‘That’s the spiel. Sure is,’ he giggled. ‘Just to keep you company, bimbo. Keep the wolves away. With them statistics of yours, there must be times when you need protection real bad. Right?’
I lowered the chair on to the table top. ‘Well, what are your names? What about these credentials?’
There was a single tin of Maxwell House coffee on the shelf above the bar counter, all by itself. Sluggsy suddenly swivelled and his right hand – I hadn’t even seen him draw a gun – shot flame. There was the crash of gunfire. The tin jumped sideways and then fell. In mid-air Sluggsy hit it again and there was a brown explosion of coffee. Then a deafening silence in which the last empty shell tinkled away on the floor. Sluggsy turned back to me. His hands were empty. The gun had gone. His eyes were dreamy with pleasure at his marksmanship. He said softly, ‘How’s them for credentials, baby?’
The small cloud of blue smoke had reached me, and I smelled the cordite. My legs were trembling. I said, scornfully I hope, ‘That’s a lot of wasted coffee. Now, what about your names?’
The thin man said, ‘The lady’s right. You didn’t ought to of spilled that Java, Sluggsy. But ya see, lady, that’s why they call him Sluggsy, on account he’s smart with the hardware. Sluggsy Morant. Me, I’m Sol Horowitz. They call me “Horror”. Can’t say why. Kin you, Sluggsy?’
Sluggsy giggled. ‘Mebbe one time you gave some guy a scare, Horror. Mebbe a whole bunch of guys. Leastwise that’s what they tell me.’
Horror made no comment. He said quietly, ‘Okay. Let’s go! Sluggsy, see to the cabins like I said. Lady, you make us some chow. Keep ya nose clean and co-operate and ya won’t get hurt. Okay?’
Sluggsy looked me over greedily. He said, ‘Not much, that is. Eh, bimbo?’ and walked over to the key rack behind the desk and took down all the keys and let himself out through the back entrance. I put down the chair, and, as coolly as I knew how, but painfully aware of my toreador pants, walked across the room and went behind the counter.
The man called Horror sauntered slowly over to the cafeteria table farthest from me. He pulled a chair away from the table, twisted it in his hand and pushed it between his legs. He sat down and leaned his folded arms along the back and rested his chin on them and watched me with unwavering, indifferent eyes. He said softly, so softly that I could only just hear him, ‘I’ll take mine scrambled too, lady. Plenty crisp bacon. Buttered toast. Howsabout coffee?’
‘I’ll see what’s left.’ I got down on my hands and knees behind the bar. The tin had four holes right through it. There was about an inch of coffee left and a whole lot scattered over the floor. I put the tin aside and scraped what I could from the floor on to a plate, not caring how much dust went with it. The unspoiled remains of the tin I would keep for myself.
I spent about five minutes down there, taking my time, desperately trying to think, to plan. These men were gangsters. They worked for this Mr Sanguinetti. That seemed certain because they had got my name from him or from the Phanceys. The rest of their story was lies. They had been sent up here, through the storm, for a purpose. What was it? They knew I was a Canadian, a foreigner, and that I could easily go to the police the next day and get them into trouble. The man called Sluggsy had been in San Quentin. And the other? Of course! That was why he looked grey and sort of dead! He had probably just come out of prison, too. He smelled of it, somehow. So I could get them into real trouble, tell the police that I was a journalist, that I was going to write up what happened to girls alone in the States. But would I be believed? That Vacancy sign! I was alone in the place, yet I had left it on. Wasn’t that because I wanted company? Why had I dressed up like that, to kill, if I expected to be alone? I dodged away from that line of thought. But, to get back. What did these two men want here? They had an ordinary car. If they had wanted to clean the place out, they would have brought a truck. Perhaps they really had been sent up to guard the place, and they just treated me as they did because that was the way gangsters behaved. But how much worse were they going to get? What was going to happen to me tonight?
I got to my feet and began to busy myself with the cooking. Better give them what they wanted. There must be no excuse for them to set on me.
Jed’s apron was rolled up and thrown into a corner. I picked it up and put it round my waist. A weapon? There was an ice-pick in the cutlery drawer and a long, very sharp carving knife. I took the pick and stuck it handle first down the front of my pants under the apron. The knife I hid under a dishcloth beside the sink. I left the cutlery drawer open and lined up beside it a row of glasses and cups for throwing. Childish? It was all I had.
