face twisted bitterly for a moment. “Sure do a hell of a job protecting me, don’t they?”
“Swell,” Nolan agreed. “You got a phone here?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the number?”
“CH7-2037. Why?”
“Is it bugged?”
“I don’t think so. Why would they bother checking up on me?”
“You got a point.” Nolan repeated the number to himself silently. “You’ll be hearing from me now and then, George.”
George looked pleadingly at Nolan. “Look, I don’t know anything. You aren’t gonna get any good out of hurting me. You . . . you aren’t gonna . . . do anything to me . . . are you?”
Nolan hunted for an ash tray, found one, stabbed out his cigarette. “I won’t touch you, George, unless you cross me. But finger me and you’re dead.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. . . .”
“I should put a bullet in your head right now, when I think of it. You’re a bad risk.”
“Oh, no, you can’t. . . .”
“I can, and I have. I killed six men in the past eight years. Not to mention the ones I left wounded.”
“I never did anything to you, Nolan. . . .”
“Don’t sic anybody on me and we’ll get along fine. But you tell your brother about me, or that Elliot, or anyone else, and you’ll die wishing you hadn’t.”
“Nolan, I wouldn’t. . . .”
“Shut up. You don’t think I’m working alone, do you?”
“What?”
“I got three men watching you,” Nolan lied. “They’ll kill you the moment anybody puts a hand on me. So getting rid of me would only assure you of dying.”
George lay back on the bed and moaned. He looked like a beached whale, only whales didn’t sweat.
Nolan finished his whiskey and headed for the window.
3
THE NATIONAL ANTHEM woke Nolan and he sat up on the bed and checked his watch. Quarter after twelve. He had returned to the Travel Nest after eating at the steak house across the way and watched television until it put him to sleep. Now he felt wide awake; and his shoulders, his back, felt tense.
He got out of the now-wrinkled tan suit and put on his black swim trunks. He grabbed up a pack of cigarettes and matches, draped a towel over his shoulders and headed down the hall.
The door leading into the pool was closed but not locked. A sign hung on it reading “Life Guard on Duty 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. The management cannot be responsible for after-hour swimmers. Swim only at your own risk. T. C. Barnes, Manager.”
It was a small pool, filling most of a small room. From the door to the pool was an area where people could stretch out beach towels and dump their belongings while swimming. Other than that initial area beyond the entrance, there was a scant three feet around the pool’s edge bordering it. Paintings of sea horses rode the blue walls, and the air hung thick with heat and chlorine.
He dove in the deep end and swam several laps and turned over on his back for a while; then he climbed out and dove off the little diving board at the far end of the pool.
Swimming on his back again, Nolan relaxed and enjoyed the warmth of the pool, the all-encompassing feeling of the water around him. Even in a thimble like this, Nolan got a sensation of freedom when swimming. It gave him room to reach out.
Several minutes later Nolan heard the door open. Another late swimmer, a young lady perhaps? That’d be nice, Nolan thought, floating on his back. Then his fantasy was over before it began when his ears reported heavy, plodding footsteps splashing in the dampness of the room.
“Everybody out of the pool,” a harsh voice grated. Nolan swam to one side, set his hands in the gutters and pushed himself out. He stood and looked at the intruders.
Two men, obviously local color. A Mutt and Jeff combination.
The short one, a pale, bloodless-looking specimen, owned the low voice. He wore a pink shirt with red pin-stripes, with a thin black tie loosened around the collar, and a gold sportcoat. His brown slacks were uncuffed and ended a little high over his
“Swell,” Nolan agreed. “You got a phone here?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the number?”
“CH7-2037. Why?”
“Is it bugged?”
“I don’t think so. Why would they bother checking up on me?”
“You got a point.” Nolan repeated the number to himself silently. “You’ll be hearing from me now and then, George.”
George looked pleadingly at Nolan. “Look, I don’t know anything. You aren’t gonna get any good out of hurting me. You . . . you aren’t gonna . . . do anything to me . . . are you?”
Nolan hunted for an ash tray, found one, stabbed out his cigarette. “I won’t touch you, George, unless you cross me. But finger me and you’re dead.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. . . .”
“I should put a bullet in your head right now, when I think of it. You’re a bad risk.”
“Oh, no, you can’t. . . .”
“I can, and I have. I killed six men in the past eight years. Not to mention the ones I left wounded.”
“I never did anything to you, Nolan. . . .”
“Don’t sic anybody on me and we’ll get along fine. But you tell your brother about me, or that Elliot, or anyone else, and you’ll die wishing you hadn’t.”
“Nolan, I wouldn’t. . . .”
“Shut up. You don’t think I’m working alone, do you?”
“What?”
“I got three men watching you,” Nolan lied. “They’ll kill you the moment anybody puts a hand on me. So getting rid of me would only assure you of dying.”
George lay back on the bed and moaned. He looked like a beached whale, only whales didn’t sweat.
Nolan finished his whiskey and headed for the window.
3
THE NATIONAL ANTHEM woke Nolan and he sat up on the bed and checked his watch. Quarter after twelve. He had returned to the Travel Nest after eating at the steak house across the way and watched television until it put him to sleep. Now he felt wide awake; and his shoulders, his back, felt tense.
He got out of the now-wrinkled tan suit and put on his black swim trunks. He grabbed up a pack of cigarettes and matches, draped a towel over his shoulders and headed down the hall.
The door leading into the pool was closed but not locked. A sign hung on it reading “Life Guard on Duty 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. The management cannot be responsible for after-hour swimmers. Swim only at your own risk. T. C. Barnes, Manager.”
It was a small pool, filling most of a small room. From the door to the pool was an area where people could stretch out beach towels and dump their belongings while swimming. Other than that initial area beyond the entrance, there was a scant three feet around the pool’s edge bordering it. Paintings of sea horses rode the blue walls, and the air hung thick with heat and chlorine.
He dove in the deep end and swam several laps and turned over on his back for a while; then he climbed out and dove off the little diving board at the far end of the pool.
Swimming on his back again, Nolan relaxed and enjoyed the warmth of the pool, the all-encompassing feeling of the water around him. Even in a thimble like this, Nolan got a sensation of freedom when swimming. It gave him room to reach out.
Several minutes later Nolan heard the door open. Another late swimmer, a young lady perhaps? That’d be nice, Nolan thought, floating on his back. Then his fantasy was over before it began when his ears reported heavy, plodding footsteps splashing in the dampness of the room.
“Everybody out of the pool,” a harsh voice grated. Nolan swam to one side, set his hands in the gutters and pushed himself out. He stood and looked at the intruders.
Two men, obviously local color. A Mutt and Jeff combination.
The short one, a pale, bloodless-looking specimen, owned the low voice. He wore a pink shirt with red pin-stripes, with a thin black tie loosened around the collar, and a gold sportcoat. His brown slacks were uncuffed and ended a little high over his
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