Hot Springs (Earl Swagger) by Hunter Stephen

Author:Hunter, Stephen [Hunter, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2013-09-09T16:00:00+00:00

31

“Them two,” said Vince Morella, who managed the Southern.

“Yes, I see.”

“Shall I send some boys over?”

“No. Not at all. Send over a bottle of champagne. Very good stuff. The best, in fact.”

It was between sets in the grillroom at the Southern, beneath the cavernous horse book and casino upstairs. This week’s act: Abbott and Costello.

“You sure, Owney?”

“Very.”

“Yes sir.”

Vince called his bartender over and whispered instructions. Shortly thereafter, at the bar where two men stood drinking club sodas, the barkeep approached with a bucket full of ice and a green bottle.

“Fellows,” he said, “this is your lucky day.”

“We already ordered drinks,” said the older man.

“You didn’t order no alcoholic drinks. So the owner wants everybody happy and he sent this over, his compliments. Enjoy.”

He worked some magic and with a pop the bottle was pried open, its cork caught in a white linen towel. He poured some frothy bubbly into two iced glasses.

“Bottoms up,” he said.

The younger of the men, with tight, ferocious eyes, picked up the glass and poured it back into the bucket.

“I drink what I like,” he said.

It was the cowboy and his older partner. Owney recognized them now clearly from the train station, where the cowboy had smashed Ben Siegel. They reeked of aggression as they sat at the bar, especially the cowboy. Strong of frame, erect, his bull neck tense, his dark, short hair bristly. Darkness visible: he had a look of darkness, dark eyes, dark features, a gunman’s look.

A space had cleared away around him. Though elsewhere in the room, elegant men in dinner jackets ate dinner with their begowned wives and mistresses, here at the bar it was quiet and tense. The bartender swallowed, smiled pathetically and said, “I don’t think Mr. Maddox is going to like that.”

“I don’t give a shit,” said the cowboy, “what Mr. Maddox likes or what he don’t like.”

The bartender slipped away, reported to Vince, who in turn reported to Owney.

“They’s asking for it,” said Flem Grumley. “We should give it to ’em.”

“Yes, yes, let’s shoot up the most beautiful and expensive spot between St. Louis and New Orleans. And while we’re at it, let’s shoot up my roomful of brand-new Black Cherries, clanking away upstairs and paying the house back 34 percent and buying you and yours clothes, food, cars and your children’s medicine. How clever.”

He fixed Flem with a glare; Flem melted in confusion.

“They want something, else they wouldn’t be here, eh, old man? Let’s see what it is.”

He inserted a Nat Sherman into his onyx cigarette holder, lit it off a silver Dunhill and stood.

“You boys stay here. I don’t need any beef around.”

“Yes sir,” said Flem, speaking for the phalanx of Grumleys who surrounded Owney ever since the Mary Jane’s shoot-out.

He walked over.

“Well, fellows,” he said, sitting down at the bar, but facing elegantly outward, “isn’t this a little brazen, even for you? I mean, my chaps could polish your apples in about seven seconds flat, eh what?”

Neither of his antagonists said a thing for a bit.

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