Build My Gallows High Read Free Page B

partner’s yen for the girl.
    ‘Good morning, my pet,’ Red said. ‘Good morning, Jackson.’
    ‘We have a client.’ Fisher scrubbed his lips with a crumpled handkerchief.
    ‘Your wife?’ Red dropped into his worn leather chair and propped his feet on the desk.
    Fisher scowled at him. ’Little early to be so full of quips.’
    Red waved at the door. ‘Back to the treadmill, Gertrude.’ She smoothed her skirt over her hips, batted her eyelashes at him and slithered out.
    ‘I’d be happier if she could spell,’ Red said. ‘But anything to keep you content, Jackson.’
    ‘Stop riding me—I get enough of that at home. I said we had a client.’
    ‘What do you want me to do—cheer?’
    ‘You might show some interest in the business.’
    ‘It has ceased to fascinate me,’said Red. ’And I have no yen for Gertrude to brighten my day.’
    Fisher ignored the remark. He gave Red a name. ‘Whit Sterling.’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘He’s the client.’
    ‘Somebody welch on him?’
    ‘Would he call us in for that?’
    Red shook his head. ‘Just let me keep guessing.’
    ‘Go ahead,’ said Fisher.’I don’t know what he wants us for. All I know is he called and said to come on over.’
    ‘Probably lost one of his dogs.’ Red didn’t move.
    ‘You gettin’ choosy?’ Fisher grumbled. ‘Christ, let’s see what he wants!’
    ‘Leave us stick to good clean work like following husbands around,’ said Red. ‘Mr. Sterling plays too rough.’
    ‘You ain’t scared of him—’ sneered Fisher, ‘not Red Markham?’
    ‘Scared to death,’ said Red cheerfully.
    ‘Me, I got responsibilities,’ Fisher argued. ‘Here’s a chance to pick up some dough. A chance to keep on eating.’
    Red leaned his chin on his fists and eyed his chubby, balding partner. ‘You don’t look hungry.’
    ‘Give me time. The way things have been going it won’t be long.’
    ‘Tighten your belt,’ said Red. ’Stay out of bars and give up Gertrude. Patronize the soup kitchens.’
    The telephone snarled. Red picked up the receiver.
    ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ’this is Markham. All right. Put him on.’
    Whit Sterling’s thin voice said, ‘Hello, you big red bastard. Get on over here.’
    ‘Why?’asked Red.
    ‘Because it’s snowing.’ The thin voice got even thinner. ‘Because I think you need a vacation.’
    ‘When did you start worrying about my health?’ Red asked.
    ‘A couple of days ago,’ the voice replied. ’When a dame put a thirty-two slug in my tummy. Now be a good boy and come on over, because this is something I cannot discuss with the Johns. Not and keep their respect.’
    Fisher had moved over and was standing above him.
    ‘Christ, say yes!’ Fisher urged. Red looked up at him, shrugged.
    ‘All right,’ Red said. ‘We’ll be over.’
    ‘Thanks.’ The voice died. Red put the receiver on the hook, lighted a cigarette, and stood up. ‘But against my better judgment, Jackson. And only because I don’t want Gertrude to suffer.’
    ‘A card,’ said Fisher as he put on his coat. ‘That’s what you are—a card.’
    * * *
    The angry wind threw snow against the windows of Whit Sterling’s apartment on the seventeenth floor of a house on Fifty-Seventh Street. Out there in the mist was the East River and a tugboat complained mournfully as it headed north. Sterling lay under a tufted quilt and the pink silk made his cheeks pinker than ever. He had a fine head of black hair and a thin mustache. The mild young man who let Red and Fisher in went back to the chair beside the bed and sat down. He was holding a copy of North of Boston and his forefinger marked his place in the book of poems.
    ‘Take your coats off and sit down,’ Sterling said. ‘Lou, break out the Scotch.’
    ‘Too early,’ said Red.
    ‘Speak for yourself,’said Fisher. ’I could use a drink.’
    Wearily the mild young man got up, put his book on the chair and went into the other room. Red indicated the book.
    ‘Lou was