Something exploded in Jeff's brain then, something he could no more
control than the creeping, vicious hatred of Paul Conroe that had
driven him for so long. The jangling, tinny music of the tavern was
screaming through his mind; the indelible picture of the swerving,
gyrating figure: the long raven hair, the impassive face, the full
lips. His knees buckled and his head was reeling, but he lurched across
the room at the girl. Catching her by the collar, he drew her face
up to his with a wrench that knocked the cigarette from her hand and
brought her breath out in a gasp.
"All right," he grated. "Where is he? Come on, come on, talk! Where is
he? And don't tell me he's not here, because I know he is, understand?
I just saw him. I just chased him, down below. I know he's here! I want
to know where."
Her foot came up sharply and caught him in the leg, sending an agony of
pain into his thigh. Suddenly she began to fight like a cat, clawing,
biting--blue fire in her eyes. Jeff brought his hand up and slapped her
face twice, hard. With a snarl she caught him in the stomach with her
foot and tore herself free, sending him reeling back against the wall.
He bounded off, then stopped dead in his tracks. A horrible realization
exploded in his mind. She was standing poised, her face twisted, her
eyes burning, a stream of poisonous language pouring at him. In her
hand was a knife, blade up, balanced in her hand with deadly intent.
But Jeff hardly noticed the knife; he didn't hear the words as he
stared unbelievingly at her face, his heart sinking. Because the face
was wrong, somehow.
The lips were not right, the nose was shaped differently, the glow
in the eyes was not right. His panting turned into a bitter sob
of disbelief, of incredible disappointment. There couldn't be any
doubt--it simply was not the right girl.
"Where--where is he?" he asked weakly, his heart pounding helplessly in
his throat.
"Not another step," the girl snarled. "Another inch and I'll slice you
up like putty."
"No, no--" Jeff shook his head, trying desperately to clear his mind,
to understand. This was the girl he had seen in the visiphone screen.
Yes, the same clothes, the same face. But she wasn't the girl in the
tavern. "Conroe," he blurted out, plaintively. "You--you must know
Conroe--"
"I've never heard of Conroe."
"But you must have--last night, in that dive--dancing--"
Her jaw dropped as she stared at him in disgust. Then she gave the
knife a flip into the desk top and sank down on her bed, her face
relaxing. "Go away," she said tiredly. "That goddam Frenchman's sense
of humor. Go on, beat it. I'm not rooming with any hoppy--at least
until he's off the stuff."
"You don't know Conroe?"
The girl looked at him closely. "Look, Jack," she said with patient
bitterness, "I don't know who you are and I don't know your pal
Comstock or whatever it is. And I sure as hell wasn't dancing anywhere
last night. I was working in the tank last night getting some looped-up
hophead cooled off for the axe this morning. And it wasn't fun for
either of us, and you'll be down there yourself if you don't cool off.
And you won't like it, either. So go away, don't bother me."
Jeff sank down on the opposite bed, his head in his hands. "You--you
looked so much like her--"
"So I looked so much like her!" She spat out a filthy word and drew her
legs up, glaring at him.
Jeff reddened, his whole body aching. "All right, I'm sorry. I got
excited. I couldn't help it. And I can't leave here--I tried it a
little while ago and ran into a couple of fists."
Blackie's lip curled. "The guards don't like us down here. They don't
like anything about us. They'll kill you if you give them half an
excuse."