Chicago, and they ship in the specialists.” She picked up her pencil, doodled on her desk pad. “Even then, he doesn’t have last say. He hasto get an okay from the boys higher up.”
Liddell nodded. “I know how the Syndicate operates. Who’s Stanley’s boss?”
The columnist looked up from her doodling, dropped her eyes again. “I wouldn’t go into that, if I were you, unless I had to. All you wanted to know was where Shad Reilly’s been gambling. Now you know, what were you figuring on doing about it?”
Liddell shrugged. “Go out and have a talk with Stanley. Find out what the damage is and try to settle it. Once we’ve got that cleared up, the kid can come out of his hole and I can go home.”. He got up out of his chair, leaned over the desk. “But before I do go home, there’s one more favor I’m going to ask you, Lulu.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to ask you for a peek at the file you’ve got built up on Muggsy. I’ll bet it’s a pip.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Y ALE S TANLEY ’ S D UDE R ANCH was a sprawling white frame building perched above the ocean, roughly two miles north of Laguna. A long, winding gravel driveway led from the state road to the entrance.
Johnny Liddell turned the rented car over to the doorman, a big six footer in a maroon uniform. The doorman motioned with his hamlike hands and an attendant materialized from the gloom, climbed into the car, swung it expertly away from the building in the direction of the parking-lot beyond.
“Do you have a reservation, mister?” the doorman asked in a surprisingly gentle voice. “They’re pretty crowded in there tonight.”
Liddell shook his head. “Who would I see?”
The doorman looked down at the folded bill in Liddell’s hand, tilted his hat back on his head. “Ask for Stack. He runs the place for Yale.” He reached over, snagged the bill from between Liddell’s fingers, grinned broadly.
Liddell led the way up the short flight of stairs into the Ranch. He checked his hat in the foyer, walked through into a brightly lighted barroom. He found Muggsy a bar stool and squeezed in beside her.
The white-jacketed barman came over, flashed a smile from a pair of thin lips, wiped off the bar with a circular motion. His hair was parted in the middle and brushed down and back. His eyes were watery, red rimmed. “What’ll it be, folks?”
“Two bourbon and water,” Liddell told him.
The barman nodded, reached back to the back bar, snagged a bottle of Harper. He produced a couple of shot glasses from under the bar, filled them to the brim.
“How are chances of getting inside?” Liddell asked.
The bartender shrugged, picked up two bills from the bar, rang up the drinks, slid some silver back. “I wouldn’t know, mister. I just work here.” He flatfooted it back to the bar, didn’t seem to care whether Liddell saw him push the button on the back bar or not.
Muggsy tasted the bourbon and approved. “As long as you’re going to get clipped, these are the proper surroundings for it. We going into the casino?”
Liddell watched out of the corner of his eye as a tuxedoed man went up to the bartender, conferred with him. The bartender looked down to where they were standing, nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the whole thing. The man in the tuxedo walked down to where they stood.
“Good evening, sir.” His voice had the faintest trace of accent. “Do you have a reservation?”
Liddell shook his head. “Just drove out on the spur of the moment.”
The man in the tuxedo tilted the corners of his lips mechanically, didn’t change expression. “I’m very sorry, sir.We are full up.”
“Stack around?”
“Mr. Stack?” The headwaiter’s eyebrows arched. “Are you a friend of his?” He tapped his pencil against his teeth indecisively.
“Try him and see.”
The headwaiter hesitated, then walked over to a phone set on the wall at the far side of the bar. He pressed one of the buttons on its base, held the
Liddell nodded. “I know how the Syndicate operates. Who’s Stanley’s boss?”
The columnist looked up from her doodling, dropped her eyes again. “I wouldn’t go into that, if I were you, unless I had to. All you wanted to know was where Shad Reilly’s been gambling. Now you know, what were you figuring on doing about it?”
Liddell shrugged. “Go out and have a talk with Stanley. Find out what the damage is and try to settle it. Once we’ve got that cleared up, the kid can come out of his hole and I can go home.”. He got up out of his chair, leaned over the desk. “But before I do go home, there’s one more favor I’m going to ask you, Lulu.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to ask you for a peek at the file you’ve got built up on Muggsy. I’ll bet it’s a pip.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Y ALE S TANLEY ’ S D UDE R ANCH was a sprawling white frame building perched above the ocean, roughly two miles north of Laguna. A long, winding gravel driveway led from the state road to the entrance.
Johnny Liddell turned the rented car over to the doorman, a big six footer in a maroon uniform. The doorman motioned with his hamlike hands and an attendant materialized from the gloom, climbed into the car, swung it expertly away from the building in the direction of the parking-lot beyond.
“Do you have a reservation, mister?” the doorman asked in a surprisingly gentle voice. “They’re pretty crowded in there tonight.”
Liddell shook his head. “Who would I see?”
The doorman looked down at the folded bill in Liddell’s hand, tilted his hat back on his head. “Ask for Stack. He runs the place for Yale.” He reached over, snagged the bill from between Liddell’s fingers, grinned broadly.
Liddell led the way up the short flight of stairs into the Ranch. He checked his hat in the foyer, walked through into a brightly lighted barroom. He found Muggsy a bar stool and squeezed in beside her.
The white-jacketed barman came over, flashed a smile from a pair of thin lips, wiped off the bar with a circular motion. His hair was parted in the middle and brushed down and back. His eyes were watery, red rimmed. “What’ll it be, folks?”
“Two bourbon and water,” Liddell told him.
The barman nodded, reached back to the back bar, snagged a bottle of Harper. He produced a couple of shot glasses from under the bar, filled them to the brim.
“How are chances of getting inside?” Liddell asked.
The bartender shrugged, picked up two bills from the bar, rang up the drinks, slid some silver back. “I wouldn’t know, mister. I just work here.” He flatfooted it back to the bar, didn’t seem to care whether Liddell saw him push the button on the back bar or not.
Muggsy tasted the bourbon and approved. “As long as you’re going to get clipped, these are the proper surroundings for it. We going into the casino?”
Liddell watched out of the corner of his eye as a tuxedoed man went up to the bartender, conferred with him. The bartender looked down to where they were standing, nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the whole thing. The man in the tuxedo walked down to where they stood.
“Good evening, sir.” His voice had the faintest trace of accent. “Do you have a reservation?”
Liddell shook his head. “Just drove out on the spur of the moment.”
The man in the tuxedo tilted the corners of his lips mechanically, didn’t change expression. “I’m very sorry, sir.We are full up.”
“Stack around?”
“Mr. Stack?” The headwaiter’s eyebrows arched. “Are you a friend of his?” He tapped his pencil against his teeth indecisively.
“Try him and see.”
The headwaiter hesitated, then walked over to a phone set on the wall at the far side of the bar. He pressed one of the buttons on its base, held the
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