After four bennies, Hickey’d been pacing and sucking his briar as though to interrupt either occupation would invite catastrophe. Just for the sake of moving, he would’ve allowed Harry to shoot pool, except while they were in the other cube, the front room might get occupied. He’d return to find a gunman crouched behind every piece of sofa, a platoon around back of the bar.
Besides, what he needed wasn’t another room but to get clear out of this hideous joint before he gave over to his impulses and blasted chunks out of the Formica, heaved a chair at the snake pit, set fire to a pile of sofas.
The boss sat glowering, restlessly tapping his feet. They thumped the tile floor like jungle drums in a fierce rhythm that would settle in, then break stride, as though to annoy Hickey deliberately. Punish him for refusing to let a man shoot pool.
Outside the picture window, aside from the snow, which in sunny places was already melting, the day could’ve passed as summer. The noon sky was cloudless, the lake placid except where boats or currents meeting stirred up ridges and arrowheads of foam. Squaw Peak reflected so brightly it could’ve been a glacier rising out of the lake. Off the point at north stateline, a funnel rose. A summer squall out of season, Hickey thought, or a gambler who’d dropped his life savings and discovered a new and spectacular way to throw a fit.
Hickey stopped pacing to listen. He thrust his left hand, palm out, at Poverman and glared until he got silence. For the past half hour he’d kept hearing sticks crack, out in the woods on the south side. It might’ve been innocent horseback riders cutting through Harry’s tamarack grove, or a gang of thugs intent on delivering their boss, maybe getting a bonus or a raise by wasting the intruder.
Tyler was still in the northeast wing with the maid. A few times every hour, Frieda would cut loose a burst of hysterical laughter, as though Tyler were tackling, and tickling her.
The phone rang. Harry slid across the couch and grabbed it. He listened a second, then bolted up straight.
“Hey, Mister Cohen, thanks for calling.…Yeah, business. See, I got this neighbor, helps me out at the club. Straight arrow, ex-cop. You know, somebody’s pocketing dimes, Tom’s gonna snoop out the right guy.…Tom Hickey.…Sure it’s a stupid name. …
“See, Tom got into a jam down in San Dago. Trying to spring this old smooch of his they say put a match to Johnny Sousa. You know about that guy, right?…Sure. Well, Tom got in a hurry, smarted off at Schwartz and Paoli.…Yeah, sure he’s a moron, else he wouldn’t of been a cop.
“But look, somebody snatched his wife. She’s gonna have a baby any day now. What I’m asking is you pass the word down to Dago, say whoever nabbed her, toss her back. Tom’s outta the deal, learned his lesson. He gets the girl, that’s all there is. He tries to get even, I ax his lousy head off.…Yeah, I’m done.…Yeah, I get it.…Sure, sure.”
As the gambler made a sour face and replaced the phone, Hickey snapped, “What?”
“Let me think a minute,” Harry growled. He stood up, spun on his heel. Kicked the sofa arm. “Okay. Mickey says he don’t know from nothing about the Sousa fire or anybody’s wife, or any jerk named Hickey except one used to have a partner named Leo—”
“Weiss.”
“Yeah. Mickey says the next word he hears about Guns for Israel, guys are gonna start having accidents. He says the first one’ll be this character Weiss.”
Hickey jumped up. Revolver at his side, he edged over and grabbed the phone, carried it back to his chair. He checked the note pad and dialed the operator, gave her the Brentwood number of the Las Palmas Motor Court.
The desk clerk sounded like she had a bellyache. “Leo Weiss, you say? The stiff that ran out on his bill, same guy the cops came looking for an hour ago? That the one?”
“Yeah. He stops by, tell him to phone Tom. Got it?”
“Oh, yeah, at your service, mister.”
Hickey punched down the button, swallowed the lump in his throat, and dialed O again.
As though from a phantom cloud, snowflakes had begun pelting the house. Across the lake to the north, a small black patch of sky made Hickey shiver, as if it were the eye of a tornado meant especially for him. You only have to glimpse the universe from the wrong angle, he thought, and it looks as if all the malevolent forces of nature, the cruelest angels and demons, have made a pact to liquidate you.
Leo’s answering-service girl gave her name as Flora. A new one Hickey didn’t know. Mr. Weiss hadn’t left any number except the Brentwood one, she said. Not for Tom Hickey nor anybody. So he dictated a message.
“Get your fool self up here, straightaway. You writing this down?”
“Yes, go ahead,” the girl muttered.
“Say: You want to hang Mickey, wait till I get my wife and kid back. She’s number one in this deal, and number two and three. Mickey’s nowhere. Neither are Charlie or Cynthia. Not for now. You got all that?”
“Oh, sure,” the girl said meekly. “Shall I tell him you’re upset?”
“Yeah. Upset’s the perfect word.”
Hickey had to lean back a minute, chew on his pipestem, force some air into his lungs. It felt as though his blood, which normally meandered like a lazy river, was approaching a waterfall. Finally he stuffed and lit his pipe, called the operator again, and gave her a number for the San Diego police.
“You oughta hire a secretary,” she said.
Thrapp was out. Hickey left a message for the captain to phone him instantly. The next call he dialed himself, to Sheriff Boggs.
“Tom, I tried to ring you a couple times. Line was busy.”
“What gives?”
“Zero, sorry to say. All of Harry’s boys are accounted for. Still, the kidnappers might be working shifts. I guess I’ll shake down the hotel. If Harry’s got her, I’d give you house odds she’s stashed right there.”
“You think Harry’s an idiot?”
“More or less.”
“What’d he say?” the gambler snapped. He raised his hands, palms up, in wait for an answer. When Hickey ignored him, he muttered, “Smart enough to outwit a dozen old lizards like him.”
The sheriff offered to stop by the cabin and brainstorm, in a while, after he leaned on Tom’s neighbor. But Hickey told him to forget Poverman and keep badgering the snitches and tough guys. “You want to talk,” he said, “call me at Poverman’s. Got his number?”
“We’ve got his number, all right. What’re you doing there?”
“Trying not to lose my head.”
“Might help if you keep your eyes shut. I hear the fella that designed the eyesore is wearing a straitjacket.”
As Hickey let go of the phone, the boss growled, “That sheriff’s gotta call in a deputy every time he needs to find his dick.”
Hickey paced to the window. The wind had kicked up. The cedars started to howl as though arguing with the wind. The wind relented. The trees fell silent. Somewhere close by, a woman sobbed. Hickey heard it clearly. He thought it must be Frieda in the kitchen. She’d looked weepy when she’d finally appeared out of the northeast wing where she and Tyler had holed up since last evening. They’d only surfaced whenever Harry yelled and one of them dashed out to empty the stockpot or bring a snack or a drink.
Turning toward the kitchen, Hickey listened more closely and resolved that the sobbing didn’t come from the house. It was rising from deep in his mind. It sounded like Wendy, only back when her voice was higher and more timid, when she could hardly weep without sounding afraid that somebody was going to smack her—like a dog that’s been kicked every day of its life.
The phone rang, and Hickey startled so violently his pipe slipped out of his mouth and clanged against the chrome ridge of a coffee table. Harry pounced on the phone.
“Miss Blackwood. Pleasure to hear your voice.…You bet he’s here. Shall I take a message?…Yes, ma’am.” The boss gave Hickey a wink and the receiver.
“Claire?”
“I think I found a stooge, Tom.” She almost shrieked with excitement. “He’s awfully drunk, and miffed about a baby-sitting job he didn’t get. But he clammed up. I think you’ll need to talk to him.”