Free Red Wind by Raymond Chandler Page B

mustache, shiny like satin, and the clear pallor that Latins prize above rubies.
    With a smooth gesture, a hint of drama, he leaned across the table and took one of Mallory’s cigarettes out of the silver case. He lit it with a flourish.
    Rhonda Farr put her hand to her lips and yawned. She said, “This is Erno, my bodyguard. He takes care of me. Nice, isn’t it?”
    She stood up slowly. Erno helped her with her wrap. Then he spread his lips in a mirthless smile, looked at Mallory, said :
    “Hello, baby.”
    He had dark, almost opaque eyes with hot lights in them.
    Rhonda Farr gathered her wrap about her, nodded slightly, sketched a brief sarcastic smile with her delicate lips, and turned off along the aisle between the tables. She went with her head up and proud, her face a little tense and wary, like a queen in jeopardy. Not fearless, but disdaining to show fear. It was nicely done.
    The two bored men gave her an interested eye. The dark woman brooded glumly over the task of mixing herself a highball that would have floored a horse. The man with the fat sweaty neck seemed to have gone to sleep.
    Rhonda Farr went up the five crimson-carpeted steps to the lobby, past a bowing headwaiter. She went through looped-back gold curtains, and disappeared.
    Mallory watched her out of sight, then he looked at Erno. He said: “Well, punk, what’s on your mind?”
    He said it insultingly, with a cold smile. Erno stiffened. His gloved left hand jerked the cigarette that was in it so that some ash fell off.
    “Kiddin’ yourself, baby?” he inquired swiftly.
    “About what, punk?”
    Red spots came into Erno’s pale cheeks. His eyes narrowed to black slits. He moved his ungloved right hand a little, curled the fingers so that the small pink nails glittered. He said thinly:
    “About some letters, baby. Forget it! It’s out, baby, out!”
    Mallory looked at him with elaborate, cynical interest, ran his fingers through his crisp black hair. He said slowly:
    “Perhaps I don’t know what you mean, little one.”
    Erno laughed. A metallic sound, a strained deadly sound. Mallory knew that kind of laugh; the prelude to gun-music in some places. He watched Erno’s quick little right hand. He spoke raspingly.
    “On your way, red hot. I might take a notion to slap that fuzz off your lip.”
    Erno’s face twisted. The red patches showed startlingly in his cheeks. He lifted the hand that held his cigarette, lifted it slowly, and snapped the burning cigarette straight at Mallory’s face. Mallory moved his head a little, and the white tube arced over his shoulder.
    There was no expression on his lean, cold face. Distantly, dimly, as though another voice spoke, he said:
    “Careful, punk. People get hurt for things like that.”
    Erno laughed the same metallic, strained laugh. “Blackmailers don’t shoot, baby,” he snarled. “Do they?”
    “Beat it, you dirty little wop!”
    The words, the cold sneering tone, stung Erno to fury. His right-hand shot up like a striking snake. A gun whisked into it from a shoulder-holster. Then he stood motionless, glaring. Mallory bent forward a little, his hands on the edge of the table, his fingers curled below the edge. The corners of his mouth sketched a dim smile.
    There was a dull screech, not loud, from the dark woman. The color drained from Erno’s cheeks, leaving them pallid, sunk in. In a voice that whistled with fury he said:
    “Okey, baby. We’ll go outside. March, you—!”
    One of the bored men three tables away made a sudden movement of no significance. Slight as it was it caught Erno’s eye. His glance flickered. Then the table rose into his stomach, knocked him sprawling.
    It was a light table, and Mallory was not a lightweight. There was a complicated thudding sound. A few dishes clattered, some silver. Erno was spread on the floor with the table across his thighs. His gun settled a foot from his clawing hand. His face was convulsed.
    For a poised instant of time it was as though