Read Online 1949 - You're Lonely When You Dead by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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partner who had been with Olaf as long as I could remember. A number of other boxers were dotted around the outer edges of the room, either slamming away at a punch-bag or skipping or shadow boxing; getting themselves into shape for the end-of-the-week fights Olaf staged at the Athletic Club.
I made my way across the room towards Olaf’s office.
‘Hello there, Vic.’
Hughson, the Herald sports writer, pushed his way out of the crowd around the ring and caught hold of my arm.
‘Hello there, yourself,’ I said.
Hughson was a tall, lean, cynical-looking bird, going bald, with liverish bags under his eyes and tobacco ash spread over his coat front. His sweat-stained hat rested on the back of his head, and a damp, dead cigar grew out of his big mouth.
‘You want to get a load of this, Vic,’ he said, waving towards the ring. ‘This nigger’s going to de-gut Hunter. You’d better get on to him before the odds shorten.’ His sharp little eyes dwelt on the bruise on my neck and he was sufficiently interested to remove his cigar and point with it.
‘Say, who’s been kicking you in the crop?’
‘Look, pal, go back to your nigger and leave me alone,’ I said. ‘Is Olaf around?’
‘In his office.’ He continued to eye the bruise wistfully.
‘Any new dope on the killing, Vic?’ he went on: ‘It’s my bet that crum Leadbetter did the job. He’s always crawling around those dunes like a goddamn snake, spying on couples.’ His yellowish face lengthened. ‘He once spied on me. Jay-sus! What a scare he gave me! I thought he was her husband.’
‘It could be anyone,’ I said, moving off. ‘Brandon’s handling it. You’d better ask him.’
‘Hey! Don’t run away,’ he said, catching hold of my arm again. ‘Talking about criminal assault reminds me: there’s a doll over there you want to take a look at. She has a chassis that’s got a lot of authority. I’ve been trying to find out who she is, but no one knows, or else they ain’t talking.’
I followed the jerk of his thumb. On the far side of the ring where there were several rows of wooden forms sat a girl. The first thing you noticed about her was her shock of flaming red hair, then her thin face with its high cheekbones and her large, heavily lashed eyes that slanted upwards and gave her an oriental look that made you think of intrigue and secret papers and the night train to Budapest. She wore a bottle green suede windbreaker with a zipper down the front, black, high-waisted slacks and Bata shoes. She was watching the negro with critical intentness as he slid about the ring, and every time he landed a rib bender her mouth tightened, and she edged a little closer as if she were scared of missing anything.
‘Yeah, some doll,’ I said, and she was. ‘Why not ask her?’
‘It’d be safer to open an artery,’ Hughson said. ‘Hank tried to make her, but she laid him among the sweet peas. That baby’s tough. I guess she must have plenty of protection to be alone in this joint.’
Someone shouted for Hughson, and winking at me he went back into the crowd. I took one more lingering look at the redhead, then continued on my way to Olaf’s quarters.
The office was a small, shabby room, the walls papered with the glossy prints of prizefighters and old billposters advertising the hundreds of fights Olaf had promoted since coming to Ocean City. Olaf Kruger sat behind a big desk that was covered with papers and a dozen telephones that never rang singly. At another smaller desk a chemical blonde hammered a typewriter and chewed gum and filled the room with a perfume that would have come expensive at a dime a gallon.
‘Got a minute, or are you busy?’ I asked, kicking the door shut.
Olaf waved me to a chair. He was not much bigger than a jockey, bald as an egg and as smart as they come. He was in shirtsleeves, his thin gold watch-chain held his open vest together and his tie hung loose below his open collar.
‘How are you, Vic? I’m not
I made my way across the room towards Olaf’s office.
‘Hello there, Vic.’
Hughson, the Herald sports writer, pushed his way out of the crowd around the ring and caught hold of my arm.
‘Hello there, yourself,’ I said.
Hughson was a tall, lean, cynical-looking bird, going bald, with liverish bags under his eyes and tobacco ash spread over his coat front. His sweat-stained hat rested on the back of his head, and a damp, dead cigar grew out of his big mouth.
‘You want to get a load of this, Vic,’ he said, waving towards the ring. ‘This nigger’s going to de-gut Hunter. You’d better get on to him before the odds shorten.’ His sharp little eyes dwelt on the bruise on my neck and he was sufficiently interested to remove his cigar and point with it.
‘Say, who’s been kicking you in the crop?’
‘Look, pal, go back to your nigger and leave me alone,’ I said. ‘Is Olaf around?’
‘In his office.’ He continued to eye the bruise wistfully.
‘Any new dope on the killing, Vic?’ he went on: ‘It’s my bet that crum Leadbetter did the job. He’s always crawling around those dunes like a goddamn snake, spying on couples.’ His yellowish face lengthened. ‘He once spied on me. Jay-sus! What a scare he gave me! I thought he was her husband.’
‘It could be anyone,’ I said, moving off. ‘Brandon’s handling it. You’d better ask him.’
‘Hey! Don’t run away,’ he said, catching hold of my arm again. ‘Talking about criminal assault reminds me: there’s a doll over there you want to take a look at. She has a chassis that’s got a lot of authority. I’ve been trying to find out who she is, but no one knows, or else they ain’t talking.’
I followed the jerk of his thumb. On the far side of the ring where there were several rows of wooden forms sat a girl. The first thing you noticed about her was her shock of flaming red hair, then her thin face with its high cheekbones and her large, heavily lashed eyes that slanted upwards and gave her an oriental look that made you think of intrigue and secret papers and the night train to Budapest. She wore a bottle green suede windbreaker with a zipper down the front, black, high-waisted slacks and Bata shoes. She was watching the negro with critical intentness as he slid about the ring, and every time he landed a rib bender her mouth tightened, and she edged a little closer as if she were scared of missing anything.
‘Yeah, some doll,’ I said, and she was. ‘Why not ask her?’
‘It’d be safer to open an artery,’ Hughson said. ‘Hank tried to make her, but she laid him among the sweet peas. That baby’s tough. I guess she must have plenty of protection to be alone in this joint.’
Someone shouted for Hughson, and winking at me he went back into the crowd. I took one more lingering look at the redhead, then continued on my way to Olaf’s quarters.
The office was a small, shabby room, the walls papered with the glossy prints of prizefighters and old billposters advertising the hundreds of fights Olaf had promoted since coming to Ocean City. Olaf Kruger sat behind a big desk that was covered with papers and a dozen telephones that never rang singly. At another smaller desk a chemical blonde hammered a typewriter and chewed gum and filled the room with a perfume that would have come expensive at a dime a gallon.
‘Got a minute, or are you busy?’ I asked, kicking the door shut.
Olaf waved me to a chair. He was not much bigger than a jockey, bald as an egg and as smart as they come. He was in shirtsleeves, his thin gold watch-chain held his open vest together and his tie hung loose below his open collar.
‘How are you, Vic? I’m not
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