Chapter 4
Peter Trask came down from his room in the morning. He had slept well. Hubert was still on the desk and he didn't know what to do. All night he had expected Fee to come down. He couldn't guess what might have happened upstairs. If Fee had been unsuccessful it hardly seemed likely that Trask would have calmly spent the night. But he didn't know Trask. No one did. Trask came up to the desk and Hubert bit his lip and blinked. But Trask had only come to leave his key. He said nothing. He went out into the morning sunlight. He walked down to the nearest diner to have coffee. This was an old passenger coach that had been set up on concrete blocks and converted into a diner. It still looked more like a passenger coach. The man behind the counter was waiter, cook and dishwasher combined. He smiled at Trask when he came in. He had bought Trask a coffee the day before, because Trask had been broke before he got into the crap game. He had also lent Trask two dollars, and it was that money which had been skyrocketed to two hundred by an unbelievable combination of sheer luck and opponents (like Ken Fee) who had absolutely no idea of what odds should be given for making a point. Trask put two dollars on the counter now and the man smiled even more. He was uglier than Trask, although he wasn't as ugly as the bartender at the corner bar.
"I heard you had a run," he said.
He pocketed the money. He was glad that there was no one else in the place to see the transaction. It would never do to have it known that one lent money. Everyone in town would have been around to borrow their share. Normally he didn't lend money, either. But Trask, somehow, had seemed a good risk. He had offered without being asked.
"Coffee and toast," Trask said, taking one of the stools. "And thanks for the loan."
The counterman's name was Jeff Block. As ugly as he was, he looked friendly. He poured the coffee.
"You know a guy named Ken who looks like a horse and bets evens that he will throw a five?" Trask asked.
"Yeah. Ken Fee. That's the guy."
"Who does he work for?" Block frowned. He rubbed his square jaw. "Had trouble with him? he asked. "Nothing much. Who?"
"I don't know. I guess he does a few jobs for Deacon. He might work for Max Arnold sometimes, too. Arnold owns The Golden Parrot. He's pretty big. You shouldn't get into any strife with him, Pete."
And it was then that Max Arnold's boys came into the diner. Block looked carefully away and puckered his lips up as though he was going to whistle. But he didn't. There were two of them and they came up to the counter and stood on either side of Trask. One was small and one was big and that made a classic combination. The small one was greasy and had a thin moustache. The big one was very big. Bigger than Trask. He wore a large-checked suit.
"Trask?" the big one said.
"That's right."
"Man wants to see you."
"Sure. As soon as I finish my breakfast."
"Wants to see you now."
"Where's that toast, Jeff?"
The little guy looked at the big guy. The big guy looked at Trask. Block took a deep breath and brought the toast over to the counter. Block hated trouble. He couldn't afford trouble in his position. But, on the other hand, he was no coward. He had a bat under the counter and he put his hand on it now and stood opposite the three men.
Trask took a bite of toast.
"Now, the man said," the big guy grunted. He had a thin voice for such a big guy. "He said to bring you friendly and not to have any trouble but he said now, now!"
Trask took a sip of coffee.
"You stay out, Block," the little guy said.
The big guy placed a hand on Trask. He placed it on his shoulder and he didn't use much force. It was just a coaxing hand. But Trask liked neither touching nor coaxing. He threw the hot coffee in the man's face, turned on the stool without getting up and threw the buttered toast in the little man's face. He stepped away from the stool and looked from one to the other, waiting to see whose hands went where. But neither reached for a weapon. Trask decided that it had been a friendly call.
"I'm finished now," he said.
The big guy looked at Trask as though he couldn't believe it. And then he smiled.
"I hope you don't do no friendly business at all," he said. "Because as soon as the man is through with you I'm going to break your legs."
"Really?" Trask said. He was smiling, too. Block smiled nervously because it was over for the moment, and the small guy looked like he was smiling because he had butter on his lips. It was a jolly group.
The three went outside. There was a big black car parked at the curb. The small man drove with the big man in front and Trask in back. They were all smiling so much that it looked like they were going to a friend's wedding. Or perhaps an enemy's funeral.
They drove to The Golden Parrot, and the driver obeyed every traffic sign.
In the darkened morning bar of The Golden Parrot, Deacon the gambler was sitting at a table with his blonde showgirl, and in Max Arnold's plush office behind the bar, Max's girl was trying to convince Max that he should let her take her clothing off for the customers.
"Why should my girl have to do a strip?" he asked. "But I want to, Max," she said. "I like to take my clothes off in front of people."
"No."
"Please, Maxie?"
Max sighed. He was quite tempted to smack her a few times but he knew that would do no good. If there was anything that she enjoyed more than taking all her clothes off in front of a crowd it was being smacked a few times.
She was a strange girl.
Her name was Clara and she was a classic dumb blonde. She was so dumb that Max even did business when she was in the room because she had no idea what was going on. She was so dumb that she wasn't even afraid of Max, didn't even know that he was dangerous, and that frustrated him. But, in her classic way, she was quite lovely, and Max liked classics. He had come up off the streets the hard way and now he was rich and respected and he knew that he had to appreciate the classics so that everyone would know that he had succeeded.
Clara had great big eyes with no flicker of understanding in them and great big sexy lips that were always wet and parted. She panted all the time as if constantly excited, which she might have been. Her hair was cut in a fringe across the forehead so that sometimes it fell over her eyes and she had to peer through the strands. Sometimes she chewed a strand or two when she was concentrating on something difficult, like how much two drinks cost if one drink cost thirty cents. She had never figured that one out but once she chewed a piece of hair off and swallowed it by mistake. Her body was lovely. She had a tiny waist and big breasts and a bottom that looked like an upside-down valentine beneath her tight dresses and slacks. Her clothes were so tight that she couldn't wear undergarments because the lines showed. Of course, without undergarments, her own lines showed. But she had, perhaps, never thought of that. And, anyway, she didn't like to wear clothes and she took them off at every opportunity. The only reason that she ever wore clothes was so that she could take them off. Once she had gone to a nudist colony with an admirer but that had been no fun at all because being undressed wasn't the same thing as undressing. But, despite the difficulties of keeping her respectable, Max liked her. He was a man who appreciated the finer things, and he put up with most of her whims and her teasing to be allowed to strip in his club.
Clara had been a present to Max from Deacon. Deacon had found her at a party. He had gone to the party because he thought that there was going to be some gambling there but the gambling had turned out to be penny ante and instead he had discovered Clara. No one knew where she had come from. No one at the party had ever seen her before. She had just heard the music and wandered in, apparently. If she had been on the way to some other destination when she got waylaid, she never got there. She didn't remember. Deacon had asked her where she lived and where she had come from but she couldn't remember that, either. So Deacon, who was no fool, could see right away that this was not an intelligent girl. But Deacon, who was no movie star, either, could also see that she was so dumb that even he might succeed in seducing her. Deacon looked remarkably like a penguin, but this was one of the nights when Clara's hair was covering her eyes and so her sight was dim. He fed her alcohol and she giggled and danced and, after a while, she took her clothes off. She stood in the center of the room and stripped and everyone else watched. Deacon felt quite proud. When Clara was completely naked everyone applauded and Deacon took her into the bedroom and closed the door. She didn't resist at all. She was pretty drunk. She got on the bed and giggled. Deacon undressed. When he got his black suit and white shirt off he didn't look so much like a penguin. He looked more like a starling. He even hopped instead of waddling. He hopped over and onto the bed.
When he touched Clara her legs jumped as though it were a conditioned reflex. They jumped so quickly they caught Deacon in the nose.
It looked more beak-like after that.
But it took more than a bent beak to deter Deacon. He rubbed it and returned to the open arms of his new conquest. He knelt over her and bent. He caressed her. He looked like a bird, pecking. And Clara began to wriggle like a worm. He pecked his way slowly up her soft body and when he was poised just right the worm turned.
Clara turned him over and became aggressive.
She was a little bigger than Deacon and quite a bit stronger. Her muscles had been developed by the exercise of undressing nine or ten times a day and Deacon had never lifted anything heavier than cards or dice.
Clara pressed him down onto the mattress.
She held him steady with her hands and her arms tightened. She poised there for a moment and then slowly relaxed. And Deacon felt crushed, bruised and helpless. Had he understood the odds he never would have tried this. He chirped. He squawked. He flapped his arms like wings and he twisted his body around but there was no escape and finally he yielded and lay still and hoped this would not take too long.
But it took quick a while.
Clara was having fun.
Her legs tensed and lifted her. She stayed there for a moment, poised, and then thumped against him. He knew that he was going to be bruised severely if he survived. She held him by the ears as though they were reins.
That was great fun.
Later, when the party was over and Deacon was leaving, she went with him. He didn't want her to go with him but she still had his ears and he had no choice. But he couldn't take her home because he already had a blonde showgirl living with him. The blonde was very calm and quiet in bed but she was quite capable of smacking him if she thought that he was bringing another girl home. And he knew that he could never take another session with Clara. He didn't know what to do.
And then he thought of his friend Max.
And he thought that Max ran a night club and that there were strippers in the club.
And that Clara dearly loved to strip.
Deacon, being no fool, put two and two together. And he gave Clara to Max and Max was so grateful that he gave Deacon a bottle of very bad champagne. That was how Max had acquired a classic dumb blonde.
That had been three months ago and now Max was in his office waiting for Peter Trask, and the dumb blonde was there asking him to please let her take her clothes off in the bar, and he was thinking that it wasn't so easy being a rich guy who had come up the hard way off the streets and acquired a taste for the classic things of life along the way.