Blood on the Mink

by Robert Silverberg

  He poured himself a liberal slug of tequila and belted it down like someone who’d been drinking the stuff from the cradle. Then he said quietly, “Let me get all this straight. Tomorrow night I ootz Klaus into taking me to this road-house of his. Your boys are waiting there at three in the morning. When Klaus steps outside, they gun him down.”

  “Check.”

  “Then we pick up the engraver and clear out.”

  I nodded. “That’s all there is to it.”

  He said speculatively, “How big a mob is coming down from New York?”

  I shrugged and said, “I told you. Maybe three or four guys. Half a dozen at the very most. As long as Klaus doesn’t bring his whole goon squad along, there won’t be any trouble.”

  Chavez smiled peculiarly. “Don’t worry. There’ll just be me and Klaus and maybe a chauffeur. I’ll make sure of that. Where will you be?”

  “In the car with the New York guys. I have to meet them in town and guide them out to the roadhouse.”

  “Who is this bunch, anyway?”

  “Fellow name of Litwhiler,” I said. “An old enemy of Klaus’. Litwhiler’s in the jewelry trade, and turns out queer on the side. But his product can’t compare with Klaus’, because they don’t have the engraver. So he’s anxious to take Klaus over.”

  “Okay,” Chavez said. “It’s all set. We put the nix on Klaus and get the plates from this guy Litwhiler. That’s a lot better than paying Klaus royalties.”

  “Damn right it is,” I chimed in.

  “You trust Litwhiler to keep his end of it?”

  “He won’t cross us,” I promised. “He knows what’s good for him.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Chavez said. He looked at his wrist-watch. “Listen, Manners, I’m going to have to be impolite now. I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  “For why?”

  “It’s eight o’clock, and I’m expecting a chick here by eight-thirty,” he said with a leer. “I’d sort of like to be alone when she gets here.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable suggestion,” I said. I elbowed up out of the chair and reached for my coat. “Have fun, Chavez.”

  “I intend to. See you tomorrow night around three, Manners.”

  “Yeah. Tomorrow at three.”

  “I’ll call you at the Penn Plaza if there are any hitches,” Chavez said. “But I don’t expect any. Take it slow, man.”

  “You too,” I said, and ambled out.

  I left the hotel by the side entrance and walked up the block to the scene of the shooting. Everything was calm and peaceful looking now. They had towed away the damaged cars, and all that remained to hint at the fracas were some oil-slicks in the gutter and a couple of splotches of blood on the sidewalk. Otherwise, the deadly calm of Sunday night in Philly had settled over the scene.

  I hailed a cab and rode back to the Penn Plaza without any further incidents. Either Klaus had run out of goons or he had temporarily abandoned the idea of gunning me, because no snipers tried their skill on me as I got out of the cab and went into the hotel.

  I checked at the desk for messages, hoping that Elena Szekely might have tried to get in touch with me during the evening.

  But she hadn’t. For once, there were no messages for Vic Lowney, no calls, no anything. Which was too bad. It looked very much like I was going to have to go through with the operation tomorrow night without telling Elena in advance about the schedule of events.

  Up in my room, I undressed and sprawled out on my bed in a pair of Lowney’s fancy pajamas. I was keyed-up and starting to sprout a neat little headache. I’d been shot at more times in the past two days than in the whole last two months, and my nervous system was starting to gripe about it. I told it to shut up. Nobody shoots at post-office clerks, but I still wouldn’t trade my job for theirs any day.

  By way of relaxing, I snapped on the television set at random. The screen brightened into the nine-thirty news program, and an announcer with an earnest crewcut face stared out of the box at me and said ringingly, “The serenity of the Sabbath was rudely shattered today by two separate outbreaks of old-style gang violence.” The screen now showed a view of the north end of City Hall, with a trenchcoated reporter standing on the spot where Carol had fallen. The news commentator went on, “At half past four this afternoon City Hall was the site of the first incident. A pretty 28-year-old ex-nightclub performer stepped out of a taxi. Moments later, an automobile pulled up and four shots were fired. One bullet struck the girl in the back, and she died instantly, while the murder car sped away. The dead woman was identified as Miss Carol Champlain, a one-time dancer and striptease artist with reported underworld connections. Police speculate that jealousy was the motive behind Miss Champlain’s murder.”

  City Hall now faded from the screen, to be replaced by a still of the street where Minton and his crew had tried to finish me off. The shot had been taken after the removal of the bodies, but three charred automobiles were still on the spot—the cab and two parked cars that had gone up too.

  The announcer said, “Then, three hours later, a sensational gangland battle in this quiet side street off Broad brought death to four, including taxi driver Rudolph Kleinfeld, 51, of Port Richmond. Three gangland figures also died. Frank Gozzi, 39, was found dead at the scene, while Paul Maher, 32, was found wounded and succumbed to shock and loss of blood an hour ago at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. Both Gozzi and Maher had criminal records. The body of a third man was discovered in the flaming wreckage of Kleinfeld’s cab, but has not yet been identified.

  “Police speculate that Gozzi and Maher had attempted to kill the unidentified third man, but died themselves, while their victim perished when a stray bullet ignited the gas tank of the taxi. Cab driver Kleinfeld evidently was shot while attempting to interfere in the encounter. But one puzzle has already presented itself: Both Gozzi and Maher were shot with slugs from a .38-caliber pistol, while the only guns found on the scene were .45s. Mr. Kleinjeld had been shot with a bullet of the latter caliber. This has led police to suspect that a fifth man took part in the duel but slipped away after shooting Gozzi and Maher. In any case, this was the most violent Sunday afternoon Philadelphia has had since the spring of 1955, when—”

  He mentioned some other case, and then the news focus shifted, first to some new Soviet space satellite and then to the afternoon pro football scores. I watched the screen without really watching, just letting the flickering images go past my eyes.

  I had scored a clean sweep of the rubout trio, it seemed. Too bad about the taxi driver—who in his own panicky way had saved my life at the expense of his own. I guessed that there would be clashing of teeth over at Klaus’ headquarters tonight over the new failure to dispose of me—at the cost of three men.

  Klaus probably wouldn’t worry too much about the loss of Minton; he had proved himself an incompetent too many times in the past week. But still, it was galling to lose three men and gain absolutely nothing at all.

  And Carol gone too. So I no longer had any insight on what was going on at Klaus’.

  I switched off the television set, even though it was only ten o’clock. But I wasn’t going to get any sleep Monday night, and so I figured it was best to sack out early and face the next day with a clear head and steady hands. I was going to need both.

  All the wheels were turning, now. Litwhiler coming down from New York—Chavez alerted to the double-cross—Klaus busily trying to rub me out.

  Tomorrow everything would mesh. Maybe.

  I got into bed and waited for sleep. But sleep was a long time in coming. Nor was it a very pleasant night of sleep I had, either, when I finally dozed off. There were dreams. I saw Carol Champlain coming toward me in the dark. She was stark naked, but there was a raw dripping cavity between her breasts, and she was shaking her head sadly as though regretting my failure to rub out Klaus before he got her. And then I dreamed of Minton, and there was the smell of roasting flesh in my nostrils.

  There ought to be a law against dreamin
g. I woke up half a dozen times during the night. By the time morning came, I was more tired than when I had sacked out.

  FOURTEEN

  Monday.

  My seventh day in Philadelphia.

  The big day.

  It started off slowly. I didn’t want to leave the hotel, for a couple of reasons. The major reason was that I wasn’t keen on exposing myself unnecessarily to a possible eradication attempt by Klaus. The minor reason was that I was still hoping Elena Szekely would try to contact me, and I wanted to be available when and if she did.

  I had a leisurely breakfast in the hotel coffee shop and leafed through the morning papers. There was a big spread on the gang stuff, of course. A front-page picture three columns wide showed the taxicab on fire, hoses playing on it frantically, and a body sprawled next to it. The murder of Carol Champlain got a lesser spread, with a photo of her on one of the inside pages. And, of course, there were statements from the police commissioner and the mayor about how drastic steps would be taken to cut short this unprecedented crime wave before any more law-abiding citizens were jeopardized, etc., etc.

  After breakfast I phoned Washington, collect. I spoke briefly to my man there, telling him that things were approaching their climax.

  “Good,” he said. “We can’t hold Lowney much longer without all kinds of complications. He’s been howling for a lawyer all week.”

  “Let him howl,” I said. “What does he think this is, a democracy?”

  “When do you think you’ll be finished down there?”

  “By dawn tomorrow,” I told him. “One way or another—I’ll be finished here.”

  I must have used up four hundred cigarettes that day, waiting for the minutes to tick past. By mid-afternoon my fingers were stained with nicotine and my throat felt like it had been left out in the Arizona sun for a few days. But there was nothing that I could do except smoke. And pace. And wait.

  No word from Elena Szekely. I wrote her off. The caper tonight would have to be carried out despite not hearing from her.

  I didn’t hear from anybody. Not Chavez, not Klaus, not anyone. I was the forgotten man of Philadelphia. After the hectic pace of the first few days of this assignment, today was a drag.

  At half past five the telephone rang. I was at the other end of the room, staring out the window at the garage across the street. I crossed the room in three big bounds and grabbed up the receiver, hoping it was Elena Szekely calling.

  “Hello?”

  The Penn Plaza switchboard operator said, “Mr. Lowney? I have a call for you from New York.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Go ahead, New York,” the operator chirruped.

  There was a pause. Then Litwhiler’s deep, commanding voice said, “Everything set for tonight, Lowney?”

  “As set as can be.”

  “We’re all ready too. We’re going to leave New York at half past twelve tonight.”

  “How many of you?”

  “Ten, including me. Two cars. You think that’ll be enough?”

  “Plenty,” I said.

  “Okay. Where do we meet you?”

  “At the Penn Plaza,” I said. “Just like we arranged the other day. Phone me from the lobby and I’ll come right down.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there around quarter to three,” Litwhiler said. “Be seeing you then.”

  “Check, man. Quarter to three.”

  I put down the receiver, let it rest for a moment, and picked it up again. The hotel operator said, “Your number, please?”

  “Connect me with the car-rental service in the lobby, will you?”

  She did, and I said, “This is Mr. Lowney from room ten-sixty-six. I rented one of your cars Friday night, and I’d like to do the same tonight.”

  “Of course, sir. We can offer you your choice of Ford, Chevrolet, Oldsmobile—”

  “Make it a Cadillac,” I said. I needed a big, powerful car with plenty of reserve. “How late are you open?”

  “Only until nine, sir.”

  “Have the car ready for me around nine, then. I’ll want it overnight.”

  “Yes, sir. If you’ll stop off at this desk about ten minutes to nine, I’ll have the keys ready for you, and you can sign for the car then.”

  The next step on the agenda was to get packed. I trundled out the suitcases and got everything stashed away except the clothes I would need for the next twelve hours. When everything was packed, I phoned downstairs again—this time to the travel agency in the lobby. I had them book a flight to Washington, D.C. for me, on the first plane going out in the morning. They squirrelled around for a while, finally told me I had a seat on Flight 113, leaving Philly at 7:05 A.M. and arriving in the capital practically immediately afterward.

  So far, so good. Continuing my exit arrangements, I had a bellhop sent up to carry my luggage to the hotel lobby. Pausing at the hotel desk, I said, “I’ll be leaving you very early tomorrow morning, I’d like to check out and settle up now, and keep my room overnight.”

  “Of course, sir. What room is that?”

  “Ten-sixty-six.”

  She found a big ledger, leafed through it, nodded. “Ah, yes. Mr. Lowney. I’ll have to figure your charge as though it ran to noon tomorrow, Mr. Lowney.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “It won’t break me.”

  She figured out my bill—a full week, plus a small fortune in telephone calls and meals. It came to a couple of hundred dollars. I paid them in cash, real cash, and tacked another three figures onto the swindle sheet I’d be submitting, when and if.

  “You just turn in your key whenever you decide to leave, Mr. Lowney,” she told me. “There’s somebody on duty all night.”

  “Right. I’m going to drop my bags off at the airline terminal now. It’ll save time in the morning,” I said, whistling for another bellhop.

  The terminal was four blocks from the Penn Plaza. I took a cab over there, stood in line for a while, finally reached the check-in counter. I told the fellow on duty that I was ticketed for Flight 113 to D.C. the following morning, and I wanted to check my luggage in now,

  He seemed a little puzzled at first, but I explained that I wouldn’t find it convenient to bring the bags with me in the morning, and he okayed my request. He handed me my luggage tags and promised me faithfully that the bags would be transported to the airport and placed aboard my plane during the night.

  It was time for dinner, now. I cabbed back to the Penn Plaza and treated myself to eight bucks’ worth of rare, juicy filet mignon. I washed the meal down with an entire pot of coffee. My mind had to be clicking on all cylinders tonight, and I wasn’t going to get very much sleep.

  Everything was set for a quick departure. I racked my brains, trying to think of anything I had forgotten to take care of. But everything seemed under control. Everything, that is, except the human equation formed by Chavez and Litwhiler and Klaus—the equation full of variables. I had done the best I could to shape that equation the way I wanted it. Whatever happened now was beyond my control.

  At quarter to nine, I went down and picked up the keys to my car. I drove the Caddy around the corner into the hotel parking lot and left it there, telling the attendant I would probably want to pick it up around three in the morning.

  Then I went back upstairs to wait.

  It was a long evening.

  I watched television and I smoked half a pack of cigarettes, and twice during the evening I phoned down to room service to have a pot of coffee sent up. The second time, though, I phoned for the coffee only to have something to do. I didn’t need the coffee. I couldn’t have been any wider awake, any more keyed-up, than I was by that time.

  Midnight came and went. The idiot box was showing an old movie, a 1933 thing with Carole Lombard and John Barrymore, and I watched it absorbedly. At half past one, though, it was over. I turned the set off. I walked around the room, counting the number of paces the long way, then the short way.

  This was the worst time, the wait
ing time. By now, I knew, Litwhiler was on the way. Two cars full of New York hoods were rolling southward along the Jersey Turnpike, past the sleeping towns, past the oil refineries and the farms. They were about halfway there now, I figured—just past New Brunswick, maybe.

  Quarter to two. Two. Two-fifteen. Litwhiler was paying the toll, now. And they were leaving the Turnpike, heading through the side roads, through the back streets of Camden, across the Benjamin Franklin Bridge into Pennsylvania, down the broad expanse of silent avenues to the Penn Plaza—

  Two-thirty.

  Two-forty.

  I checked my gun. It was oiled, loaded, ready for use. If I needed it. And I probably would.

  Two-forty-five on the nose. The telephone rang, shattering the long silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Litwhiler here,” the deep voice said.

  “You believe in punctuality, eh, man? Right on the minute.”

  “I like to do things the right way, Lowney. We’re waiting for you in the lobby.”

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” I said.

  It took a while, at that hour, to get an elevator. But finally I did. I stepped out into the lobby and there was Litwhiler, looking suave and natty in his gray cashmere topcoat. There were two men with him, typical hoods with padded shoulders and shifty eyes. They looked like extras for some film about Al Capone.

  “Where are the rest of them?” I said.

  “Waiting outside with the cars.” Litwhiler looked at his watch. “You figure forty minutes to get to the roadhouse from here, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So we ought to show up there at just around half past three. You sure it’ll be all closed up by then?”

  “Positive. There’ll be nobody there but the goons guarding the old man. It’ll be a walkover, Litwhiler.”

  He nodded. “Let’s get going, then.”

  I took the key out of my pocket. “Here,” I said. “You’ll need this to get in. The name of the place is the Casablanca, and—”