Andy Keels had a sucker. At a dollar a game he had already won three times and the sucker, in desperation, was playing a fourth game, double or nothing. In the sixth frame it looked as if Andy’s score would be well over the two hundred mark. As his victim sized up the beautiful railroad he had left for himself, Andy came back to the bench where Tommy Dancer was seated, skimming through the evening edition of the morning paper.
“Too bad I’m not playing you,” Andy said. “I’d like to go through that bankroll you’re carrying.”
“I can go through it myself.”
“Your boss hears you held out on him you’ll be looking for a new job.”
“Might be a good thing for me. I’m getting fed up with the shop.”
“What’s the difference what shop you work for, Tommy? You don’t spend much time in the shop anyway.” Andy, who was looking off, suddenly uttered a low whistle. “Oh-oh, here comes one of your new friends.”
Tommy craned his head about and saw Herbie the Lugan bearing down on him. As usual, Herbie was attired in a natty, neatly pressed suit, a flaming red necktie and as usual there was an ingratiating smile on his smoothly shaved face.
“Hi, chum!” he said cheerfully as he came up. “How’s tricks?” He looked at Andy and gave him a bare nod. Andy grunted and went back to the job of polishing off his victim.
Herbie the Lugan seated himself beside Tommy and, leaning over, clapped him on the knee. “Where’d you go to so quick last night, pal?”
“Home.”
“Too bad you left so early. The party got lively all of a sudden.” He rolled his eyes. “There was a handsome blonde who began taking off her clothes. Which reminds me, Willis Trent says he called your place today.”
“Twice.” Tommy folded his newspaper. “If he’s got some more locks he wants opened, why doesn’t he tell Mr. Roan?”
“It ain’t that, Tommy. He wants to see you.”
“Why?” Tommy asked bluntly.
“How should I know? He just, well — he told me he wants to see you.”
“You work for Trent?”
“It ain’t that, only, you see...”
“I thought you might be his valet or flunky,” Tommy said in as insulting a tone as he could muster.
The good cheer faded from Herbie the Lugan’s face. “Wise guy, huh?”
“Run along, little man.”
Herbie the Lugan got to his feet and scowled down at Tommy. “You’re making a mistake, chum. Trent ain’t a man you can push around.”
“Trent? Oh, yeah, by the way, just who is Willis Trent? What does he do for a living?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Well, just what is the point, Herbie?”
“The point is that Trent wants to see you. If you’re smart you’ll do what he says.” And then he added, “It’d be healthy.”
“Mmm,” said Tommy. “I’ll tell you what; answer a couple of questions and maybe I’ll run over and see Trent.”
Herbie the Lugan brightened. “Sure, pal, sure.”
“What does Trent do for a living? That’s one of the questions.”
Herbie shrugged. “He’s in business.”
“What kind of business?”
Herbie frowned. “Just business.”
“Monkey business?”
Herbie pursed up his lips and pushed them in and out in a mighty pout. “He’s a right guy. You can ask anybody. They’ll all tell you that Willis Trent is okay.”
“Who’ll tell me?”
“Anybody.” Herbie the Lugan made a vague inclusive gesture that could have included anyone in the bowling alley or anyone in the state of California, for that matter.
Tommy grunted. “Who’s Earl Faraday?”
A quick wince flitted across Herbie’s smooth features but he said blandly: “Faraday? Who’s Faraday?”
“He was at the party last night, a tall lean fellow with a lot of oil on his hair. Trent and he spent quite a little time out on the terrace.”
Herbie the Lugan shook his head, then suddenly brightened and nodded. “Oh, him! I remember now. I don’t know him.”
“You know the girl in the red dress he was hanging around? Flo Randall?”
Herbie looked suddenly, shrewdly at Tommy. “You like her, huh?”
“Not if she’s Faraday’s property.”
“She ain’t exactly, but—” Herbie caught himself. “I mean don’t let this fellow Faraday, or whatever his name is, bother you.” He smiled brightly. “You goin’ up to see Trent, now?”
Tommy hesitated, then throwing down his newspaper got to his feet. “Lead on, chum.”
Herbie the Lugan had no car so they drove to the Lehigh Apartments in Tommy’s old flivver.
Trent was at home, lounging in a big easy chair, wearing a fine brocaded dressing gown and immersed in a
“Ah, Tommy, my boy. Glad you dropped in.”
“I didn’t drop in,” Tommy said sourly. “Your friend here said I had to come or else.”
“Or else what?” Trent smiled at Herbie, but there was ice in the smile. “Always the kidder, aren’t you, Herbie?”
“Sure,” said Herbie the Lugan. “Anything for a laugh.”
“Well, here’s a laugh for you, Herbie. A howl.”
Trent chuckled and walked up to Herbie. His hand flicked out and the palm of it cracked across Herbie’s mouth. Herbie yelped and leaped back. A little trickle of blood seeped from his mouth, down onto his chin. Herbie dabbed at it with a silk handkerchief.
“I gotta be runnin’ along,” he mumbled.
“That’s all right, Herbie,” Trent said.
