Kim

by Robert Colby

  She caught on the first couple of turns and growled for action. Thank God for warm climates and ditto motors. I shoved in gear and fed gas, careful not to stall. We roared to the bottom of the ramp and ground upwards.

  I heard the first shots. They came from behind. Too late and harmless against the big rump of the truck. I couldn’t hold the machine gun, needed both hands for the wheel.

  The ramp had an easy curve, a half spiral. I reached the turn, picking up speed. This baby had plenty under the hood, power to spare for climbing. Now I gave the light switch a yank to blind any goons at the top. The headlights flared around the swing and up. They caught three gorillas in various stages of frenzied movement, mostly taking aim, one with a sawed-off shot gun. I ducked so low as I passed, the truck was on automatic pilot.

  Wham! The shotgun blast blew the windshield in on top of me. Glass showered the back of my neck. Bullets spattered the cab, too high. And then the hoods were behind. I jerked up.

  That huge steel door, closed of course, loomed thirty feet ahead of me across the floor. I had lost speed going over the top of the ramp and I didn’t know, I wasn’t at all sure …

  I stepped hard on the gas. But a truck doesn’t exactly leap ahead like a car.

  “Myra!” I shouted. “Here I come!” Crash!

  A sound of metal crumpling against metal. The tinkle of glass. A dull, thundering echo. A complete, violent stop.

  I was slammed forward. I flipped over the wheel. It crushed against my chest, threatened to break, didn’t. My head beat against the top rim of the windshield and for a moment I was numb, brainless. Oblivion was a friend beckoning. I fought it with a lifetime of accumulated discipline. To pass out was as good as a bullet in the brain. I shook my head. It cleared.

  I was in total darkness. The crash had pulverized the headlights. But I could see the big door. It bulged outward, but it had held. Not enough speed — and one hell of a door!

  Dead issue. I didn’t waste a second. I found the Thompson on the floor, scooped it and climbed out of that truck on the run. My shoulder met the hard bone of another shoulder. We both spun. I recovered and scurried on. I had lost direction, didn’t know where I was going in that blackout. I hid behind a crate to get my bearings. I heard shouts, feet pounding up the ramp. Christ! I was still trapped in that tomb. With six gun-happy, kill-crazy bastards!

  But my sense of direction returned, my brain cleared, and I had one last idea. It depended on this darkness remaining. Just a minute more. One more minute of confusion….

  I whispered forward on the ramp side of the warehouse, crate to crate. I heard voices at the track. Loud and clear.

  “Where’d the son-of-a-bitch go?”

  “Can’t find him, Nick.” (Nick Markos?)

  “All right, all right. Hit the goddamn lights, Remick! The rest of you take cover. C’mon! Take cover!”

  Feet scuffling. A flash winking on and off.

  I let the sounds hide my movements. I ran. Jesus, did I run! I got to the last crate before the office. Twenty feet. And then the lights went on.

  Silence. What silence! You could hear a pin drop.

  Well, there just wasn’t a choice. I crouched down and launched myself towards that office, zigzagging all the way. Five bullets and a shotgun blast ripped after me. Lead chipped stone, climbed, drilled the office door in front of me. I bellied down and sent one quick burst in the right direction. I saw a couple of heads duck back. I jumped for the door, ploughed inside, slammed and locked it, got out of range.

  There were more shots and I answered with the chopper, firing through the upper part of the door where the glass was gone. I knew I didn’t have many more rounds and this was it. A machine gun will keep a whole platoon down, but a lot of nuts will run at you in the face of a .38. There was open space between those punks; and the office and I could have held them an hour with ammunition. But what I needed now was a good minute, not much more.

  I went over to the desk. Yup, the phone was still there. There are times when a phone can look better than a chorus line of lush nudes. This was the time. I started to pick up the receiver. And then I looked down at the cord.

  It wasn’t connected? Yes it was, by God. Sweetly as ever. No one guessed I would ever see that office again.

  I listened for the tone, dialed frantically. This was one number I knew well. A voice like a yawn answered. I didn’t get the name. Because I couldn’t hear above a new volley of shots. But I knew it wasn’t Ulrich.

  I shouted his name and begged for speed. He came on. I damn near wept.

  “Rod Striker,” I yelled. “Don’t say a goddamn word, Ben. Just listen!”

  I held the receiver towards the door. Two beats and the shots came again.

  “Hear that? There’s a war at Markos’ warehouse. Six hoods and one poor slob of a civilian — me! You got thirty seconds to bail me out Understand!”

  “Read you, Rod. Give location.” Talk about calm! This guy sounded like he was asking where to find the bingo game. I told him.

  “Coming with the whole squad,” he said. “Hold on, boy.”

  “It’s a tomb with a steel door and I’m locked in, Ben. Bring something to blast that door. No kidding! And hurry!”

  I hung up.

  Then I picked up the gun and hugging the wall, took a quick squint. I saw movement. They had reached the last crate before the office. I let them have a long burst, and the gun was empty. I tossed it on the desk and plucked the .38 from the holster. I was thinking about Myra. What in God’s name did she figure was going on? I found out soon enough.

  There was a pause in the shooting and then someone was shouting. I heard my name echoing out there.

  “Striker! Hey, Striker! Hold ya fire and listen, bastard. We got ya girl. That Myra bitch. You give up or we’ll plug ‘er brains out and feed ‘em to ya!”

  Then I heard Myra screaming, “Rod, Rod! Don’t do it. They’ll kill me anyway!”

  She said something else, but it died as if a hand was clamped over her mouth.

  “You got twenty seconds, Striker! Throw them guns out first!”

  So close to the end and now this. Well, close gets no prize. You might as well miss a million miles. Hell, I had no choice. I tossed the guns and went out behind them with my hands raised.

  Pock-face greeted me first. He was behind the shotgun. He was a dried-blood mess. Swollen and battered. The cuffs were still on his wrists, but they had been hacked apart. He wasn’t smiling much.

  A hulking youngish-looking character with reptilian eyes was next. He had Myra squeezed up under the arm, practically lifting her off her feet. Her face was crumpled with the pain of it. Then four others came out, among them a greasy Latin and a guy they called Nick, who was giving the orders. I knew it was Markos.

  Tarino? He just wasn’t there.

  “You had a good time for yourself, eh, smart boy?” said Markos. “Well, the play is over and I got all the chips, huh?” He gave me a back-handed whack across the face, and I took it. For Myra’s sake. And also because both barrels of that shotgun were practically jammed up my nose.

  “Let the girl go,” I said. “You can have your kicks with me.”

  “We’ll have our kicks with you anyway, friend. Got any other offers?”

  Pock-face held out his hand. “The key, bastard,” he said.

  I gave it to him and he unlocked the cuffs and tossed them aside. Then he said, “What’ll we do with them, Nick?”

  “What you think?” said Markos. The other four stood licking their chops with anticipation.

  “Just let me have this one,” said Pock-face, jamming the gun in my belly.

  “You and Remick,” said Markos. “Take them down below. Give it to them right in the face — both barrels.”

  “What about the goddamn noise?” asked the one holding Myra. Apparently he was Remick.

  “Down below, who hears, stupid?” said Markos.

  “No, I mean the racket up here just now. Crissake, it sounded like Ca
rga and Castro having at it in a revolution.”

  “You shut up!” threatened the greaseball. Of course he was Carga.

  “Yeah,” said Markos. “That’s right. Maybe a couple of hundred shots. The sound could of leaked. We better shove off. Okay. Roll up that door and we’ll take these two along to the yacht. They’ll keep an hour.”

  “How about the loading, my guns?” said Carga.

  “Not tonight,” said Markos. “Have a look at that truck. All right, move, Remick! Get that door up.”

  “I’ll try,” said Remick. “Truck’s mashed against it.”

  “Don’t give me talk,” said Markos. “Do it!”

  Remick shrugged, let go of Myra and went off. Myra rubbed her arm and tried to smile at me.

  In a moment the door groaned upward. About four feet. And stopped.

  Remick came back on the double.

  “Can’t raise it another inch, Nick,” he said. “Won’t go up and won’t come down, either. Goddamn thing is jammed.”

  Markos went livid. His mouth fell open, he tried to say something and the words never came. His head was cocked, he was listening. I heard it, too. The lovely music of sirens in chorus. The lead voice was just blocks away.

  I turned to Myra. “You hear something?” I said.

  She didn’t answer.

  But you could hang your wash on her smile.

  Twenty-Two

  The rats ran out of their hole and right into the arms of the cops. There was some shooting. Remick took a slug in the shoulder. Then Markos got one in the thigh. It sent him down and he didn’t get up. I suppose that took the heart out of the others because they quit in a hurry. One cop was hit. A bullet grazed his side, nothing serious.

  Funny thing. Those guys had enough weapons and ammo to hold off the entire police force. Instead they ran. Maybe it was that jammed door which discouraged them. And maybe they had no more guts than most hoods when the chips are on the line. I’ll take that last for an explanation.

  The truth came out soon enough down at headquarters. Especially after the FBI found they had jurisdiction and they took over most of the investigation.

  As I had figured, the greater part of those guns were stolen from government armories. Some were hijacked from trucks making deliveries. Others disappeared from an army post — with inside help. Quantities of hand guns were swiped from stores and hock shops.

  For the hoods it was Operation Money. For Carga it was Operation Castro. He wasn’t starting a revolution to bring down the bearded dictator as I had thought. On the contrary, he was a self-appointed Castro agent. Castro had won by force and he had to hold by force. He had trouble within his regime and counter-revolutions threatened his island from a dozen launching points which surrounded him in the Caribbean. His little empire was shaky and the Commie-haters were ready to pull it down. He was even prepared to arm hordes of sympathetic civilians.

  So he needed guns. All types, especially small arms. And these were becoming harder and harder to find. Enter Carga.

  Carga was a sugar baron, enormously wealthy. He spent much of his time in the U. S. He had contacts. He could get guns, stolen guns. And what’s more, he had the dough to pay about three times what they were worth if they could be bought on the market. Enter Markos.

  It was possible that Carga had made a deal with Castro to keep his holdings in exchange for guns. We might never find out. Because Carga claimed that while he was admittedly rounding up arms for his country, he had not the least sanction from his government. In fact, said Carga, Castro had no knowledge of the plan and Carga was an independent patriot aiding his people in the only way he knew how.

  It could have been true. And if not, who’s to deny it?

  Other stores of arms had gone to Cuba via Tarino’s charter yacht. The charter business was the cover. This was to be the last shipment. And speaking of Tarino, he was caught on board the yacht with two of Carga’s “associates.” It looked like the end of the line.

  But it wasn’t

  No gun was found on Tarino. And none of the weapons taken from the hoods fired slugs that matched the bullet which killed Martha Rumshaw. This bullet was believed to be from a .32 automatic. So the case wasn’t solved. And maybe a hired killer who had nothing to do with the arms-running was loose — and ready to kill again.

  To top it off, on the following afternoon, Tarino was released on bail. If he had been in on that shoot-up at the warehouse he would have been held like the others. But he wasn’t caught with the goods, the evidence was circumstantial and he denied everything. Of course. His offense was bailable and raising the dough was no problem for him. In short, that boy was out. And while he was out he could operate. Period.

  It wasn’t an hour after Eddie-boy got his freedom that Kim Massey was on the other end of my phone.

  “He’s at it again, Rod,” she said. She called me Rod Whenever Massey was out of hearing.

  “He — who?” I said. “And at what?”

  “Tarino, of course. He just called me.”

  “What’s his pitch?”

  “Well, I didn’t hear all of it because I hung up on him. He wanted to see me. I told him I’d be glad to go down and see him — in the morgue. I accused him of murdering my Aunt. He said that was silly. He was no killer. He wouldn’t do a thing like that. I should stop listening to fairy tales from punks who were trying to frame him.

  “I said if he ever called me again I’d have him arrested. He laughed at me. He said, ‘We’ll be traveling the same hot road together in a couple of days, baby. You’ll wise up. Wait and see.’

  “That was when I hung up. But I’m scared, Rod. I really am.”

  “Keep cool, gal,” I said. “You just relax. I’ll find that guy and this time I’ll see that he leaves you alone for good. He’s in plenty of trouble and if he takes one more step in your direction, I might be able to have him thrown back in the pokey — no bail. At least I can make him believe it Don’t worry, you’ll be off the hook.”

  “Oh thanks, Rod, thank you so much. I can’t tell you how grateful I’d be.”

  “Forget it, Kim. I’m just doing a job and I’m being well paid. Although last night I wondered if there was enough money in the whole goddamn world. Anyway, sit tight and calm. You’ll hear from me.”

  I went over to Tarino’s house. He wasn’t there. I tried his clubs and a few other dives he hangs out in. I asked questions everywhere. No Tarino. I went home and I called Kim to tell her not to open her door to anyone, unless she was sure who it was.

  “Listen,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been trying to get you for an hour. I can’t find Howie.” “When did you see him last?”

  “At noon for lunch. He’s been staying with me, you know. I wanted him to move his clothes and everything. He went home to pack. He was to be here for dinner two hours ago. I called his apartment. No answer. I tried the auto company. No answer. I tried Marilyn Jackes, his girl-Friday at the office. She had no idea where he was. Honestly, I’ve been frantic. Just frantic!”

  “It doesn’t look too good, at that. Do you have a key to his apartment?”

  “Oh, God, oh, God! You don’t think — ”

  “I don’t think anything, Kim. Just taking the first steps. What about the key?”

  “No, I don’t have one. But I think there’s one with a bunch of other keys on a ring in his desk at Massey Auto Sales.”

  “Is anyone there at this hour?” It was close to eight.

  “No, they’re closed. But Miss Jackes has a key to get in and she’s home.” “Good. Where does she live?”

  “One block east of the showroom on the same side of the street. Second floor, apartment 2G.”

  “Okay. I’ll hop over there and call you back. Now listen — don’t open your door to anyone unless it’s your husband or me. Not anyone! Understand?”

  “Yes. I … I understand. But I’m frightened.”

  “Just keep that door locked with the chain latched and you’ll be all right. See you.�
�

  I hung up.

  Twenty-Three

  Marilyn Jackes had her apartment in an ancient building of yellow brick. I took the stairs and rang the bell of 2G. She was a long time answering. But when she finally came, it was rewarding. She was wearing a transparent peignoir and very little else. Marilyn Jackes was that demure-looking redhead in Massey’s office — the one with the classy assy.

  “Oh,” she said, kind of startled. “You’re the man who — “

  “That’s right, Miss Jackes. I’m the man who. We met at Mr. Massey’s office. Remember? Rod Striker.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course. The detective!”

  “Could I come in a moment?”

  “Well … is there any particular reason why, Mr. Striker?”

  “Yeah. Just now I looked at you and I said to myself — Gee whiz, I’d sure like to go into that girl’s apartment.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’m looking for your boss. Have you seen him?”

  “Mr. Massey?”

  “If he’s your boss. Even if he isn’t.” “Well, no. I haven’t seen him since early this afternoon.”

  “You have no idea where he is?” “He said he was going to do some packing and wouldn’t be back to the office. That’s all I know.”

  She shifted positions and the gown fell away from her leg. It was quite a leg.

  “Mrs. Massey is worried,” I said. “He was due at her place a couple of hours ago. She wants you to get the key to her husband’s apartment from the office so that I can go have a peek in there.”

  “How would that help, Mr. Striker?”

  “Look, you’re a nice girl and you’ve got lots to recommend you.” I took another glance at those recommendations. Yup. She had them. “But please don’t ask questions. This could be an emergency. Just get that key for me.”

  “All right,” she said dubiously. She stepped back to let me pass.

  The furniture was rather beat up and dying of age. But she had dressed the place with color and frills. The only thing in that living room worth over fifty bucks was probably the stereophonic player in a corner. Music pulsed from it with a sweet clarity.