by Robert Colby
And finally, if you’re outnumbered and you ever have the gun taken away from you, you’re dead.
So as I held the gun in my hand. I thought about it very seriously. In the end I put it away. Because another idea came to me.
I went out to the balcony and took a look at the stone partition, the wall which separated me from the second bedroom. The wall which Markos had scaled.
It was about ten feet high and most women would never make it. But I am agile and much stronger than I look. I am trained to meet physical situations head-on. It wouldn’t be the first wall I had gone over.
I took off my shoes and squeezed them into my pocketbook. I did a practice jump, straight up, and missed. I tried again. Missed. The third time my hands caught the top of the wall. I just wanted to be sure I could do it.
Next I got some bobby pins from my bag and fixed my skirt and slip so that they were fastened up around my waist. A skirt, especially the sheath variety, can be a real problem when you need your legs free.
Now I held the bag between my teeth and I was ready. I had the distance measured and I made it on the first jump. I pulled myself up, up, until my chin was over. I got my leg up there and hooked my heel on the edge of the wall. In a moment I was sitting astride the top. I hauled the other leg over and eased down, jumped the remaining few feet.
I prayed that if that sliding glass door to the bedroom had a lock, it wasn’t bolted. It wasn’t. I slipped in. The room was dark.
I looked for a phone. In this room there wasn’t one. Damn! Well, I hadn’t counted on it. The door was open a crack. I listened and heard voices. I couldn’t make them out. I figured that in time Remick would look in on me again. Maybe he had tipped Markos that my door was locked in the first place. Anyway, he would go in there and he would find me gone. For a minute he would search around and then he would report to the others. But first he might just catch on to the wall. And that would never do. I needed some kind of distraction that would keep him from thinking very much at all.
I went back to the balcony. I made another leap up the face of that wall, this time leaving my pocketbook below I caught the top and hoisted myself until my head was over. I faced towards the room and let out a giant scream. And then another. Sure enough, I heard Remick come bulling into the room. I dropped down and soon his feet scuffed on the other balcony. By this time I had my shoes on, my skirt was pulled down, the bag was in my hand. I leapt into the room and stood by the door.
Remick went thundering down the hall. I heard his shout.
“The goddamn bitch has jumped or something! I can’t find ‘er!”
Ahhhh. Just what I wanted. In a moment I saw them all go scampering past, into the other bedroom. That’s when I raced out on my toes to the living room. I reached under the sofa and got the mini-tape. I dropped it into my bag. I ran for the door.
I had it open. I looked back once. They had caught on. Markos was in the lead, Tarino following. I slammed the door behind me, practically in their faces.
I went flying down that short flight of stairs, stumbling, recovering. I gained the corridor and pushed as fast as I could go for the elevators. The tight skirt hampered me. I looked over my shoulder. They were just leaping from the stairs. I knew they were going to catch me.
I rounded a bend and saw the elevator bank. No luck. The cars were all down on other floors and not a human being in sight. There were stairs but they would grab me before I made the first landing. I searched around frantically.
Suddenly a door opened — a room off a branch corridor. A thick-set balding man with glasses stepped out. I never lost stride. I had reached him before he pulled the door to. I crashed in He stepped back into the room with this astonished gaping expression.
“Well, f’Crissake, f’Crissake!” he said He sounded slightly loaded.
“Some awful man is after me,” I said weakly. “He he tried to rape me. Will you please for God’s sake, shut the door. And lock it, lock it!”
He gave me a kind of confused, hungry look and pushed the door. He bolted it
“Well, sure,” he said. “F’Crissake. Poor kid. Stay here as long as you like. All night if you want. How ‘bout a little drinky, huh?”
“No drinky,” I said. “But thanks. Maybe later, huh? Right now my brother is waiting for me in the lobby.”
“Your brother?”
I nodded. “He’s a soldier. Home on leave. If he finds out some man was in my room — well, I just don’t know what that big ape would do to me.”
That sobered him a little. “What next then, honey?”
“Go out and see if there’s anyone in the corridor. If not, ring for an elevator and come back.”
He stalled, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief. “But I’ll see you later, won’t I, honey?”
“Of course, of course, dear man.”
“Charlie. Charlie Gates.”
“Charlie, then. Now hurry, hurry!”
He went out, first peeking up and down the corridor. He returned in half a minute.
“All set,” he said. “The joint is deserted. I buzzed the elevator.”
“Good, good! I can’t thank you enough.” I meant it. I went to the door.
“What’s your name?”
“Angelica. Just call me Angel.”
“You are, oh, you are!” He reached for one of my breasts. I reared back and he missed. I raised my hand to swat and changed my mind. After all, he was a little lifesaver.
“ ‘Bye, Charlie.” I ducked out.
“Don’t forget that drinky,” he called after me. “Later, huh?”
I saw the elevator door open. “Don’t wait up for me,” I said, and hurried into the car.
I couldn’t spot any of those hoods in the lobby. I moved on to the exit and out to the driveway. A cab was pushing up the little hill under the marquee. A young couple stood beside the doorman, watching it expectantly. I was about to head for the street when I saw Markos and Tarino. They were down on the sidewalk and they had also seen me. For a second they froze. Then they began to run.
The young woman was just bending herself to get into the cab. I shoved in front of her and fell on the seat. “Sorry,” I said. “Emergency! The nearest hospital, driver!”
I slammed the door and the cab leapt ahead. I looked from the rear window. Markos, still in the lead, was reaching a long arm toward the trunk. He looked wild. His fingers grabbed air. He fell back, stopped altogether.
We turned sharply onto Collins Avenue, fled north.
I settled back in the seat and lighted a cigarette, puffing violently.
“Never mind the hospital, driver,” I called. “Suddenly I feel better. I can’t tell you how much better I feel.”
I gave him my home address. The real one. I wouldn’t go back to the Vanderwalt apartment. For a time Myra Vanderwalt would cease to exist. Because I had an idea her usefulness in this case was just about over.
I was never so glad to be just plain — Myra Bailey.
Seventeen
ROD STRIKER
It was around twenty minutes after midnight when I got home. I was reaching for my keys when I heard the phone ringing. At least I thought I did. But after I got the door open and goddamn near broke a leg on that obstacle course to the bedroom, the line was deader than Alex Bell himself. The reason I was so anxious was that I figured it might be Myra. I hadn’t heard a peep from her since the middle of the afternoon. Maybe that was because I was out most of the time.
Anyway, I gave her a call at that Vanderwalt hood-trap she has on the west side. We had a little code worked out so that if she had company I would know and we’d play wrong number. But she didn’t answer and as usual I told myself to forget it, that she could damn well take care of herself. And as usual I didn’t forget it, I worried. Nothing frantic. Just that chronic anxiety I carried around when we were out of touch for more than five or six hours. Things can happen — even to the Myra Baileys. One of these days, one of these nights … But if that time ever came, the
re were going to be some sad bastards on the other end of my fists. Myra and I are a lot closer than I’ll ever admit — to her. And there are marriages which never get recorded in heaven or the Bureau of Statistics.
During the early part of the evening I had been to see Aunty Rumshaw. She had a two-bedroom house on the bay which cost seventy-five grand. Can you imagine paying seventy-five thousand for a one-story with two lousy bedrooms? Sure, I’ll admit it was on that solid-gold-type waterfront property. And I’ll admit you could drive a bus into the living room without breaking up the bridge game. But seventy-five G’s! Cheez …
Over the garage there was a small apartment. A pair of servants lived up there, a man and his wife. They took care of everything but the grounds which were combed and clipped by an itinerant gardener. That means he also clipped a couple of dozen other houses in the neighborhood for around eighty a month apiece. He was a colored man and Mrs. R. told me that once he came by on a Sunday for his check and he was driving a new Cadillac that was so long it had two steering rigs, one to turn the back wheels. Man, I said, I’m gonna trade my gun for a rake.
But what we talked about mostly, of course, was Kim. Mrs. R. said that she and the boy friend, Howie, had decided not to wait to get married. Because of this trouble with Tarino. They had gone off secretly and hitched their little wagons to the same star, not even telling Aunty. Which made her pretty damn mad — until they promised to play the same trick on each other again in April. Only this time they would perform in church with all the dressing.
They had made some photostats of the license and the idea was to send a copy to Tarino. This would cause him to see the light and he would then cease forever his slimy underhanded tactics. End of trouble. Right away I understood what Massey had meant when he told me he had a perfectly legal maneuver up his sleeve to fix Eddie-boy.
It didn’t make much sense. Why? Because hadn’t there been a threat that if Kim got married, Aunty and/or the boy friend would fall dead one night? Yes, but this, said Massey, was a bluff. The minute Tarino saw the legal handwriting on the wall, he would give up, fold his tail and steal away.
Kim had agreed. At the time. But just as Howie was about to mail the document, she got cold feet. She was afraid. She wanted to wait a bit. She would handle Tarino in her own way, at her own time. Maybe his. ardor would begin to cool if she appeared to go along with him awhile.
So now she was married and dating Tarino. Crazy. Just plain crazy! The goddamnedest case I ever had.
And naturally, Massey was steaming like a Turkish bath. He was wedded but not bedded. All the sorrows, none of the joys. His bride was out on lend-lease. God!
Well, to tell you the truth, I was just as glad that Kim had those cold feet. Better than cold dead bodies. And now I could finish Tarino off in my own style — before the fact.
After this revealing chitchat with Aunty Rum, I went out to see Ben Ulrich at his house. Ulrich was head of the Homicide Squad in the Second District. He used to be my boss — but I liked him anyway. We got along. So he built us a drink and then I pumped him for anything he knew about Tarino. Which wasn’t too much and some of it second-hand. Because normally Tarino’s type of operation fell under the jurisdiction of the vice detail. But I did get a few gems for consideration.
It was no secret that Tarino was running a B-girl racket. The only secret was why the department wasn’t shutting him down. From time to time there had been one hell of a lot of complaints from suckers who had been taken. In these joints you’d get cheap booze watered-down at two bucks a copy — if you were lucky enough to be sober. Once a john got stiff, the price was all he could stand. With maybe a dozen drinks on the bill he couldn’t remember ordering. While the cookie drank colored water or tea which went on the tab as solid hooch. Cute tricks like that and a few more, even including an occasional wallet snatch.
A lot of complaints and no action. Just promises. Sure, friend, we‘ll look into it, and back would come the report — Our man could find nothing wrong out there. And we have to catch them in the act, buddy.
Someone was getting paid off. Period.
There was also a rumor that Tarino was banking a big chunk of the bolita setup in town.
So what? I wanted more. A felony which could put Tarino in Raiford for a long stretch, not some rap that would cost him a fine and his license.
Nine times out of ten when a guy is running a couple of swindle houses like The Frolic and getting away with it, he’s got some other angles which sink a lot deeper. There’s no such thing as a crook who’s permanently happy with the take. If he clears a hundred grand a year, he wants to make it two. If he makes two, he wants four, and so on. Well, you can clean just so much from a given racket. So he branches out. And it’s those branches you have to look for. Maybe his whole operation is just a cover. I thought this might be the case with Tarino. I had to find out.
Ulrich gave me some hints. There were no ex-cons on Tarino’s payroll. But a few months ago his joints began to be hangouts for some very bad boys from other cities — especially the north. Now these hoods don’t just drop in for coffee and doughnuts. For kicks they’ve got the loot to go to the best places. So they must be cooking up deals. They must be figuring a big haul in the back rooms.
Among these characters, said Ulrich, there was a wheel from Chicago, a fast-buck artist called Nick Markos. This guy had his fingers in a lot of dirty plums around the country. His front was a restaurant and bar supply house with outlets in half a dozen cities, including Miami.
Underworld pigeons sang a little song. The song told of the Markos warehouses being used as drops for stolen goods. Wholesale robbery with Markos as receiver and distributor to interested parties. That’s the way the song went. But no one could prove anything.
When a Markos warehouse was to be raided he must have been tipped. For nothing was ever found. Lately, the warehouses of Nick Markos were becoming as impregnable as armored car barns. The new drops, such as the one in Miami, had only a single steel door, a huge affair, which was kept always locked. There were two windows, but these were high up, inaccessible and too small to admit a man. Thus, a surprise raid was out of the question. You’d need a tank to ram your way through the side of the building.
This was all that Ben Ulrich could tell me. Except that Tarino and Markos were thick, they had been seen together on more than one occasion. So it seemed obvious that Tarino had his hand in the Markos operation. Logically, he would be in charge of the Miami warehouse.
As I was leaving, I thanked Ben for the information. He was sorry he didn’t have more. I told him it was plenty and I could use it. He said to be careful. I said I would, I certainly would.
He only laughed.
So I went on home and I thought I heard the phone ringing but when I picked it up the line was dead. And no Myra at the Vanderwalt trap. The whole business made me nervous. It was tough getting to sleep. But my God, you can’t function without a little snooze now and then. So I finally conked off.
And then the doorbell rang. At two in the morning?
I answered with a gun in my hand.
But it was Myra.
“What the hell,” I said, “are you doing here!”
And then I got a good look at her. She was a mess. There was a purple lump on her chin. She was pale. Her air must have been combed with a vacuum cleaner.
I pulled her inside and shut the door. I put my arms around her and kissed her.
“Oh, Rod,” she moaned. “Oh, darling, what a night, what a night!”
“Sure, baby,” I said. “I’ll bet you had a beaut of a time. But you’re safe now.” I walked her to my sofa and we sat down. “Just tell me what that bastard did to you.”
“Among other things,” she sighed, “he scared me right back into Myra Bailey.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll fall on him. Like a brick wall. Tarino?”
“No,” she said. “Not exactly.”
“Who, then?”
“Markos. An ape by the name of Nick
Markos.”
Eighteen
For a long time I just listened as Myra unfolded her sordid tale of the night. The more I listened, the madder I got. Only Myra’s good sense kept me from blasting off for the beach to bust in that penthouse door and Markos’ face. I wanted to ram that sadistic smile down his throat. But we were close to the answers, Myra reasoned. Too close to show our cards for the mere sake of revenge. And of course she was right.
“I don’t think they’ll quit now,” I said. “I don’t think they’re running scared. Not yet. Markos had a small hunch about you. But that’s not enough to stop whatever scheme he’s got cooking. He’ll figure you turned green after that balcony torture and you got out of there as fast as you could before he carried out his threats. Anyone who stole a hundred bucks from that creep and damn near died in the attempt would react the same way. Soon as he calms down, he’ll see that. So I think we can still nail him and Tarino. It’s a question of how.”
“Don’t forget the tape,” she said.
“That’s right, by God. Let’s hear it!”
The box was so small there was no room for a playback stage inside it. But I had a tape machine in the apartment which was plugged into a big amplifier and three speakers.
I removed the tape and transferred it. I turned up the gain and we listened.
It was one hell of a disappointment. Those hoods must have moved to another part of the room and their voices were indistinct to read. But occasionally Markos shifted his position, as if he might be pacing, and at times we caught a few words.
Something about a yacht, Tarino’s yacht, and how it was to be loaded with cases from a warehouse on the following night. Then there was a heated discussion of payment. Evidently Markos wanted a hundred grand now and the balance on delivery. Someone disagreed. Markos insisted. He won. And that was when he lowered his voice and we couldn’t hear another word that we could understand.
