Night Squad by David Goodis

construction worker was studying Corey's eyes, his own eyes blinking and his expression somewhat uneasy. Then without saying anything he faced away from Corey, bending low over the bar and staring past a double rye.

          Carp still stood there, placidly rubbing his hands together, like a fly rubbing its feelers. Over the top of the little man's head Corey saw Lillian getting up from the table and starting toward the side door. In his brain he pressed a button that had no connection with a woman named Lillian, the name on the button was Delbert Kingsley.

          The button was wired to the deal last night in the alley off Second Street, when he hid behind the fence and saw the face of Delbert Kingsley, the man's eyes scanning the alley.

          He took hold of Carp's shoulders and turned the little man so that he faced the side door. At that moment Lillian was approaching the door. Corey said to Carp, “You see that dame? The one walking out? You know her?”

          Carp shook his head.

          “That offer you made,” Corey said. “That trust and friendship. You wanna prove it?”

          “Most assuredly,” the little man said.

          “Follow her,” Corey murmured. “Find out where she lives.”

          Carp glided away. As he neared the side door, he lifted someone's double bourbon. Nellie made a try for him and he slithered away from her clutching hands. He was gulping bourbon as he exited from the taproom.

          Corey turned and faced the bar. He ordered more gin. But when it arrived he didn't grab for it. He reached for it slowly and then sipped it absently, not really needing it anymore. His thinking was all mechanical; he was telling himself that these were working hours and he ought to be working. He ought to be making a report to his employer.

          He finished the gin and walked from the Hangout and headed north on Second Street, going toward Grogan's house.

----
    His finger pressed the doorbell. It was the fourth time he'd pressed it. Now he kept his finger on the button. Finally the door opened and a girl wearing a maid's uniform with the collar ripped and her dark hair mussed stood there breathing hard, her eyes wet. She was in her early twenties and there was something Far Eastern in her features. He guessed she was East Indian. On the slim side, her hips very narrow, she seemed just a bit too fragile for whatever action had caused the tears. As he looked closer, he saw a cut near the corner of her mouth. It was bleeding slightly.

          “Yes?” she murmured, looking away from him while pressing a fingertip against her cut lip. “What is you want, please?”

          “Mr. Grogan.”

          “You are who?”

          “Bradford.”

          “Bradford what? You give me full name, please. You tell me—”

          From behind the girl, fingers pulled at her and she was yanked backward, then shoved aside. Now Lita was standing in the doorway, the platinum hair only slightly out of place, the dark green eyes tiny green-yellow torches. She was wearing a two-piece outfit that left her midriff bare. It was a pale green silk halter and toreador pants. “Very nice,” Corey murmured, looking at her navel.

          “What do you want?” Lita asked impatiently. She seemed anxious to get back to her discussion with the girl.

          “Is he here?” Corey asked.

          “He's occupied right now. He's upstairs.”

          “So I'll wait. I'll just come in and wait. I can wait a few minutes.”

          “It'll be longer than that,” she said.

          “How long?”

          “At least an hour.”

          “What's he doin'?”

          She didn't answer. She glanced backward at the East Indian girl. The girl was leaning against the wall of the vestibule, making whimpering noises.

          “You wait,” Lita promised her. “You just wait.” And then to Corey,