"The High Duke of Jersey. Flat. Left rear. On a night like this. Some
luck."
"The Jersey can't afford a jack?"
* * * * *
I stepped over the short man, prodded him with a forefinger. "He could
buy you and gut you on the altar any Saturday night of the week,
low-pockets. And he'd get a kick out of doing it. He's like that."
"Can't a guy crack a harmless joke without somebody talks about
altar-bait? You wanna jack, take a jack."
The man in the chair opened one eye and looked me over. "How long you
on the Jersey payroll?" he growled.
"Long enough to know who handles the rank between Jersey and Filly." I
yawned, looked around the wide, cement floored garage, glanced over the
four heavy cars with the Filly crest on their sides.
"Where's the kitchen? I'm putting a couple of hot coffees under my belt
before I go back out into that."
"Over there. A flight up and to your left. Tell the cook Pintsy invited
you."
"I tell him Jersey sent me, low-pockets." I moved off in a dead
silence, opened the door and stepped up into spicy-scented warmth.
A deep carpet--even here--muffled my footsteps. I could hear the clash
of pots and crockery from the kitchen a hundred feet distant along the
hallway. I went along to a deep-set doorway ten feet from the kitchen,
tried the knob and looked into a dark room. I pushed the door shut and
leaned against it, watching the kitchen. Through the woodwork I could
feel the thump of the bass notes from the orchestra blasting away
three flights up. The odors of food--roast fowl, baked ham, grilled
horsemeat--curled under the kitchen door and wafted under my nose.
I pulled my belt up a notch and tried to swallow the dryness in my
throat. The old man had fed me a half a gallon of stew, before we left
home, but I was already working up a fresh appetite.
Five slow minutes passed. Then the kitchen door swung open and a
tall round-shouldered fellow with a shiny bald scalp stepped into view,
a tray balanced on the spread fingers of one hand. He turned, the black
tails of his cutaway swirling, called something behind him and started
past me. I stepped out, clearing my throat. He shied, whirled to face
me. He was good at his job: The two dozen tiny glasses on the tray
stood fast. He blinked, got an indignant remark ready--
I showed him the knife the old man had lent me--a bone-handled job with
a six-inch switch-blade. "Make a sound and I'll cut your throat," I
said softly. "Put the tray on the floor."
He started to back. I brought the knife up. He took a good look, licked
his lips, crouched quickly and put the tray down.
"Turn around."
I stepped in and chopped him at the base of the neck with the edge of
my hand. He folded like a two-dollar umbrella.
I wrestled the door open and dumped him inside, paused a moment to
listen. All quiet. I worked his black coat and trousers off, unhooked
the stiff white dickey and tie. He snored softly. I pulled the clothes
on over the weather suit. They were a fair fit. By the light of my
pencil flash, I cut down a heavy braided cord hanging by a high window,
used it to truss the waiter's hands and feet together behind him. There
was a small closet opening off the room. I put him in it, closed the
door and stepped back into the hall. Still quiet. I tried one of the
drinks. It wasn't bad.
I took another, then picked up the tray and followed the sounds of
music.
* * * * *
The grand ballroom was a hundred yards long, fifty wide, with walls of
rose, gold and white, banks of high windows hung with crimson velvet, a
vaulted ceiling decorated with cherubs and a polished acre of floor on
which gaudily gowned and uniformed couples moved in time to the heavy
beat of the traditional fox-trot. I moved slowly along the edge of the
crowd, looking for the Baron.
A hand caught my arm and hauled me around. A glass fell off my tray,
smashed on the floor.
A dapper little man in black and white headwaiter's uniform glared up
at me.
"What do you think you're doing, cretin?" he hissed. "That's the
genuine ancient stock you're slopping on the floor." I looked around
quickly; no one else seemed to be paying any attention.
"Where are you from?" he snapped. I opened my mouth--
"Never mind, you're all the same." He waggled his hands disgustedly.
"The field-hands they send me--a disgrace to the Black. Now, you! Stand
up! Hold your tray proudly, gracefully! Step along daintily, not like
a knight taking the field! And pause occasionally--just on the chance
that some noble guest might wish to drink."
"You bet, pal," I said. I moved on, paying a little more attention to
my waiting. I saw plenty of green uniforms; pea green, forest green,
emerald green--but they were all hung with braid and medals. According
to Pop, the Baron affected a spartan simplicity. The diffidence of
absolute power.
There were high white and gold doors every few yards along the side
of the ballroom. I spotted one standing open and sidled toward it. It
wouldn't hurt to reconnoiter the area.
Just beyond the door, a very large sentry in a bottle-green uniform
almost buried under gold braid moved in front of me. He was dressed
like a toy soldier, but there was nothing playful about the way he
snapped his power gun to the ready. I winked at him.
"Thought you boys might want a drink," I hissed. "Good stuff."
He looked at the tray, licked his lips. "Get back in there, you fool,"
he growled. "You'll get us both hung."
"Suit yourself, pal." I backed out. Just before the door closed between
us, he lifted a glass off the tray.
* * * * *
I turned, almost collided with a long lean cookie in a powder-blue
outfit complete with dress sabre, gold frogs, leopard-skin facings, a
pair of knee-length white gloves looped under an epaulette, a pistol in
a fancy holster and an eighteen-inch swagger stick. He gave me the kind
of look old maids give sin.
"Look where you're going, swine," he said in a voice like a pine board
splitting.
"Have a drink, Admiral," I suggested.
He lifted his upper lip to show me a row of teeth that hadn't had
their annual trip to the dentist lately. The ridges along each side
of his mouth turned greenish white. He snatched for the gloves on his
shoulder, fumbled them; they slapped the floor beside me.
"I'd pick those up for you, Boss," I said, "But I've got my tray...."
He drew a breath between his teeth, chewed it into strips and snorted
it back at me, then snapped his fingers and pointed with his stick
toward the door behind me.
"Through there, instantly!" It didn't seem like the time to argue; I
pulled it open and stepped through.
The guard in green ducked his glass and snapped to attention when
he saw the baby-blue outfit. My new friend ignored him, made a curt
gesture to me. I got the idea, trailed along the wide, high, gloomy
corridor to a small door, pushed through it into a well-lit tile-walled
latrine. A big-eyed slave in white ducks stared.
Blue-boy jerked his head. "Get out!" The slave scuttled away. Blue-boy
turned to me.
"Strip off your jacket, slave! Your owner has neglected to teach you
discipline."