Never Say No To A Killer

by Clifton Adams

  “Ummm. Good.”

  “Good!” I was actually becoming impatient with her. “If you were anybody else,” I said, “anybody else in the world, and I had just handed you a glass of this nectar and you had taken a distracted sip and mumbled 'ummm, good' do you know what I would do?”

  “That's a bit involved, but what would you do?”

  “I would throw you the hell out of my apartment.”

  “But only if I were anybody else in the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I needn't worry.” And she smiled, strangely. But it was the first smile of the day and my impatience dissolved. “Okay,” I grinned, “the wine is ummm, good, and if you'd like to swig it from the neck of the bottle, that's all right with me. This is no day to get bogged down in a lousy bottle of wine.”

  I was in a rosy mood again. There's nothing like a really significant conquest to put spice and zest in this business of living.

  I said, “How about some food? I'll put a plate together for you and you can get it in front of the mirror.”

  She laughed softly. “Thank you just the same. But a girl simply doesn't fall heir to a coat like this every day of her life. I'm much too excited for food... do you mind?”

  “Not at all. This is my day not to mind anything, this is my day to indulge in sweetness and light, even if it chokes me. But I do get hungry once in a while. It's the peasant in me, no doubt.”

  She laughed again, and it was a fine sound. Nodding at the table, she said, “Please don't let me stop you.”

  “From this day forward nothing will ever stop me.”

  I helped myself to the iced shrimp and Russian dressing. Then some white meat topped with a thin slice of ham; and finally some hot sweetbreads. Pat simply couldn't stay away from that mirror.

  I laughed and she looked around.

  “What's the matter?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing in the world!”

  “You're awfully satisfied with yourself today, aren't you?”

  “I sure am,” I said. “It's been a wonderful day, and it's only beginning.” When I finished eating I went into the kitchen and iced down another bottle of wine. She had finally torn herself away from the mirror.

  “Don't you want to tell me about it, this wonderful day of yours?”

  “Some other time,” I said, “but not today.” I refilled the glasses from the new bottle and she sat beside me on the couch. Every so often when I was near her it would hit me, and it hit me now... I looked at her and felt my insides go to buttermilk. Great God, I thought, she's beautiful.

  She sat there looking at me, very seriously now; then suddenly she surprised me by smiling. “What is it?” I said.

  “It just occurred to me that I know absolutely nothing about you. I don't even know what you are called—is it William, or Will, or Bill....”

  “It's Roy,” I said without thinking, forgetting for a moment that Dorris Venci had changed my name for me. Then I remembered and said, “It's what my mother used to call me.

  “Roy,” she smiled. “Roy, and your name is William O'Connor. Well, I suppose that's consistent enough, for you.”

  “The explanation would bore you,” I said.

  “But what about you?” she said, almost absently, as though she wasn't really interested at all but considered it polite to ask. “You must have a history of some kind, a background, a past. Or would that bore me, too?”

  “Probably,” I said. “I started with an empty belly and a high intelligence quotient, and now I don't have the empty belly.”

  She smiled, faintly. “Isn't that over simplifying it just a bit?”

  “This is a pretty simple world when you get right down to it. When I was a kid I learned to grab fast when we were lucky enough to have food on the table. It took me several years to realize that everyone was grabbing for something, always, and the only trick in getting what you wanted was in grabbing just a little faster than the others.”

  “And that is the rule you live by?”

  “That is my rule.”

  I guess she knew it was going to happen, from the way I was staring at her. After all, you don't give a girl a coat like the one I had given her just because you liked the way she set her hair. I made a grab for her but she already had her guard up and had pushed herself down to the other end of the couch. She tried to get up but I grabbed again and this time I got her.

  I was amazed at the strength in those smooth, firm arms of hers. She didn't make a sound; there was no hint of panic in her eyes, but I had a hell of a time pulling her down with me just the same. But I did it, finally. I got her shoulders pinned against the back of the couch, I threw my weight against her and got both her arms in my hands and she was completely helpless. She knew she was helpless and stopped the fight.

  She looked at me with perfect calm. “... Now what?” she said.

  “See something you want, grab it. I told you that was my rule.”

  “... I see. All right, you've grabbed, now where do you go from here? Really, I'm curious about this rule of yours, I want to know if you can really make it work.”

  Don't you worry about that, I thought. I'll make it work, all right. Then I forced her head back and mashed my mouth to hers.

  It was like kissing a statue, a cold, marble statue. That was one thing I hadn't been prepared for. I'd been prepared for a fight, for a lot of insane gab, for tears, even, but certainly not anything like this. I felt the iciness of that kiss deep in my guts. It made my skin crawl.

  I let her go. I couldn't have released her faster if I had suddenly discovered that I had been kissing a corpse. That is what it had been like, kissing a corpse.

  Then she laughed, softly. “You see, Roy, it's just as I thought. Your rule doesn't always work, does it? Some things you can grab, but woman—they're different. You don't grab women, you draw them to you gently, very gently. And it takes time, too. That's a rule you should adopt; never rush a lady.”

  For one time in my life I didn't have an answer. I could still taste the iciness of her lips.

  She didn't seem to be angry. She seemed more amused than anything. And then she leaned toward me and pressed her mouth on mine, very lightly, and the coldness was gone. She was warm again, and beautiful, and I wanted her like hell. But this time I didn't grab.

  “That's better,” she said huskily. “That's much better.”

  I said, “For me this is a new technique. It's going to take some getting used to.”

  And she smiled.

  “You know something?” I said.

  “What?”

  “You are positively the goddamnedest woman I ever saw, bar none. You change colors faster than a chameleon. Put you in fire and you don't burn.”

  “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  I let her enjoy thinking that she was an enigma. But she was no enigma to me I could open her up and watch the wheels go round. I knew what made her tick; I knew to what frequency she was tuned. All I had to do was look at her in that coat and I knew who was the real boss. It was quite possible that deep in her soul she hated my guts—a possibility that bothered me not at all. I could afford a new Lincoln and a Balmain coat, both the same day—that was the important thing. That was the hook I had in her.

  Maybe she was right, maybe grabbing wasn't the best way to get what you wanted every time. Make her come to me, that was the best, the most satisfying answer. And I knew exactly how to go about it. Thanks to my very good friend, Mr. John Venci.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HIS NAME WAS Stephen S. Calvart. That was about all I knew about him, except that he was a textbook publisher and had made a considerable fortune by bribing a number of small-time school officials. S. S. Calvart, just a name, the fourth name from the last in John Venci's list of people he didn't like, to be exact, and I had selected it more or less at random out of all the other names.

  The Calvart Publishing Company was located on the east side, the seamy side of the city, and the building was a s
prawling, crumbling red brick affair that was even more rundown than the neighboring brick heaps that leaned against it.

  I parked the Lincoln in the alley behind the building, learned from the elevator operator that the publisher's office was on the fourth and top floor; so that is where I went.

  Calvart, it turned out, was an easy man to get to, not at all like King. I smiled at the receptionist, told her that my name was O'Connor, and that I represented the fourth school district and that I wanted to talk to Mr. Calvart about a new edition of history texts for the elementary grades.

  That was the magic word: “new edition.” In a matter of a few minutes I had progressed all the way to the head man himself. Yes sir, I thought, this is a place that knows how to treat a customer. Walk in and mention a deal and you get the red carpet treatment, no questions asked.

  Calvart was on the phone when I came into his office. He waved with a cigar and motioned to a chair. I made myself comfortable and tried to size him up. He was a big man, two hundred pounds at least, and looked more like an ex-hod carrier trying to get used to wearing three hundred dollar suits than a publisher of school textbooks. He didn't look like a man who got where he was by paying scrupulous attention to the rules of the game.

  “Now look, Davis,” he was saying into the phone, “you've been using that damn elementary social studies three years now. How do you expect kids to keep up with things in this fast movin' world if you handicap them three years right at the beginnin'? What the hell, those texts are outdated and you know it. Now look, I don't want to tell you-how to run your business, but I think we'd be smart....” He listened for a minute, then said, “Yeah, all right, but you work on the school boards down there, and the PTA bunch. Sure, Dave, I'll take care of you, don't I always?”

  He hung up and turned to me with no change of expression or tone of voice. “O'Connor you say. From the fourth district. I thought Paul Schriver was runnin' things down there.”

  “Maybe he is,” I said. “I don't even know where the fourth district is.”

  He was vaguely surprised but certainly not shocked. He took a few seconds to relight his dead cigar. His eyes were absolutely expressionless and looked hard enough to cut glass. In all that two hundred and more pounds there was not an ounce of imagination. Facts were his stock in trade, not imagination.

  After a moment he said, “I see.” And he did see. He had added his facts and knew that I was a man with an angle. “All right, O'Connor, now that you are here, what do you want?”

  “Money. Twenty thousand dollars, to be exact, and before you start pushing the button on that intercom box you'd better take a look at what I'm selling.”

  I pitched a photostat on his desk and Calvart looked at it quietly, still without expression. It was an affidavit, signed and witnessed, concerning a payoff between Calvart and a member of the state school commission, a man by the name of Longly. There was enough dynamite in that single piece of paper to blow Calvart right out of the publishing business for good, and he knew it.

  Its effect on him was exactly the opposite of what I had expected. He actually seemed relieved, now that he had all the facts, now that he knew precisely why I had come and what I wanted. He seemed to relax as he studied the photostat, he even smiled, very faintly.

  “Very interesting,” he said, not looking at me. “Very interesting indeed, if you should also have in your possession the original from which this copy was made.”

  “I have it, all right, but not in my possession right now.”

  “... Your caution is understandable,” he said dryly. He began to look pained as he continued to study the document before him. “Sam Longly,” he said. “Sam has been my friend for a good many years. Why, I was the one who got him a place on the school commission. It is difficult—extremely difficult to believe that Sam would deliberately destroy himself, and me, in such a manner.” Then he looked directly at me. “But the evidence is irrefutable, isn't it, O'Connor?”

  “It sure as hell is. Now let's stop this horsing around and get down to business. Is the original of that photostat worth twenty thousand to you or isn't it?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, as though in thought.

  “... Yes,” he said. “Yes, I'm afraid it is.”

  “You're sure it is. One book contract can make you another twenty grand and a lot more, but if that paper should get into the wrong hands there would be no more contracts, and you know it.”

  “Believe me,” he said quietly, “I am quite aware of this document's importance to myself, and I have already told you that it is worth twenty thousand dollars to me. However, I do not carry that kind of money with me... certain arrangements must be made.”

  This was almost too easy to be real. It was all I could do to keep from grinning—twenty thousand dollars just for the asking! Jesus, I thought, what a hell of a thing this is that John Venci lined up for me!

  Now Calvart was studying the tip of his smoldering cigar. “I am not a man to fight the inevitable,” he said.

  Calvart opened his eyes and looked at me for one long moment with his old hardness. “The details,” he said flatly. “I suppose you have them planned.”

  “Down to the last split second. You'll have the rest of the day to raise the money. Tonight, at eight o'clock exactly, I'll meet you in the Central bus station and we'll make the swap.”

  He nodded.

  I felt like a million dollars. I was half drunk with the excitement and the knowledge of my power, and it was all I could do to keep from laughing right in Stephen S. Calvart's fat face. Yes sir, this was one hell of a world!

  I started to get up, but Calvart was up before me, surprisingly fast for a man his size. He came around his desk, and then, without a hint of warning, a ham-sized hand snapped out, grabbed the front of my shirt and jerked me half out of the chair.

  “You lissen to me!” he rasped. “You lissen to me, you cheap sonofabitch, and you lissen good!”

  I was too startled to make a move. I hung there like some ridiculous scarecrow from the end of his huge arm. I felt an angry heat rush to my face, swell my throat, but there wasn't a thing I could do but hang there. Calvart's self-control had vanished in an explosion of rage. That smooth, professor-like speech of his had suddenly reverted to character.

  “You lousy gutter rat!” he grated. “I ought to kill you right here, right where you're sittin', and if you say one word, make one sound, I'll do it! You just lissen to me and get one thing straight; I'm not goin' to be your goddamn patsy, O'Connor. You got me by the tenders this time, but don't think you can keep milkin' me; don't think you can gouge me again; I don't care what you dig up against me. You just keep one thing in mind, O'Connor. You try a thing like this again, and you're dead. I don't care if I burn for it, you're dead!”

  Then he let go and I fell back in the chair.

  I sat there, every muscle in my body quivering. It had been a long time since a man had talked to Roy Surratt like that—the last one had been Gorgan, the prison guard. And Gorgan was dead. I sat there rigid with anger, feeling rage claw at my guts like a tiger. If I had that .38 I would have killed him on the spot, I would have put three hard ones right in the middle of his fat gut.

  But I didn't have the .38 with me and there was nothing I could do. Not now. He simply was too big to handle without a gun, so I had to take it, anything he wanted to dish out. Like he had said, I had him by the tenders, I had him where it hurt, but he couldn't afford to get too damn tough about it as long as I held on.

  “All right,” he said tightly, in a voice that sounded like it was being squeezed through a needle's eye. “Get out of here.”

  “... The bus station. You aren't going to forget our date, are you, Mr. Calvart?”

  “I won't forget a thing, not a single, goddamn thing, O'Connor, and that is one thing in this world that you can depend on.” Then he put his foot on the chair, straightened his leg suddenly, with a kick, and the chair shot half across the room with me in it. “Now get out
of my sight,” he said hoarsely, “before I really get mad and break your lousy neck!”

  I got out. I saw everything through a red haze of rage; my bones felt brittle; my muscles ached; my nerves seemed to lay on the top of my skin. But I got out, somehow. “All right,” I kept thinking, “all right you fat sonofabitch, we'll see who's so tough before this day is over!” I walked out of Calvart's office and through the outer offices and past the pale faces and the curious faces of Calvart's underlings, and then I rode the crawling elevator down to the Lincoln. I sat there for a long time.

  All I could do was sit there and try not to be sick, try to sweat it out until the poison rage had done its work. I tried to think of Gorgan and the way he had looked when I killed him, and that helped a little, but not much.

  I don't know how much time it took, but finally I felt myself begin to relax, my nerves began to settle back beneath the skin, the red rage began to lift.

  Maybe another ten minutes passed. I took out my handkerchief, wiped my face, my hands, then I switched on the Lincoln and got out of there.

  Stephen S. Calvart's future was settled.

  The first thing I did when I got back to the apartment was get the .38. I cleaned it carefully, checked the firing mechanism, oiled it, took the cartridges and wiped them carefully and replaced them.

  Then the phone rang. It was Dorris Venci.

  “Look, Dorris,” I said wearily, “I thought we had an understanding. No more phone calls, no more biology lessons. Now what the hell do I have to do to make you realize that we're through?”

  “... Roy!” Her voice had that high pitched twang to it, like a violin string ready to snap. “Roy, I can't take it! I simply can't take it any longer!”

  “Oh for Christ's sake!” I groaned.

  “Roy, I mean it! I simply can't take it!”

  I had no answer. What could you say to a crazy dame like that?

  “... Roy!”

  “What is it?”

  “... Roy, won't you... I mean, can't I see you, talk to you....”