Claus."
"Well, I'm Santa Claus too. Here's something for your stocking." Powell dropped
the official police description and portrait of Barbara D'Courtney on the
secretary's desk.
"What a beautiful girl," she exclaimed.
"I want this sent out on the grapevine. Marked urgent. A reward goes with it.
Pass the word that the peeper who locates Barbara D'Courtney for me will have
his Guild taxes remitted for a year."
"Jeepers!" the secretary sat bolt upright. "Can you do that?"
"I think I'm big enough in Council to swing it."
"This'll make the grapevine jump."
"I want it to jump. I want every peeper to jump. If I want anything for Xmas, I
want that girl."
Quizzard's Casino had been cleaned and polished during the afternoon break...
the only break in a gambler's day. The EO and Roulette tables were brushed, the
Birdcage sparkled, the Hazard and Bank Crap boards gleamed green and white. In
crystal globes, the ivory dice glistened like sugar cubes. On the cashier's
desk, sovereigns, the standard coin of gambling and the underworld, were racked
in tempting stacks. Ben Reich sat at the billiard table with Jerry Church and
Keno Quizzard, the blind croupier. Quizzard was a giant pulp-like man, fat, with
flaming red beard, dead white skin, and malevolent dead white eyes.
"Your price," Reich told Church, "you know already. And I'm warning you, Jerry.
If you know what's good for you, don't try to peep me. I'm poison. If you get
into my head you're getting into Demolition. Think about it."
"Jesus," Quizzard murmured in his sour voice. "As bad as that? I don't banker
for a Demolition, Reich."
"Who does? What do you hanker for, Keno?"
"A question." Quizzard reached back and with sure fingers pulled a rouleau of
sovereigns off the desk. He let them cascade from one hand to the other. "Listen
to what I hanker for."
"Name the best price you can figure, Keno."
"What's it for?"
"To hell with that. I'm buying unlimited service with expenses paid. You tell me
how much I've got to put up to get it---guaranteed."
"That's a lot of service."
"I've got a lot of money."
"You got a hundred Ms laying around?"
"One hundred thousand. Right? That's the price."
"For the love of..." Church popped upright and stared at Reich. "A hundred
thousand?"
"Make up your mind, Jerry," Reich growled. "Do you want money or reinstatement?"
"It's almost worth---No. Am I crazy? I'll take reinstatement."
"Then stop drooling." Reich turned to Quizzard. "The price is one hundred
thousand."
"In sovereigns?"
"What else? Now, d'you want me to put the money up in advance or can we get to
work right off?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Reich," Quizzard protested.
"Frab that," Reich snapped. "I know you, Keno. You've got an idea you can find
out what I want and then shop around for higher bids. I want you committed right
now. That's why I let you set the price."
"Yeah," Quizzard said slowly. "I had that idea, Reich." He smiled and the
milk-white eyes disappeared in folds of skin. "I still got that idea."
"Then I'll tell you right now who'll buy from you. A man named Lincoln Powell.
Trouble is, I don't know what he'd pay."
"Whatever it is, I don't want it." Quizzard spat.
"It's me against Powell, Keno. That's the whole auction. I've placed my bid. I'm
still waiting to hear from you."
"It's a deal," Quizzard replied.
"All right," Reich said, "now listen to this. First job. I want a girl. Her name
is Barbara D'Courtney."
"The killing?" Quizzard nodded heavily. "I thought so."
"Any objections?"
Quizzard jingled gold from one hand to the other and shook his head.
"I want the girl. She blew out of the Beaumont House last night and no one knows
where she landed. I want her, Keno. I want her before the police get her."
Quizzard nodded.
"She's about twenty-five. About five-five. Around a hundred and twenty pounds.
Stacked. Thin waist. Long legs..."
The fat lips smiled hungrily. The dead white eyes glistened.
"Yellow hair. Black eyes.
"Well, I'm Santa Claus too. Here's something for your stocking." Powell dropped
the official police description and portrait of Barbara D'Courtney on the
secretary's desk.
"What a beautiful girl," she exclaimed.
"I want this sent out on the grapevine. Marked urgent. A reward goes with it.
Pass the word that the peeper who locates Barbara D'Courtney for me will have
his Guild taxes remitted for a year."
"Jeepers!" the secretary sat bolt upright. "Can you do that?"
"I think I'm big enough in Council to swing it."
"This'll make the grapevine jump."
"I want it to jump. I want every peeper to jump. If I want anything for Xmas, I
want that girl."
Quizzard's Casino had been cleaned and polished during the afternoon break...
the only break in a gambler's day. The EO and Roulette tables were brushed, the
Birdcage sparkled, the Hazard and Bank Crap boards gleamed green and white. In
crystal globes, the ivory dice glistened like sugar cubes. On the cashier's
desk, sovereigns, the standard coin of gambling and the underworld, were racked
in tempting stacks. Ben Reich sat at the billiard table with Jerry Church and
Keno Quizzard, the blind croupier. Quizzard was a giant pulp-like man, fat, with
flaming red beard, dead white skin, and malevolent dead white eyes.
"Your price," Reich told Church, "you know already. And I'm warning you, Jerry.
If you know what's good for you, don't try to peep me. I'm poison. If you get
into my head you're getting into Demolition. Think about it."
"Jesus," Quizzard murmured in his sour voice. "As bad as that? I don't banker
for a Demolition, Reich."
"Who does? What do you hanker for, Keno?"
"A question." Quizzard reached back and with sure fingers pulled a rouleau of
sovereigns off the desk. He let them cascade from one hand to the other. "Listen
to what I hanker for."
"Name the best price you can figure, Keno."
"What's it for?"
"To hell with that. I'm buying unlimited service with expenses paid. You tell me
how much I've got to put up to get it---guaranteed."
"That's a lot of service."
"I've got a lot of money."
"You got a hundred Ms laying around?"
"One hundred thousand. Right? That's the price."
"For the love of..." Church popped upright and stared at Reich. "A hundred
thousand?"
"Make up your mind, Jerry," Reich growled. "Do you want money or reinstatement?"
"It's almost worth---No. Am I crazy? I'll take reinstatement."
"Then stop drooling." Reich turned to Quizzard. "The price is one hundred
thousand."
"In sovereigns?"
"What else? Now, d'you want me to put the money up in advance or can we get to
work right off?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Reich," Quizzard protested.
"Frab that," Reich snapped. "I know you, Keno. You've got an idea you can find
out what I want and then shop around for higher bids. I want you committed right
now. That's why I let you set the price."
"Yeah," Quizzard said slowly. "I had that idea, Reich." He smiled and the
milk-white eyes disappeared in folds of skin. "I still got that idea."
"Then I'll tell you right now who'll buy from you. A man named Lincoln Powell.
Trouble is, I don't know what he'd pay."
"Whatever it is, I don't want it." Quizzard spat.
"It's me against Powell, Keno. That's the whole auction. I've placed my bid. I'm
still waiting to hear from you."
"It's a deal," Quizzard replied.
"All right," Reich said, "now listen to this. First job. I want a girl. Her name
is Barbara D'Courtney."
"The killing?" Quizzard nodded heavily. "I thought so."
"Any objections?"
Quizzard jingled gold from one hand to the other and shook his head.
"I want the girl. She blew out of the Beaumont House last night and no one knows
where she landed. I want her, Keno. I want her before the police get her."
Quizzard nodded.
"She's about twenty-five. About five-five. Around a hundred and twenty pounds.
Stacked. Thin waist. Long legs..."
The fat lips smiled hungrily. The dead white eyes glistened.
"Yellow hair. Black eyes.
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