Davidian Report by Dorothy B. Hughes Read Free Book Online Page A

upstairs and down behind the lace curtains of Mr. Oriole’s. It would be worth a penny to see Oriole’s face if he beheld Steve Wintress in a Fed car.
    Early dusk covered the Strip. Reuben wasn’t talkative; he was sight-seeing out the window, getting his kicks out of the scrawled signature of Ciro’s, the awning of the Mocambo. Peering into passing Cad convertibles for movie stars. The car followed the old bridle path on Sunset into Beverly. They didn’t hesitate at the hotel, yeah. Haig had gone ahead. They rolled up the Canyon and through open gates tonight to the front steps of French Provincial grandeur. The grandeur was sustained. Feather wasn’t at the door; a white-coated Philippine boy, twin to the Balboa’s elevator operator, took their hats and whispered, “This way, please.”
    The hall wasn’t so much, it only smelled of money with its icy candelabra and polished rosewood. The library, to which they were escorted, was something else. A vastly warm room of books in maple, of soft-patterned couches and deep chairs, of winter roses in silver bowls; a room of giant eucalyptus logs burning in a mammoth white brick fireplace. Haig Armour stood by the fire at the far end of the room, Feather jumped up out of the pillows on the elongated primrose couch. She was dwarfed by the enormity of the room and she looked childlike in the white satin shirt, the slender trousers of blue-black velvet. She’d discarded her horn-rims, her face lifted like a crystal flower out of the satin ruff at her throat.
    “I’m so happy you could come,” she recited, her pale hair swinging against her cheeks. She didn’t say it happy.
    Haig was as easy as she was rehearsed. “Hello, Steve. Hello, Reuben. You boys get rested up today?”
    Steve said, “Hello,” and turned his eyes on the low table with setups of the finest silver and glass.
    Feather said, “Won’t you help yourself? I’m not good at mixing.”
    Steve poured a good one of bourbon, the best bourbon. He added enough soda, gave place to Reuben, and made himself comfortable on the couch. Reuben and Haig carried their drinks over to the bookshelves as if they were interested in literature. His eyes followed them briefly, returned to the girl. He punched a cushion, his fist sinking into the down and leaving no imprint. “Sit down, lady,” he directed her. As if he didn’t know, he said, “And what do you do for a living?”
    She curled in the corner. “Nothing yet. I want to be a dancer.”
    “Why not?”
    “I mean a really good one. It takes so long, and then you’re too old.”
    He tested the drink. Potent. “I used to know a dancer. She was a good one, too. In great demand, every night.” You weren’t permitted to mix business and liquor. It wasn’t orthodox. He got away with it because he could do a dangerous piece of work better than anyone in the outfit. And unless he could do it his way, it wasn’t done. They were afraid a guy would start talking if he drank, and on that, they were right. But it wasn’t necessary to talk. He never talked unless it came in handy.
    Reuben and Haig were still among the books. Steve moved a little closer to Feather, she in turn pushed herself further into the corner cushion. “What do you want to dance for? With this setup?”
    “It isn’t mine,” she said defensively. “My aunt married it.” Her fingers were white and rigid against the cushion, as if she would spring if he edged nearer. He wanted to try it just to see how far she could jump. Her question halted him. “Where did she dance?”
    “In Berlin.” He looked unseeing into the amber of his glass. His voice was hard. “You didn’t ask me what she danced for. I’ll tell you. She danced for nylons and a good lipstick—and a bed.”
    Feather sucked in her breath. He turned his head slowly, looked her over from the smooth crown of her petal head, down her thin body to her velvet toes. “You wouldn’t, would you? You’d go without. But when you got