the shins.
“ The Bride Came C.O.D .,” I said.
“How comforting to be entombed with a fan,” she said, opening the door for me. “It could, however, be worse. At least you are not Miriam Hopkins.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she interrupted with, “Do not tell me which of my films that was from. Leave me at least minimally confident that I created one line without the aid of a Warner Brothers writer.”
“I was just going to say, lock the door behind me.”
“Try to find some Graham crackers,” she said. “And one more thing. I’ve been playing poker since I was six.”
I went out without looking back. The door clicked locked. I had no elaborate plan. Go to the lobby. Make a couple of calls in the hope that the people who were trying to kidnap Davis had been found. Pick up a couple of nonhotel sandwiches, maybe even some tacos and a couple of Pepsi’s. Hell, the night was young. Maybe I’d find a box of cereal, a carton of milk, and some cookies. Breathe free.
I made it as far as the lobby and the phone. The lobby was full, not crowded but full. A quartet of middle-aged salesmen in last year’s suits, a pair of preteen sailors talking to a woman who was old enough to be their high-school music teacher and experienced enough to teach them how to play an instrument of their choice, assorted couples, singles, check-ins and check-outs. I was dropping my nickel in the slot when I saw them.
There were three of them: Hans and Fritz, both big, one blond, one dark; one broad, the other lean. Hans was broad and blond. Fritz was smaller but meaner. I ought to know. He had tried to skewer me with a fencepost two nights before. The third stooge, Jeffers, short, nervous, with slicked-back dark hair and a nose that pointed a little to the left, was talking to the desk clerk.
I turned my back when Fritz started to scan the crowd, but before I turned I saw what I didn’t want to see—Scott Cosacos, the logical night clerk, was just coming on duty, relieving the slightly more savory-looking younger man with no hair, who was talking to Jeffers.
When the telephone operator came on, I told her I’d changed my mind, hung up, and made it to the stairs, hiding behind a pair of salesmen talking about friction bolts, a trio of teenage sailors arguing about beer, a weary lady of the afternoon, and a family of five who looked like they were on vacation from Moline, Illinois.
On the stairway, I turned around carefully and saw Jeffers watching Scott Cosacos, whose eyes lifted over their heads and moved around the crowd. I pressed against the wall and hurried upward.
Going up was not easy. I have a bad back and my leg was recovering from a not-distant break of major proportions. On top of that there were the wounds of the previous two nights.
“You didn’t get the Graham crackers,” Bette Davis observed from the table where she was smoking and staring at the cards.
“We’re going,” I said, throwing things into the suitcase. “They’re downstairs.”
“No,” she said, standing.
“Yes,” I said, throwing the cards into the case and snapping it shut. “Put your shoes on.”
She obeyed quickly.
“One more time,” I said, hoisting the suitcase. “Maybe it’s time we went to the police.”
“No,” she said. “There will be pictures, photographers, stories. And Farney has specifically …”
“Hans and Fritz could kill us. That might be a little more inconvenient than the police.”
I was at the door now, opening it slightly.
“No police.”
“Okay, then,” I whispered, ushering her out into the hall. “Let’s go.”
The hallway was empty. My .38 was tucked in my belt.
Stairs or elevator. I figured there were no odds on Cosacos not telling Jeffers, Hans, and Fritz where Mr. and Mrs. Giddins were.
“Stairs,” I said, though my leg and back said elevator.
She followed. Less than a flight down I heard footsteps coming up. Could be anyone looking for exercise. Could be. I motioned for her
“ The Bride Came C.O.D .,” I said.
“How comforting to be entombed with a fan,” she said, opening the door for me. “It could, however, be worse. At least you are not Miriam Hopkins.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she interrupted with, “Do not tell me which of my films that was from. Leave me at least minimally confident that I created one line without the aid of a Warner Brothers writer.”
“I was just going to say, lock the door behind me.”
“Try to find some Graham crackers,” she said. “And one more thing. I’ve been playing poker since I was six.”
I went out without looking back. The door clicked locked. I had no elaborate plan. Go to the lobby. Make a couple of calls in the hope that the people who were trying to kidnap Davis had been found. Pick up a couple of nonhotel sandwiches, maybe even some tacos and a couple of Pepsi’s. Hell, the night was young. Maybe I’d find a box of cereal, a carton of milk, and some cookies. Breathe free.
I made it as far as the lobby and the phone. The lobby was full, not crowded but full. A quartet of middle-aged salesmen in last year’s suits, a pair of preteen sailors talking to a woman who was old enough to be their high-school music teacher and experienced enough to teach them how to play an instrument of their choice, assorted couples, singles, check-ins and check-outs. I was dropping my nickel in the slot when I saw them.
There were three of them: Hans and Fritz, both big, one blond, one dark; one broad, the other lean. Hans was broad and blond. Fritz was smaller but meaner. I ought to know. He had tried to skewer me with a fencepost two nights before. The third stooge, Jeffers, short, nervous, with slicked-back dark hair and a nose that pointed a little to the left, was talking to the desk clerk.
I turned my back when Fritz started to scan the crowd, but before I turned I saw what I didn’t want to see—Scott Cosacos, the logical night clerk, was just coming on duty, relieving the slightly more savory-looking younger man with no hair, who was talking to Jeffers.
When the telephone operator came on, I told her I’d changed my mind, hung up, and made it to the stairs, hiding behind a pair of salesmen talking about friction bolts, a trio of teenage sailors arguing about beer, a weary lady of the afternoon, and a family of five who looked like they were on vacation from Moline, Illinois.
On the stairway, I turned around carefully and saw Jeffers watching Scott Cosacos, whose eyes lifted over their heads and moved around the crowd. I pressed against the wall and hurried upward.
Going up was not easy. I have a bad back and my leg was recovering from a not-distant break of major proportions. On top of that there were the wounds of the previous two nights.
“You didn’t get the Graham crackers,” Bette Davis observed from the table where she was smoking and staring at the cards.
“We’re going,” I said, throwing things into the suitcase. “They’re downstairs.”
“No,” she said, standing.
“Yes,” I said, throwing the cards into the case and snapping it shut. “Put your shoes on.”
She obeyed quickly.
“One more time,” I said, hoisting the suitcase. “Maybe it’s time we went to the police.”
“No,” she said. “There will be pictures, photographers, stories. And Farney has specifically …”
“Hans and Fritz could kill us. That might be a little more inconvenient than the police.”
I was at the door now, opening it slightly.
“No police.”
“Okay, then,” I whispered, ushering her out into the hall. “Let’s go.”
The hallway was empty. My .38 was tucked in my belt.
Stairs or elevator. I figured there were no odds on Cosacos not telling Jeffers, Hans, and Fritz where Mr. and Mrs. Giddins were.
“Stairs,” I said, though my leg and back said elevator.
She followed. Less than a flight down I heard footsteps coming up. Could be anyone looking for exercise. Could be. I motioned for her
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