“Thank you, Cesare,” she said softly.
His eyes were somber. “It is nothing,” he replied. “After all, we must stick together. We’re the last remnants of a dying civilization.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she said quickly. “You make everything sound so hopeless.”
He looked at her and in his eyes she could see the emptiness of futility. The inexplicable sorrow welled up in her. She kissed him and her hand dropped to his thigh. Her fingers felt the quick response of his muscle to her touch. She tightened her grip.
“Come,” she said gently, a peculiar maternalism stirring inside her. He was tortured as her father was tortured. “I’ll help you to relax.”
Of this one thing she was sure. She knew everything that could make a man forget. And make herself forget too.
Big Dutch, looking back through the rear window of the limousine parked near the corner, saw them come out of El Morocco. “Start your motor,” he said to the driver.
The tall doorman signaled for a cab. Big Dutch saw Ileana say something to Cesare. Cesare smiled and shook his head at the doorman. They turned and began to walk up the block away from him.
He swore angrily. Four nights they had cased the job and every night they had taken a cab. “They’re walkin’,” he said. “Go up Fifty-Third. We’ll try to pick them up on Lexington Avenue.”
But when they turned north on Lexington and sped toward the corner, they shot right past them. Ileana and Cesare were on the far side of the street and just turning up Fifty-Third toward Park Avenue. Big Dutch caught a glimpse of them as they turned. “Damn it! We missed them!” He swore. “Get over to Fifty-Fifth and come down Park. We’ll try to pick ’em up there.”
The driver turned a white anxious face back toward him. “I don’t like this, boss,” he said nervously. “Maybe we better hit ’em another night.” He turned forward just in time to miss colliding with a milk truck. The big limousine swerved up Fifty-Fifth Street.
“You keep your eyes on the road,” Big Dutch snarled. “I said it’s gonna be tonight.”
He stared down the street impatiently as they waited for the traffic light on Park Avenue. It had to be tonight. His wife was blowing a fuse. He had been out every night casing this job and he didn’t know if she would stand for another.
The light changed and the car began to move. “There they are,” he said. They were just crossing the pavilion in front of the Seagram Building. They stopped to look at the lights playing on the fountain.
“Turn at Fifty-Second,” Big Dutch said, reaching for the tommy gun on the seat beside him. “We’ll hit him when he comes down the steps!”
The big car turned and stopped near the east corner. Big Dutch looked around. The street was deserted. He looked up at the pavilion. Cesare and Ileana were just strolling casually toward the near fountain.
He picked up the gun and lined them up in his sights. It would be a cinch. He smiled. If you wanted a job well done, you had to do it yourself. There was no use in trusting the punk kids nowadays. They were always horsing around, never paying enough attention to business. Another moment and the couple would be just where he wanted them.
Cesare and Ileana reached the top of the steps next to the fountain. He had Cesare squarely in his sights. “Now!” he shouted and squeezed the trigger.
The driver stepped on the accelerator and the motor roared together with the gun. The submachine gun fired twice and jammed. He saw Cesare’s face turn toward him in the lights from the building; at the same time, the car began to move.
Frantically he tried to clear the jammed gun. He stole a quick glance at the building in time to see Cesare pushing Ileana into the fountain and diving behind the small wall. He cursed, pulling the clear lever. It was no use.
By this time they were turning the corner at Lexington Avenue. Through the rear window, he saw Cesare pull the girl out of the fountain. Then they were hidden behind the buildings as the car raced down the street. Angrily he threw the useless tommy gun on the seat beside him.
The driver turned the car down another street. “Yuh get him, boss?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Nah!” Big Dutch growled.
The driver turned the car onto Third Avenue. “Where to, now, boss?” he asked almost cheerfully.
“Downtown to the union office,” Big Dutch said. As he spoke there was a loud report and he grabbed for the gun in his pocket.
Almost immediately the big car began to bump and lurch. The driver pulled over to the curb. “We got a flat,” he announced.
Big Dutch stared at him for a moment. “So what else is new?” he snarled, getting out of the car. He flagged down a passing taxi.
“It was no use,” he thought, getting into the cab. There were some nights that nothing went right.
15
“Are you all right?” Cesare asked, as he pulled her, dripping, from the fountain.
Her eyes were wide and frightened. “Cesare, those men were shooting at you?” she asked.
He glanced around quickly. People were starting to come out of the building. “Don’t talk,” he said, quickly moving her down to the curb and into a cab.
“The Towers, driver,” he said. The taxi started and he turned to her. “Are you all right?” he asked again.
She was still dazed. “I’m all right,” she answered automatically. She looked down at herself. “My new dress! It’s ruined!”
He smiled grimly. “Don’t complain. You were lucky.”
She stared at him, a growing knowledge in her eyes. “Those men were shooting at you!” she said.
“I don’t know,” he answered sarcastically. “I didn’t have time to ask them.”
She began to shiver. He took off his coat and placed it around her shoulders. His eyes were cold and hard. “I don’t want anyone to know about this. Understand? Anyone,” he said harshly.
She nodded. “I understand,” she said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. Her hand sought his and a hint of sadness came into her voice. “Maybe you’re in more trouble than I am, my friend,” she said softly.
The taxi stopped in front of the hotel and they got out. The doorman looked curiously at Ileana as she walked into the building while Cesare paid the driver.
He held a twenty-dollar bill in his hand so that the driver could see it. “You never brought us here,” he said.
The bill disappeared in the driver’s hand. “I never even picked you up,” he said cheerfully, driving off.
Cesare opened the door to her room. He stepped back to let her enter. “Get into something dry,” he said.
She hesitated in the doorway. “Maybe I’d better go upstairs with you,” she said. “I’m afraid to be alone tonight.”
“No,” he said quickly. Then he looked at her. It might be a good idea to spend the night with her. “Let me change my clothes too,” he said. “Then I’ll come back in a little while.”
Big Dutch sat in his empty office in the Union Hall and stared at the bottle of whisky on his desk. He picked it up and poured himself another drink. From downstairs came the faint sounds of the morning check-off. He picked up the glass and swallowed the liquor. It burned its way down his throat.
Maybe the others were right after all. He was too big a man to go out on jobs like these. It was better to leave them to the punk kids even if they weren’t as good as he was. They had less to lose.
Nostalgically he thought about his youth. They were the good old days. Everything was wide open then. You called a spade a spade, and if somebody crossed you, you went after them. You didn’t have to wait for no lousy council to have a meet first and then decide what to do.
He remembered the time that Lep called him and Sam Vanicola down to the little speakeasy in Brooklyn. “I want you and Sam to take a little drive up to Monticello and burn Varsity Vic,” he had said. “He’s getting too big for himself.”
“Okay, Lep,” they answered and went over to the bar and got six bottles of whisky to keep them compan
y on the long ride.
When they got outside, they had an argument over whose car to take. He didn’t like Sam’s Chevy and Sam didn’t like his Jewett. So they compromised and heisted a big Pierce from in front of one of the mansions on Brooklyn Heights.
It was about a five-hour drive in those days and close to two o’clock in the morning when they pulled up in front of Varsity Vic’s roadhouse. They had about three bottles of whisky left in the car.
They got out of the car and stretched. “Take a whiff of this air,” Sam had said. “It smells different than the city. Clean. Boy, this is the place to live.”
He still remembered the crickets chirping as they went inside. The place was fairly crowded and the last floor show was on. They stopped in the doorway and looked at the girls dancing a variation of the Black Bottom on the darkened dance floor. “Hey! Look at that one!” he had chortled. “The third from the end. That’s for me. Them boobs bounce around like rubber balls!”
“We ain’t got the time for that,” Sam had said, pulling him over to the bar. “We’re workin’. Let’s get another drink.”
“Private stock,” Sam ordered.
The bartender put the bottle of whisky in front of them. “What brings you guys up from the city?” he asked sourly.
“We were takin’ a drive,” Big Dutch answered cheerfully. “It was hot in town.”
“It was plenty hot up here too,” the bartender said.
“Gettin’ plenty of action, I see,” Sam said, leaning on the bar.
“Good and bad,” the bartender said noncommittally.
“Is Vic around?” Sam asked casually.
“I ain’t seen him tonight,” the bartender replied, equally casual.
The number was over and the girls picked their way past the bar as they went back to the dressing rooms. He leaned over and jiggled the breast of the girl as she passed him.
She turned quickly and looked at him. “Fresh!” she said, smiling, and walked on.
“I can fix that for you,” the bartender said meaningfully.
“I’ll take you up on that sometime,” he answered, looking after the girl.
He looked at Sam and nodded. Sam turned and started for the manager’s office. The bartender bent over the button that flashed a signal into the room.
“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” he said, smiling genially.
Slowly the bartender straightened up. He came down the bar, polishing the top with his cloth. “It’s none of my business anyway,” he said. “I’m just the barkeep here.”
“That’s right,” he agreed. “Just leave it like that.” He walked off and joined Sam at the door to the office.
They went in. Varsity Vic was sitting behind his desk. He looked up. A smile crossed his face. “Come in, fellas,” he said.
They closed the door behind them. “We got a message from the Boss,” he said. “He wants a meet.”
“Okay,” Varsity Vic answered. He looked across the room at his bodyguard, who promptly got to his feet. “Just let me know. I’ll come down whenever he wants.”
“He wants right now,” he said.
Varsity Vic stared up at him. “Make it tomorrow. I can’t come right now.”
They turned as if to start out. The bodyguard began to smile and put away his gun. Sam knocked him cold with one punch. They turned back to Varsity Vic.
“You know the Boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he said.
Varsity Vic’s face had been white as they walked out of the roadhouse with him between them. The bartender sourly watched them go and kept polishing the same spot over and over with his rag.
He had gotten into the back seat with Varsity Vic and Sam got into the front to drive. As soon as they had pulled away from the roadhouse, he picked up another bottle of whisky and pulled the cork with his teeth. He held the bottle toward Vic.
“Have a drink,” he offered. “You look cold.”
Varsity Vic shook his head.
“Go ahead,” he urged. “This is good stuff. Not like that crud you sell back there.”
Still Varsity Vic shook his head. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin and almost cracking. “I’ll give you guys a grand if you’ll let me out of this car.”
Big Dutch had taken another swill from the bottle. He looked at him silently without answering.
“I’ll make it two grand,” Vic said quickly. “How much are you guys getting for this job anyway? A hundred? A hundred and fifty? Two grand’s a lot of dough.”
“You hear him, Sam?” he called.
“I hear him,” came the reply.
“Got the dough on ya’?” he asked.
“Right here in my pocket,” Vic answered, touching his jacket.
“Okay,” he said. He looked around. They were out in the country now. There were no houses around. “Pull off the road, Sam,” he called.
The car jounced to a stop on the soft ground. “Gimme the dough,” he said.
Varsity Vic had taken his wallet out with trembling hands. Quickly he counted out the money on the seat. “Two grand,” he said. “You guys are lucky. That was all the dough I had on me.” He held up the empty wallet.
“Yeah,” he said, “we’re lucky. Now get out.”
Varsity Vic opened the door of the car and stepped out. He turned back to the car. “Thanks, fellas,” he said. “I won’t forget this.”
“I’ll bet you won’t.” Sam laughed, squeezing the trigger of his automatic.
The heavy 45-caliber slugs threw Varsity Vic about ten feet back into the bushes. They got out of the car and walked over to look at him. The body twitched and then lay still.
“Siphon some gas out of the tank and douse him with it,” he said.
“What for?” Sam asked.
“Lep said, ‘Burn him,’ and when the Boss says something, he means what he says.”
Then they sat on the running board of the Pierce and drank the remaining bottles of whisky while they watched the fire. When they went to start the car, they found that Sam had taken all the gas from the tank and they had to walk three miles before they could steal another car and get back to the city.
Big Dutch leaned forward on the desk and sighed. He poured another drink. The good old days. They were gone all right. Lep and Sam were gone too. Lep had gone to the chair and Sam had caught the knife in the pool.
He picked up his drink and looked at it. Everything looked like gold through a whisky glass. It was the guineas’ fault. He never believed that Sam really would talk. Not good old Sam. Sam was his pal. But they killed him anyway. They were like leeches: once they got on your back, they never let go. But this time it would be different. This time he would show them.
He swallowed the drink and reached for the telephone. Might as well call the old lady and let her know he was on his way home. She would be mad enough anyway.
He was busy dialing and he didn’t see Cesare opening the door.
It was just before dawn that she heard his key turn the lock. “Is that you, Cesare?” she asked.
His voice was flat and tense. “Yes.”
Then he was at the side of her bed, stripping off his clothes in a violent kind of haste. He came into her bed, his body hard and trembling. He seized her breasts.
Pain and fear came up together inside her. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Cesare,” she managed to laugh. “One would almost think you’re an American!”
16
Cesare was raising his glass of orange juice to his lips when Tonio came bustling in. “Mr. Baker to see you, Excellency,” he announced.
Cesare nodded. “Show him in,” he said. He drank his orange juice and got to his feet as Baker came into the dining room.
“Mr. Baker,” he said. “I did not expect to see you so soon again. Do sit down and have some coffee.”
Baker sat down and studied Cesare while Tonio filled a coffee cup and set it down before him. Cesare returned his gaze evenly. “I see you had a little trouble last night,” Baker said.
“I did?” Cesare replied politely. “What makes you say that?”
“The morning papers,” Baker said.
“I did not see them.”
Baker looked at the folded newspaper next to Cesare’s cup. “What’s that?” he asked pointedly.
Cesare looked down at the table. He looked up again at Baker, a faint hint of a smile in his eyes. “The Wall Street Journal. It’s the only paper I read. For business.”
Baker could feel his face flush. He reached in his overcoat pocket and took out a copy of the Daily News. He spread it on the table in front of Cesare silently.
Cesare looked down at it. The half-page headline seemed to leap up at him:
STILETTO STRIKES AGAIN!
BIG DUTCH MURDERED!
Cesare looked up at Baker. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” he said. “I told you I didn’t know the man.”
“On page five there’s another story,” Baker said. “A little after midnight a man and a woman were shot at on Park Avenue in front of the Seagram Building. The woman fell into the fountain. They hurried away before they were recognized.”
Cesare buttered some toast. “So?” he asked.
“This Baroness you came in with last night. The doorman said her dress was soaking wet.”
“No one shot at me,” Cesare said, adding some jam to the butter on his toast.
Baker sipped at his coffee. “That still doesn’t explain how the lady got her dress wet.”
Ileana appeared in the doorway behind him. “Why don’t you ask the lady?” she said, coming into the room.
The men got to their feet. Cesare introduced them. “Mr. Baker is with the F.B.I.,” he added.
Ileana’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. She turned to Cesare. “Are you in trouble?” she asked in a concerned voice.
Cesare smiled. “I don’t think so. But Mr. Baker thinks some people are trying to kill me.”
Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double Page 59
