie. That’s who you look like. Jack Oakie.”
Joe grinned uncomfortably.
The ends of Raleigh’s mustache came up in what was meant for a smile.
“That’s the first time I’ve known Milly to be right. She’s always telling people they look like someone on the screen. However, you do remind me of that clown.”
Joe didn’t like the tone of the last remark. In fact, he didn’t think he was going to like Richard Raleigh. Raleigh changed the subject.
“Uncle Park tells me that you and he did some work together out in Montana. I’m sure he’s glad to return some of the hospitality you showed him. Too bad you found him laid up.”
He took out a fountain pen and scribbled on a pad and handed the pad and pen across to Joe.
“We’ve been drinking daiquiris,” he said. “You write your own ticket.”
The pad said “Table 42.” Underneath in Dick’s scrawl was written “2 daiquiris.” Joe added “1 double Scotch and soda.” Raleigh crooked a finger at a waiter and gave him the pad. The floor by this time was crowded with dancing couples. A red-haired girl in a stainless steel evening gown and slippers was dancing with a man twelve inches shorter than she. Everything about him said “coats and suits.” He appeared to be having a good time and looked sober. When they turned the girl nodded to Joe. She was one of the most striking redheads he had ever seen. Something vaguely familiar stirred Joe’s memory. He managed to catch himself in time to ignore the greeting.
Richard had also seen the girl’s gesture. He smiled and leaned forward. Elbows on the table, chin on clasped hands he watched Joe. He said, “What do you think of New York weather? Kind of takes the wild out of the woolly West, doesn’t it?”
Joe played with the fountain pen. He didn’t like the way young Raleigh was studying him.
“Not particularly. This is the kind of weather we look forward to back home. It’s the kind we hope for on our vacations. You’ll probably not believe me, but back in Montana I’m awakened every morning at six by an earthquake.”
Milly