well-shaped legs were crossed and she had the hem of her dress pulled above her knees as she just happened to be adjusting a garter when he passed. Botello pulled his hat down, looked the other way and slammed out of the house, muttering unhappily to himself.
CHAPTER SIX
TOUGH BOY
Wednesday Night, 11:00 P.M.
Gene Hargiss-Jones lived in a three-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment that looked to Fred Botello like a surrealistic nightmare of glass and chromium and oddly shaped walls. Fred stabbed at the doorbell with a vicious finger.
Chimes sounded softly from the other side of the door. In a moment, Hargiss-Jones opened the door. No small man himself, Botello always felt a jolt when confronted by this human tank.
Hargiss-Jones was a head taller than Botello. He was built like a well developed dancer or swimmer, not a weight lifter. His muscles were flat and hard, but beautifully shaped. He would have made a marvelous bronze statue, Botello often thought.
Fred wasnât entirely sure of Gene Hargiss-Jonesâ official position in the Cowlesâ organization. Right hand man, secretary, bodyguard and general tough boy for Cowles would about cover his duties.
He was dressed in a red silk dressing-gown with a green Chinese dragon woven into the fabric over the left breast. The robe was open down to the waist displaying his magnificent golden brown torso.
âOh, come in old boy,â he greeted Botello in his well modulated Harvard accent. âSam called, so I was expecting you, you know. Have a chair and Iâll be right with you.â
Fred sat down gingerly on a modernistic bench with spidery chromium legs. Hargiss-Jones gave him the creeps. The man was profoundly well educated. Books lined the shelves in all the rooms. He talked softly and dressed like a dude. His appearance, manner and voice made him seem like a sissy.
But Fred had once seen him hold a man with one hand while, with his other, he broke both the manâs arms, one at a time, like snapping toothpicks. And while he was doing it, Fred had observed the look in his eyes of a boy gleefully pulling the wings off a fly.
Fred shivered. In addition, Hargiss-Jones practiced all sorts of yogi contortions like standing on his head for hours. He read books by obscure Tibetan philosophers which he claimed gave him secrets of physical endurance and powers beyond ordinary manâs.
Fred didnât understand any of that baloney. He just wished theyâd get the stinking murder mess cleared up fast.
At length, Hargiss-Jones emerged from the bedroom. He was dressed in pale yellow flannel slacks, moccasins, a white T-shirt and a blue sport coat.
âThere,â he exclaimed, âweâre all set, old chap. You may brief me on the details of this situation on our way. Sam told me it was something about a musician fellow?â
Fred plodded down the hall stairs. Hargiss-Jones followed him, his steps soundless, like those of a padding cat. Fred had the uncomfortable sensation that he was leading a giant ape out to turn him loose on somebody. He thought to himself, he sure wouldnât like to be in Johnny Nickles shoes tonight....
CHAPTER SEVEN
STALKING SHADOWS
Thursday Morning, 12:30 A.M.
When Johnny left his apartment he walked down the street two blocks to the parking lot where he kept the prewar Ford he was currently driving. He choked it into life and drove down the boulevard along the shoreline to the hospital where Ruth Jordon was a patient.
The soft night wind off the water was warm and damp. It coated his windshield with a sticky mist. He flipped the wipers into life and leaned back against the cushions. The unsatisfied passions of a few minutes before still clamored inside him for fulfillment. Jeanâs perfume seemed to cling to him as a poignant reminder of her embrace. He lit a cigarette with a quick furious movement, forcing himself to cool off. It had taken something really urgent to make him get up and walk off from
CHAPTER SIX
TOUGH BOY
Wednesday Night, 11:00 P.M.
Gene Hargiss-Jones lived in a three-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment that looked to Fred Botello like a surrealistic nightmare of glass and chromium and oddly shaped walls. Fred stabbed at the doorbell with a vicious finger.
Chimes sounded softly from the other side of the door. In a moment, Hargiss-Jones opened the door. No small man himself, Botello always felt a jolt when confronted by this human tank.
Hargiss-Jones was a head taller than Botello. He was built like a well developed dancer or swimmer, not a weight lifter. His muscles were flat and hard, but beautifully shaped. He would have made a marvelous bronze statue, Botello often thought.
Fred wasnât entirely sure of Gene Hargiss-Jonesâ official position in the Cowlesâ organization. Right hand man, secretary, bodyguard and general tough boy for Cowles would about cover his duties.
He was dressed in a red silk dressing-gown with a green Chinese dragon woven into the fabric over the left breast. The robe was open down to the waist displaying his magnificent golden brown torso.
âOh, come in old boy,â he greeted Botello in his well modulated Harvard accent. âSam called, so I was expecting you, you know. Have a chair and Iâll be right with you.â
Fred sat down gingerly on a modernistic bench with spidery chromium legs. Hargiss-Jones gave him the creeps. The man was profoundly well educated. Books lined the shelves in all the rooms. He talked softly and dressed like a dude. His appearance, manner and voice made him seem like a sissy.
But Fred had once seen him hold a man with one hand while, with his other, he broke both the manâs arms, one at a time, like snapping toothpicks. And while he was doing it, Fred had observed the look in his eyes of a boy gleefully pulling the wings off a fly.
Fred shivered. In addition, Hargiss-Jones practiced all sorts of yogi contortions like standing on his head for hours. He read books by obscure Tibetan philosophers which he claimed gave him secrets of physical endurance and powers beyond ordinary manâs.
Fred didnât understand any of that baloney. He just wished theyâd get the stinking murder mess cleared up fast.
At length, Hargiss-Jones emerged from the bedroom. He was dressed in pale yellow flannel slacks, moccasins, a white T-shirt and a blue sport coat.
âThere,â he exclaimed, âweâre all set, old chap. You may brief me on the details of this situation on our way. Sam told me it was something about a musician fellow?â
Fred plodded down the hall stairs. Hargiss-Jones followed him, his steps soundless, like those of a padding cat. Fred had the uncomfortable sensation that he was leading a giant ape out to turn him loose on somebody. He thought to himself, he sure wouldnât like to be in Johnny Nickles shoes tonight....
CHAPTER SEVEN
STALKING SHADOWS
Thursday Morning, 12:30 A.M.
When Johnny left his apartment he walked down the street two blocks to the parking lot where he kept the prewar Ford he was currently driving. He choked it into life and drove down the boulevard along the shoreline to the hospital where Ruth Jordon was a patient.
The soft night wind off the water was warm and damp. It coated his windshield with a sticky mist. He flipped the wipers into life and leaned back against the cushions. The unsatisfied passions of a few minutes before still clamored inside him for fulfillment. Jeanâs perfume seemed to cling to him as a poignant reminder of her embrace. He lit a cigarette with a quick furious movement, forcing himself to cool off. It had taken something really urgent to make him get up and walk off from
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