Free The Paul Cain Omnibus by Paul Cain Page A

where Rigas sat waiting for him at a table against the far wall. Several people looked up, nodded or spoke as he passed; he sat down across the table from Rigas, said: “Bacardi,” to the hovering waiter.
    Rigas folded his paper, leaned forward with his elbows on the table and smiled.
    “You are late, my friend.” He put up one hand and rubbed one side of his pale blue jaw.
    Shane nodded slightly. He said: “I’ve been pretty busy.”
    Rigas was Greek. His long rectangular face was deeply lined; his eyes were small, dark, wide set; his mouth was a pale upward-curved gash. He was in dinner clothes.
    He said: “Things are good with you—Yes?”
    Shane shrugged. “Fair.”
    “Things are very bad here,” Rigas picked up his cocktail, sipped it, leaned back. Shane waited.
    “Very bad,” Rigas went on. “They have raised our protection overhead more than fifty per cent.”
    The waiter lifted Shane’s cocktail from the tray with a broad flourish, put it on the table in front of him. Shane looked at it, then up at Rigas, said: “Well… .”
    Rigas was silent. He stared at the tablecloth, with his thin lips stuck out in an expression of deep concentration.
    Shane tasted his cocktail, laughed a little. “You know damned well,” he said, “that I’m not going to put another dime into this place.” He put down his glass and stared morosely at Rigas. “And you know that I can’t do anything about your protection arrangement. That’s your business.”
    Rigas nodded sadly without looking up. “I know—I know.”
    Shane sipped his drink, waited.
    Rigas finally looked up, spoke hesitantly: “Lorain—Lorain is going to get a divorce.”
    Shane smiled, said: “That’s a break.”
    Rigas nodded slowly. “Yes.” He spoke very slowly, deliberately: “Yes—that is a break for all of us.”
    Shane leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, put one hand down slowly, palm up. He stared at Rigas and his face was hard, his eyes were very cold. He said: “You made that kind of a crack once before—remember?”
    Rigas didn’t speak. He gazed wide-eyed, expressionlessly at Shane’s tie.
    “Remember what happened?” Shane went on.
    Rigas didn’t speak, or move. Shane relaxed suddenly. He leaned back, glanced around, smiled faintly.
    “I back this joint,” he said, “because I thought you might make it go. I don’t like you—never have—but I like Lorain, have liked her ever since we were kids together. I thought she was an awful chump when she married you and I told her so.”
    He sipped his cocktail, widened his smile. “She told me what a great guy you were,” he went on, “an’ she stuck to it, even after you’d dropped all your dough, and hers. Then she told me you wanted to take over this place, an’ I came in on it, laid fifteen grand on the line.”
    Rigas moved uncomfortably in his chair, glanced swiftly around the room.
    “Since then,” Shane went on, “I’ve chunked in somewhere around five more… .”
    Rigas interrupted: “We’ve got nearly twelve thousand dollars’ worth of stock.” He made a wide gesture.
    “What for?” Shane curved his mouth to a pleasant sneer. “So you can be knocked over, and keep the enforcement boys in vintage wines for a couple of months.”
    Rigas shrugged elaborately, turned half away. “I cannot talk to you,” he said. “You fly off the handle… .”
    “No.” Shane smiled. “You can talk to me all you like, Charley—and I don’t fly off the handle—and I’m not squawking. But don’t make any more cracks about Lorain and me. Whatever I’ve done for you I’ve done for her—because I like her. Like her. Can you get that through that thick Spick skull of yours? I wouldn’t want her if she was a dime a dozen—an’ I don’t like that raised eyebrow stuff. It sounds like pimp.”
    Rigas’ face turned dull red. His eyes were very sharp and bright. He stood up, spoke very softly, breathlessly, as if it was hard for him to get all the words