Hickey rode shotgun, pressed against the door, to keep his revolver better than arm’s length from the boss, who drove one-handed while listing the foibles of Hickey’s car. Its tall profile. Short wheel-base. Scratchy upholstery. Mushy brakes. The radio that sounded like a gramophone. Hickey’d decided on the Chevy because if they’d driven one of the boss’s cars, a minute after the valet spotted it, every manager, bouncer, and pit boss would know the king had arrived. This way, he could try sneaking them in through the back and hustling to the cover of Harry’s office, which was next to the lounge where Claire’d be waiting, keeping the stooge distracted. Unless Tyler hadn’t bought his lie—that they were going to meet Claire north stateline, at the Cal-Neva. If Tyler was smarter than he looked or Harry had flashed him a sign, he’d have phoned the club. A battalion of creeps would be posted all over. Out of nowhere, a tire iron or golf club would smash Hickey’s arm the same instant a blackjack thumped his noggin.
He should’ve put Poverman on the phone, got him to enlist a couple of his boys to deliver Claire and the stooge. But between his excitement at finding a lead and his fervor to escape the leather and Formica prison, he hadn’t thought straight until five or so miles down the lakeside highway. Even then, reason only held sway for a few minutes, until Secret Harbor, when the highway turned inland and climbed into Bliss Meadows, and Hickey realized that any moment they might be passing a house, cabin, or barn where some punks had Wendy.
As they crested Spooner Summit, Tahoe reappeared, a flash of silver-blue. Hickey stared while his eyes adjusted and the western ranges appeared—the Rubicons, Tallac, Job’s Peak and Job’s Sister—mirrored precisely along the far shore. Last September, Wendy’d gotten so dazzled by the view from this place she’d gasped and reached for his hand, though she’d been here maybe a hundred times. Since she’d learned about the baby, the beauty of everything had multiplied. For both of them.
Poverman finished slandering the Chevy, whistled “Saint Louis Blues,” then struck up a jitterbug tune. He coasted lazily down the grade.
“Step on it,” Hickey commanded.
“Hey, I’m doing my damnedest to keep this rollerskate on the road.”
The lower they dropped, the bigger the lake appeared, until it felt as though the earth were mostly water and beyond the rim of jagged silver-white mountains outer space began. Through Glenbrook, Harry goosed the throttle and hunched over the wheel, as though he’d remembered some urgent business at the club. They roared and skidded in and out of shady groves and meadows so brilliant they struck you blind.
Hickey pondered how to play his hand at the club. If he dropped his guard, pocketed his gun, and strolled in beside the boss like he had last week and a dozen other times when they were still the house dick and the guy who signed his paychecks—if Tyler or somebody had called an alert, Hickey’d get whacked before they passed the laundry room. But if Harry was playing straight and Tom marched him into the club with a gun to his ribs, he’d likely make a grandstand play to save face, which would probably leave Hickey with a dead neighbor and himself bleeding from a variety of holes.
They crossed the hill below Kingsbury, swerved off an ice slick near the wedding chapel, passed Lacey’s Roadhouse and a field where an entrepreneur offered the tourists buggy rides, into the town of South Lake Tahoe, which could’ve passed for an LA traffic jam. A crowd of rubberneckers stood in the middle of the road as though, now they’d blown their inheritance, they might as well get run down.
Hickey ordered the boss to swing left onto the icy dirt road that led behind the Wagon Wheel and the Gateway Club and into Harry’s casino’s back parking lot. The guard was making his rounds, like Hickey’d charged him to, after a San Francisco city councilman’s Lincoln Zephyr had gotten swiped and Harry’d assigned his neighbor to awaken and terrorize the security staff.
At Hickey’s direction, the boss pulled into a marked space closest to the employees’ entrance and loading dock, where two Chinese laborers hoisted crates out of a bobtail delivery truck. One gave Hickey a casual wave and appeared not to notice Poverman, as if you couldn’t tell one white guy in an overcoat and fedora from the next.
The double doors swung open on a stiff little man in a uniform Harry’s tailor had modeled after the getup of Canadian Mounties. “Say—”
“Hello, Leroy,” Hickey muttered.
Noticing his boss, the guard’s voice rose a step. “Mister Poverman. You’re lookin’ good. You—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Harry chucked the guard’s shoulder.
The hall was like a tunnel: thirty yards, barely wide enough to fit the two broad-shouldered men. Hickey nudged the boss a step ahead.
“Where’s the popgun?”
“It’s handy.”
“Keep your paws in the open,” Harry growled. “You make the hostage routine a spectacle, it’s curtain time.”
The hall was floored in asphalt tile over plywood. Their feet rapped as though on a snare drum that wanted a little tightening, until the noise got obscured—first by the rumble of washing machines, then by the pings of machine-shop hammers and the groans of several men as though one of them had told a sour joke, and finally by pots clanging in the dishwasher’s nook.
As they surfaced into the gaming room, Hickey realized his pulse had been drumming his ears so loud and long, any second it might overamp and blow his lights out. He might land outside heaven and rush the guard, demanding to know had Wendy arrived yet. If the thugs cut her loose, fifty years hence he might still be loitering outside the gates.
The two pit bosses who rushed Harry looked like the finalists in a swagger-and-grin competition. They wore brown tuxedos and bolo ties noosed in silver and turquoise.
“All’s well, Mister P,” the winner announced so obsequiously he could’ve passed for a lap dog. He sported a gorgeous mop of sleek auburn hair. “A poker cheat, a couple loudmouths, is all.”
The runner-up, Eduardo, a pockmarked Spaniard, asked Hickey about the family, got a nod, then turned to the boss and relayed the story that Pauline had spread, about Mr. Poverman having the croup and a touch of laryngitis.
Harry chuckled. “Pauline’s got this problem. All her brains are down here.” He cupped his hands at his chest. “Keep her outta my sight, would you, Eduardo? I got business. When a guy’s got business, he don’t need Pauline around. Know what I mean?”
“You bet I do,” Eduardo quivered his head, as though the thought of Pauline had caused a spasm.
“Raymond,” the boss said. “Grab a pal and follow Tom and me.”
The gaming room was all redwood panels, maroon carpet, brass fixtures and spittoons. Out on the floor, change runners and cocktail girls dodged the drunks and wandering losers. Lights flashed, wheels spun, cards skittered over the felt, yelps issued from people delighted to win back the cash out of which they’d gotten swindled. A husky redhead in cowgirl duds rushed over to check the boss’s and Mr. Hickey’s coat and hats. Harry lifted a finger, tossed her a look, and she fled. A bartender tipped his Stetson. A croupier saluted.
Claire jumped up from the booth in which she appeared to have cornered the stooge, who sprawled as though one more sip would deposit him onto the floor. Though Claire’s right hand was riding her hip, Harry grasped it in both of his while he angled toward the pit boss and his helper. “Show the lug to my office.”
When Claire broke free, she started around him toward Hickey, who wagged his head sharply to back her off. But Poverman had already spun around and tossed his hands up next to her shoulders. All he needed was to grab, then Claire’d be his shield. Hickey’d be a chump. Maybe a dead one.
The boss fluttered his fingers and gave Hickey a wry smile. “Think about it, tough guy,” he said, then chortled, turned and marched ahead of the pack, past the bar. He pulled a ring of keys, unlocked a carved redwood door.
The office looked like a warehouse for extra junk from Harry’s home. Three black sofas, a sheepskin rug, and a miniature Formica desk that implied its keeper wasn’t a sucker for paperwork. In each side wall was a door. The wall behind the desk sported an unframed canvas upon which some creature that resembled a shark labored through either murky water or rust-streaked motor oil. Claire stopped in front of the desk to gape at the canvas.
The boss pinched his nose and shrugged. “My steno, Pauline, said she learned all about painting when she used to model for some artiste. So I gave her a crack at it. She thinks it’s a trout.”
The stooge reeled into the office, prodded and shoved by Raymond and a Greek bouncer. The stooge stood half a head taller than either escort, with a vast, barrel-shaped torso and squat legs. His face was round, dark, and greasy. Harry motioned toward a sofa. The men dumped him there.
“Who is this guy?” Harry demanded.
“A sore loser,” Raymond said. “Can’t hold his booze. Saturday or so, we booted him out. That’s all I know. Today, he shows up with a wad, drops it to craps. Plato would’ve gave him the heave-ho again, except the lady says you’re on your way and we’re supposed to sit on him.”
Harry gave a nod and wave of dismissal.
“You sure, Mister Poverman? He’s a big mutt.”
The boss scowled. The two men hustled for the door. As it clicked shut, Hickey dug in the pocket of his overcoat and brought out his .45; the stooge’s head jerked up and backward. He careened that way so hard the sofa’s front legs flew up and dropped.
Hickey sat across from the man, next to Claire, feeling lightheaded and slightly giddy with relief, to feel in pursuit, released from his mind. The boss sat on his desk, gazed around placidly, then wheeled on the stooge. “You looking for a job or what?”
“Yeah. You got it.”
“What kind of work?”
“Aw, anything takes muscle.” As though suddenly forgetting Hickey’s gun, the man straightened up and stared intently at each of them, as though trying hard to focus. “You got a job for me?”
“Sure.”
“What’s it pay?”
“A C-note in chips.”
“That ain’t much,” the man said cockily, then wilted under Poverman’s glare. “What’s the job?”
“Doing what you do best, Mutt. Running off at the mouth. See, we’re looking for a gal that got snatched.”
“Hey.” The stooge turned to Claire and frowned, a delicate fellow betrayed. “Hey, I don’t know about any snatch. I was just trying to make time with the dame.”
Harry flew off the desk. “Dame! You calling Miss Blackwood a dame, moron? Tom, God’s sake, don’t just sit there. Punish the moron.”
“My pleasure.”
Hickey stood and took one long stride before the man wailed, “Naw. Naw. I already spilled the beans. I’ll come clean, all I know. I was down in Reno, at the Motherlode, and some little guy—a cowpuncher, looked like—says a couple Reno boys got big dough to snatch a…lady. Up here. It ain’t right, he says. Guys start poaching on the next guy’s territory, what you end up with’s a range war. He says.”
“Who are the boys?” Hickey snapped.
“Search me. I don’t even know the cowpuncher. A little guy. Brown hat. Checked shirt.”
“Who they working for?”
“I don’t know, pal. You got all there is to get outta me.”
The stooge hung his head and stopped forward. A perfect target. In two steps, Hickey crossed the space between them. He kicked a bull’s eye. Probably tenderized the man’s heart. As he slumped forward, Hickey dropped beside him. Poking his .45 into the man’s right eye socket, he snarled, “Where’d they take the lady?”
“Do what you gotta, buddy.” The stooge caught a breath and groaned. “I’m tapped out.”
“Tom,” Claire said.
Hickey got up, sat beside her, and rubbed his temples. She gripped the base of his skull and pressed firmly.
The boss whistled, loud as a football coach. Before the echo died, Raymond and his sidekick came in. “Go feed the lug a steak. Give him a stack of chips. Only, if he tries to leave, lock him in the freezer.”
They hoisted the man to his feet and led him staggering out the door. Hickey grabbed up the phone, walked it back to the Formica table, slammed it down. “Call Reno.”
“I believe that’s a town, Tom. Give me a person.”
“The guy that knows who’s got Wendy.”
With a sneer and sigh of boredom, Poverman dialed the operator and shifted his voice a notch lower. “Yeah, cutie, give me Reno thirty-six eighteen.” He shot Hickey a vicious scowl, as though suddenly he’d gotten his fill of this game. “Hey, Beau. What’s cooking?…Same old stuff, huh?…Right, Friday’s good. Chinese joint in Truckee. Listen, I got a problem. Pretend you’re looking for a couple boys to do an odd job, grab somebody, keep her on ice, maybe buy her a one-way ticket, who do you call?
… Naw, I’m just supposing.” He threw out a hand for the note pad. Hickey delivered. “Yeah, I heard of him.” The boss scribbled a few names. “Who else?…This guy Rollins: he the one’s been collecting for Foster?”
“Whoa!” Hickey bellowed.
“Hold on, Beau.” The gambler cupped the mouthpiece and gave a queer look, one eyebrow raised, the other eye squinting.
“Frankie Foster?” Hickey demanded.
“What about him?”
“He’s in Reno?”
“Sure. He used to work outta the Doubloon in Santa Monica. A few months he’s been sizing up Reno, trying to muscle in on the sports book.”
“Call him.”
“You know the guy?” Harry switched hands on the mouthpiece, freeing his right hand.
Hickey watched sharply, expecting the boss to open a desk drawer. “He’s got an in-law, Jack Meechum?”
“Beats me. Wait. Yeah, he’s got a daughter goes by Meechum. Came up for a party last summer. Tits out to here.” He stretched his arm far as it would go.
“Call him,” Hickey commanded.
The boss glowered and uncovered the mouthpiece. “Sorry, Beau. I got a pest here. You have Foster’s number handy?” He jotted it down. “See you Friday, huh?” Holding on to the receiver, he pushed the hang-up button and asked Hickey, “Where’s this Meechum fit in?”
“Let’s see. Make the call.”
Harry tossed the receiver onto the hook and shifted himself toward Claire. “Miss Blackwood, if you don’t mind, how about letting us gab on our own for a minute, Tom and me? You need a drink or a snack? How about a scarf? We got a French boutique right in the club.”
“You would,” Claire muttered, and strode to the door, sulking like a tomboy chased off the court.
The boss hopped off his desk, stepped around and settled into a swiveling leather armchair. He leaned back and smiled grimly. “I got more patience than the next guy. Only I used it up, being your patsy. Get straight here, Tom. You’d of been on a slab yesterday noon, if I wanted it that way. See, Harry Poverman gets what he wants. That clear?”
“Swell. You wanta get on the phone, right?”
“I wanta know who’s Jack Meechum, and I want that you address me like a guy could have you put to sleep any second.”
Hickey didn’t see the man’s foot hit a buzzer or whatever summoned the troops who suddenly burst in: Raymond and the Greek through the redwood door, a costumed security man through each of the side doors, all of them with pistols leveled at Hickey.
What surprised Hickey most was his composure, as though his nerves had gotten fried, discarded, replaced with new ones that hadn’t yet learned the correct response to danger. He nodded at the security cops, greeted them by name.
Harry laughed. “Look at this guy. An iceberg, or what?” He waved his arm to the troops. “Scram.”
The way Hickey measured his options, he could either call the man’s bluff or play along. Call his bluff and lose, the game’s over. Win, and he keeps his pride, nothing else. Wendy’s still just as gone. He laid the .45 on his knee. “You wanta know about Meechum?”
“Yeah.”
Hickey sat and droned the story about Jack Meechum telling the police that Cynthia’d left Eschelman’s jam session to meet with the beachcomber, just before the fire.
The boss was a good listener. He didn’t stir until the story was over. Then he stood, stretched his legs and arms, did a few jumping jacks, and finally stepped dangerously close to Hickey. Reached out a hand. Patted Hickey’s shoulder. “I like the way the cards are falling. Yeah, I like it fine. You pin the snatch on Foster; I give you a raise for getting him outta my hair.”
“Your hair? You got action in Reno?”
“Mind your business, Tom.”
Poverman stepped back to the desk and reached for the phone, dialed O, and in his silkiest voice told the operator that when she next visited his club, she ought to stop by his office for some drink tokes. Finally he gave her the number and turned to Hickey. “I gotta tell you about this Meechum doll, Foster’s kid. …”
His voice slithering downward, he drawled into the mouthpiece.
“Hey, darling, remember old Harry?…Come on up then, anytime. Just call ahead.…Naw, she’s last year’s headlines. Listen, your old man around?…Yeah, well, tell him to throw on a towel so as not to blush when he springs a big one, looking at you.…Hey, sure he’s your dad, but a dish like you, any man alive’d spring one.…Yeah, I’m naughty, all right. Put the old man on.”
Lowering the receiver, he turned to Hickey. “I gotta tell you, this one’s a case. You mighta noticed her hanging around a couple days last summer—the broad can’t keep her clothes on, not a swimsuit even. Out at the pool, the lake, on the boat. I hear she’s got a pool in the yard down there, and don’t matter who shows up, could be the Boy Scouts on a scavenger hunt, you think she’s gonna throw on a robe? Right in front of her old man, she struts around in all her glory, the way I hear it. She’s got this—”
The redwood door opened a crack. Claire’s face appeared, and the boss waved her in. She went straight to Hickey, fed him a pretzel.
Muffling the receiver, his voice a tone deeper than any he’d managed before, Harry boasted, “I’m about to wrap up this caper, as they say, so you and I can celebrate, Miss Blackwood. Champagne dinner in the penthouse lounge.”
“Where do you keep the penthouse in a two-story firetrap like this?”
“Hey, never mind the altitude. It’s atmosphere does the trick. You care for gypsy violins?” He tossed up his free hand, index finger high, and lifted the receiver. “Yeah, Frankie.…Sure, long time. Listen, I gotta see you.…Up here, about a deal, a kinda partnership.…Naw, I don’t wanta come down. I got this busted foot.…Aw, I was skiing, bindings jammed. So you and the kid get yourselves up here—Frieda’ll have the hors d’oeuvres waiting. Whatta you drink?…Okay, four o’clock, no later, huh?”
Harry dropped the phone into its cradle, turned, and gazed at Claire, smug as a diplomat.
“He’s coming?” Hickey snapped.
The gambler made an ornery face and shrugged. “He said yeah, but I don’t buy it. We’ll send an escort.” One eye on Claire, he dialed the phone and waited. “Tyler, you think Frieda could survive you being gone a couple hours?…Hey, the horses are Mac’s job. You go into the office, look up the address for a dame called Meechum in Reno. Take the wagon down there; pick up Frankie Foster, the gal’s old man. Bring her along, she can drive for you. Foster puts up a fuss, knock him silly—only make sure he can talk when he gets here.…Not the club. Bring him to the house.”