Nothing In Her Way Read Free

calmly at the airline office on Union Square, and then I’d gone on to the men’s bar in the St. Francis and ordered a drink, suddenly conscious of how peaceful everything seemed—and how empty.
    I snapped out of it and came back to the present, realizing I’d been staring at her. Charlie’s proposition had been nothing but a bore, but now it had exploded right in my face. There was a horrible fascination about it, and it boiled down to that same question: Just who was bamboozling whom? Was Charlie trying to sell me the sad story of Elaine Holman, or was she selling him?
    But that was unbelievable. Charlie was a pro; he’d dealt in flimflam all his life; he had a mind like a steel trap; and he’d been around so long he wouldn’t bet you even money you didn’t have three hands on your left arm unless you’d let him take it home first and look at it. She couldn’t have the colossal nerve to try to pull something on him. Oh, couldn’t she? I thought.
    I lit her a cigarette, and then one for myself. She gave me a smile that would warm a duck blind, and turned to Charlie. “I do hope Mr. Belen will join us. He’s perfect for the job, and you just know instinctively that you can trust him.”
    I loved that. Maybe, I thought, in this idea they’re cooking up, they have to leave somebody alone for a few minutes with a red-hot stove.
    “Charlie,” I said, “I still don’t get what you want me for, but would you mind telling me a little more what this is all about? Just how are you going to get Miss Holman’s money back for her?”
    He took a sip of his drink and looked at me with a benign smile. “The modus operandi is somewhat involved, Mike. And we’d only bore Miss Holman, since she’s already familiar with all its ramifications. Suffice it to say that its axis, or focal point, is a real-estate transaction of a rather novel sort.”
    “Who owns the real estate?” I asked.
    “Miss Holman’s uncle.”
    “And who’s going to buy it?”
    He raised his eyebrows in gentle surprise. “Why, Miss Holman’s uncle, naturally.”
    “Oh, I see,” I said. “That was stupid of me. But what are you going to do if the uncle’s guardian catches you at it? I take it they must have him put away somewhere where he can’t hurt himself.”
    “Miss Holman’s uncle is a banker, Mike,” he said, a little pained, “and a very astute businessman. As I remarked, the deal is a bit complicated, and, as any masterpiece, it suffers in condensation.”
    I could see very well he wasn’t going to tell me anything unless I came in. Charlie was no fool. And I didn’t want to get mixed up in their shenanigan, whatever it was. What I wanted to do more than anything in the world was to get her alone for a few minutes, before this thing had me wondering who I was, and see if I couldn’t shake a little truth out of her. I’d never realized before just what a beautiful thing a simple, unvarnished fact could be—if I ever ran into one again.
    Just then she looked at her watch and said, “I’m going to have to run. I’m expecting a telephone call at the hotel.” She stood up. “I’m very glad I met you, Mr.—ah—Belen.”
    Charlie let me beat him to it, a little too obviously. You could see his angle. Let her work on me. “I’ll walk around with you,” I said. “Or get you a cab.”
    “I wouldn’t like to trouble you,” she said.
    “No trouble at all,” I replied. “It’ll be a pleasure.”
    The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle. Instead of turning toward Canal as we came out, she went the other way, toward the French Quarter. I fell in beside her and took her arm. We walked in complete silence for a block and then turned off into a side street and went another block. I looked back. Charlie hadn’t followed us. We stopped under an awning, out of the misty rain that swirled beyond us under the cone of light from a street lamp. She looked up at me, big-eyed, her face still.
    “All right, Miss Holman,” I said.