by Iceberg Slim
He got into the Pontiac and drove it behind an abandoned service station a hundred yards down the highway. He walked back to the motel and went behind the office building and cut the telephone line. He went into his room and locked it. He felt a draft and went into the bathroom to swing a large hinged window shut. He repeated the loosening process on his wall heater, then he pulled it off and leaned it against the gaping hole in the wall.
He glanced at his wristwatch, then pulled the suitcase from beneath the bed and took from it five sets of opened handcuffs, a coil of baling wire, five strips of double cloth sewn together with rubber balls inserted into the hollow to the middle and wire clippers. He hung the articles on key hooks affixed to his belt. After that, he blackened his room, lit a cigarette, and pulled up a chair to the window. He slit a tiny hole in the drawn drapes. For an hour and a half he smoked and peered radiant eyes through it at the access road leading to the motel.
He leaped to his feet when he saw the headlamps of Red’s Continental flare on the access road to the motel. He took the machine gun to the hole in the wall and stooped in the darkness to peer through a tiny crack between the loosened heater and the wall on the other side. He heard the Continental purr into the parking lot in front of number ten and saw the headlights bomb the interior for a moment before they extinguished. Then he heard the rasp of a key.
A tall, black, overcoated shape opened the door and punched the light switch on the wall at the door. Red stood at the open door for a long moment, sweeping his eyes about the room. Pony watched him step into the room out of eyeshot and heard him open the closet door. Pony went to the drape slit and saw Frog sitting on the front seat of the Continental.
He heard Red say, “It’s all right, Frog.”
Pony saw Frog leave the car, carrying the pay-off valise and walk toward number ten. He heard the door shut. Pony took his fright mask from his jacket pocket, slipped it on, and went back to peer into number ten. He saw Red go to look through the parted front-window drapes for a moment before he flopped down on a sofa beside Frog, hunched inside his sheepskin coat as he clutched the valise. He watched Frog lay the valise on the sofa. Frog removed his gloves and slipped an automatic from a shoulder holster. He shoved it between the cushions beside him.
Frog said, “Red, you keep telling me those Apple niggers are on the level. But shit, I’m fifty-five and wouldn’t trust Christ with my bloody fifty-grand nest egg bread, the only stick I got to fight with in this cold cruel world.” Frog picked up the valise and clasped it against his chest.
Red shrugged. “I ain’t got no complaints about precautions.” Red rose, glanced at his watch, and said, “They’re seven minutes late. I hope nothing has hap—”
Pony kicked out the heater and catapulted into the room waggling the machine gun at the bug-eyed pair, frozen in shock.
“You niggers keep your eyes off me and get on the floor, stretched out on your bellies,” Pony snarled.
They flopped to the carpet as ordered, Frog still clutching the valise.
Pony tossed two pair of handcuffs between them. He commanded, “Cop Pig, unass my bread, and handcuff the pimp’s hands behind him.”
Frog hesitated, threw the valise at Pony’s feet, and stared balefully up at Pony as he handcuffed Red’s hands.
Pony ordered, “I’m gonna blow out your windows, Pig, for kicks, if you keep pinning me. Now pimping Red, turn on your side. You, Pig, ugly ass, get on your side back to back to the cunt lapper.”
Frog complied. Pony rammed the snout of the machine gun into Frog’s belly as he whipped a length of baling wire around their ankles, then all the way to the waists of the pair. He leaned and handcuffed Frog’s hands behind his back, then mummied the pair together with baling wire to their shoulders. He stooped and tied the rubber ball gags into their mouths. Then he dragged them by their heels to the closet, crammed them into it, and closed the door.
He scooped up the valise and went through the hole in the wall to his room and smiled his pleasure as he opened the valise and gazed at the stacks of greenbacks. He put the valise beside his bag and peered through the drape slit at the access road. He remembered Satin’s apprehension about the caper and thought, The bread and two gorillas bagged, with three to go. He toyed with the idea that he should split without the “H.” But immediately he realized he could blow Satin if he failed to convince her that he had passed up the “H,” that he hadn’t dropped it on his man in Gary.
Anyway, he thought, those New York dealers might say I heisted their “H” in the parking lot as an angle to squeeze Red and Frog for restitution since the heist was plainly an inside job. No, he’d have to take the “H” as proof and suffer to see Satin destroy the powdery treasure.
Beyond Pony’s view, the Hilsons sat in a parked, rented Chevy on the entry road off the highway near the stand of trees. Mel Hilson sat on the front seat with binoculars to his eyes zeroed in on the motel.
He said, “All right, Jeff, I’m satisfied . . . up to a point.”
Jeff started the car and pulled out for the motel.
Silas, on the backseat, fondled an MI6 automatic rifle. He said, “Mel, up to a point means that we all don’t go in. Right?”
Mel turned his face to Silas, “You’re bright and right. We’re gonna park back from number ten. As you know, we’ve got sizzling, precious merchandise. So if any bastard, except that old peckerwood land prop comes near that door, blow the hot shit out of him, cop or whoever. Stay down out of sight. Understand that, Silas? Don’t fuck around thinking about it! I’ll say it again, blow away any cocksucker that shows!”
Jeff tooled down the access road into a parking space, facing number ten, fifty yards away. They got out, with Mel carrying the dope satchel. They walked casually toward number ten, paused, and looked into the front and rear of Red’s Continental.
Pony spied through his drape slit. He saw the top of Silas’s head as he crouched on the rear floorboards. He went through the hole in the wall to stand behind the door of number ten.
Pony said, “Yeah?” at the sound of the jiggled doorknob, then the knock on the door.
Mel said, “Mel.”
Pony stayed behind the door as he swung it open. They stepped inside. He slammed it shut and smashed the machine-gun butt down on the top of diminutive Jeff’s skull. His eyes rolled as he fell forward against Mel, knocking him off balance as Mel tugged a pistol halfway out of his overcoat pocket. Pony slammed the machine-gun barrel against Mel’s jaw. The brothers lay unconscious on the floor. Pony handcuffed, bound, and gagged them. He dragged them by the heels into the bathroom.
He picked up Mel’s satchel, checked it, and took it through the hole to his room, where he removed his mask. He grinned as he peeped at the Chevy and saw Silas’s sentry head silhouetted above the front seat.
Pony went to the bathroom window. He opened it and threw machine gun, satchel, valise, and his bag through the window. He climbed out and dropped into the snow at the back of the building. Almost leisurely, he walked across a frozen field to the stolen Pontiac behind the abandoned service station. He threw his loot in and got behind the wheel and pulled out to the highway for his house on the mid-Southside.
Two hours later, Red moaned in silk shorts on his bed as Satin tenderly applied a Benzocaine cream to Red’s baling wire burns and bruises sustained while thrashing on the closet floor in frantic efforts to escape before suspicious Silas came to discover the heist. Frog, in a bathrobe, sat on the side of the bed glaring down at Red’s back with a combination expression of anguish, murderous rage, and suspicion.
Frog said, “Somebody fingered us. Put your thinking cap on, nigger. We got to get that dope and bread back. You heard those Hilsons swear to hit us if we don’t square up with them within seventy-two hours.”
Red, propped up on the pillows, groaned as he raised a platinum cocaine-snorting spoon toward his nostrils. Satin glanced at her wristwatch.
Frog slapped the spoon from his hand. He darted a suspicious look at
Satin and said, “Let’s go to the den, Red, now.”
Red struggled up to his feet, threw a robe across his shoulders, and followed Frog to the den at the end of the hall.
Frog slammed the door behind them. Red collapsed on the sofa and peered at Frog through his fingers pressed against his face. Satin stuffed perfume bottles from the dresser into her purse.
Frog jerked a chair to the sofa. He sat down in front of Red, jabbed his kneecap with his fist, and asked in a deadly whisper, “Red, did you crack to your black bitch about where we went to deal?”
Red shook his head, “Nothing!”
Frog said, “You crack to anybody?”
Red said, “Nobody, Frog . . . Did you, Frog?”
Frog curled his lips, “I’m not stupid, nigger. That motel key, maybe that black bitch knew from that. Nigger, where did you keep that key?”
Red lied. “In my wallet, Frog. She’s not hooked into that heist. For what reason would she put her man in a cross like that after I took her off the street and set her up in the boutique? Why, shit, Frog, she’s living!”
But immediately Red thought of the bitter argument with Satin. He remembered her accusation that he was responsible for her mother’s death.
Frog laughed contemptuously. “That was a fancy-walking young nigger that took us off, Red. I saw his wrists. He was a yellow nigger, maybe pretty. He had big, grey, ho eyes peeping through his mask. Red, you’ll never meet a pitch-black ho that wouldn’t suck a pretty young yellow nigger’s shit through a straw. You ain’t pretty no more, Red, and you’re old at forty-five to a young ho twenty-two. You conned, gorillaed that bitch, coat-hangered her and turned her out. Red, don’t bullshit yourself that she wants or needs you. I say let’s stomp that bitch and find out who cut that caper. I’m a police scientist, and I’m sure she’s the finger.”
Red groaned and pressed his palms against his temples. “You’re wrong, Frog . . . You’re wrong.”
The phone rang on an end table beside Red. He picked up. His mouth sagged open as he listened to Pony’s strange voice reciting a conundrum. He ashened and sputtered, “Wha . . . uh . . . who . . . uh?” Red’s hand shook as he replaced the receiver. He stared into Frog’s cold eyes.
Frog leaned into Red’s face. “Who was that, Red?”
Red averted his eyes and mumbled, “Some mush-jib Polack dialed the wrong number, that’s all . . . Christ Almighty! You ain’t leery of me, are you, Frog?”
Frog rose to his feet and patted Red’s shoulder. He smiled. “Hell, no! Everything is gonna be all right, partner. I got an idea I’ll lay on you when I get back from the john.”
Frog opened the den door and stepped into the hallway to collide with Satin, dressed for the street. He seized her around the waist under the guise of support and grinned down into her face, “Baby doll, it’s after one. Ain’t you afraid you’ll get ripped off for that mink benny lollygagging in them streets?”
She managed to say smoothly, “Yes, I would, lollygagging. I’ve got a yen for barbecued ribs. Want me to bring you an order?”
He released her. “Bring me a fifth of Cutty Sark. I’ll give you the bread when you get back.”
Satin stuck her head inside the den. She smiled at Red. “Want anything from the street, sweetheart?” she asked Red, slumped on the sofa.
He stared at her for a long moment before he said, “Pall Malls, Satin, if you’re coming back . . . soon.”
She said, “I’ll bring them back, Daddy . . . soon.” She exhaled tension as she went down the hall toward the stairway.
Behind his door, Frog sat on the side of his bed loading bullets into his six-shot, thirty-two revolver. He put a silencer on the barrel as he listened to Pony’s tape-recorded voice.
Satin drove her El Dorado down the mansion’s driveway into boulevard traffic. Silas Hilson was staked out on the boulevard behind her in a rented Chevy. He reflexively started the car to tail her, but he turned the engine off as he remembered that Mel instructed him to tail only Red and Frog.
A half-dozen miles away, Pony dressed for the street to get some butterscotch ice cream for his mother and champagne for a celebration with Satin before the liquor store closed.
With tape recorder in hand, handcuffs behind his back, and revolver in his robe pocket, Frog walked into the den. He drew the gun and pointed it at Red’s head. “Stick out your hands, Red,” he ordered.
Sweat popped on Red’s brow as he held out his hands. Frog whipped the cuffs from behind his back and snapped them around Red’s wrists. Red’s mouth fell agape. Red stared at him as he plugged the machine into a wall socket, then set the recorder on the floor at Red’s feet. Frog sat down in the chair before Red. He scooted it back a couple of feet from Red after he flipped on the recorder.
Frog pointed the revolver at Red as Pony’s rapid voice said: “Red, I’ve got bad news. I’m not splitting the motel score with you. I’m calling you from out-of-town. You were a dirty nigger, Red, to burn me like you did last year when we took off those Dagos in Cicero. Dixie hipped me, Red, the week before his ho wasted him.”
Frog leaned carefully and flipped off the machine.
Red’s lips soundlessly flapped together as he pitifully extended his cuffed hands toward Frog. Finally, Red croaked out, “Frog, it’s a cross!”
Frog aimed the gun at Red’s heart. “Don’t speak to me, Red!” he said venomously.
Red collapsed against the sofa back.
Frog mused in a deadly monotone. “A cross that backfired, Red. Now I know why you were so certain your bitch was innocent when I was so sure she was the finger. We could have cut that smack twice and made a ton of bread in the panic. Your greed, Red, is gonna put a tag on your toe. I’m an old, ugly nigger . . . broke! ‘Frog Mug’ the kids in the orphanage called me, the funny face that nobody adopted . . . loved . . . never had any pussy I didn’t buy. I was guilty of those three murders I beat, but you’ll never tell it, Red. Shot Marva first . . . told me she was cutting me loose, told me she retched when I made love to her. After all the dope I bought her, clothes, paid rent for her junkie brother and her Q.T. sweetie. I killed them all shooting up dope I bought. I was sorry I killed her . . . still am. Ain’t that a bitch, Red? My nose is still open for that yellow, stinking, skunk, lousy, junkie ho. You can speak now, Red. Tell me the name of that bandit so I . . . uh . . . we can trace him and recover that money and dope.”
Red’s eyes sparkled with fear and cunning as he said, “Frog, you were right about Satin. I lied about the key to cover that I was stupid enough to trust her. The key was on the dresser all the time. Uncuff me, Frog, and we’ll stomp the name of the bandit out of her. Frog, the description fits the bastard that took off Jelly Drop and the other dealers, even the prancy walk. Don’t make a mistake, Frog, and waste me. You’ll need me against the Hilsons until we bag the bandit.”
Red saw Frog’s finger tighten on the trigger as he replied, “No sale, Red. I don’t need you. I can’t gamble on you. Your body dumped in an alley and that recording of your bandit double-crosser clears me with the Hilsons. Why did his call shake you up, Red? Why did you lie? C’mon, Red, I’ll give a condemned man a chance to con me why he lied.”
Red stared stupidly at him, slack-jawed, a portrait of guilt as he flogged his brain for the logical words to explain why he lied. He tensed, and decided to bomb Frog’s jaw with his foot. Red leaped to his feet and blurred a slippered foot toward Frog’s head at the instant he saw the chambers of the revolver start to roll. His dead foot grazed Frog’s head as he crashed to the floor with a leaking red hole in the center of his forehead.
Frog rose from his chair and pumped two bullets into the back of Red’s head. He stared down at Red, the smoking pistol in his hand. He stripped off Red’s flannel robe and wrapped it around Red’s bloody head. Then he dragged the corpse into his bedroom closet. He sat on the side of the bed and thought about the problem of the body and what to do about Satin when she returned.
• • •
Satin arrived at Pony’s house ten minutes after he left for Lula’s ice cream and the celebration champagne. Satin stood patiently outside the front door listening to the metallic clatter as Lula unbolted and unbarred the thick oak door. She stepped into the house and helped Lula refortify the door.
Near Forty-seventh and Calumet Avenue, Jelly Drop stepped from his bathtub. He talced his blubber and slipped into fresh white silk pajamas. He scooped up a new porn mag from a living-room table. He went to the bedroom and propped himself on satin pillows in his king-size bed. He opened the mag and grinned salaciously as he started to enjoy the erotic contents. He reached a hand into a tall candy crock on the nightstand beside him. Dramatic pain creased his face as he peered into the empty crock. He swung his tree stump legs off the bed and turned the crock upside down on his palm. He licked his palm clean of the sugar crystals.
He sighed as he slipped on his overcoat over his pajamas. He put on shoes and socks and went to a drugstore around the corner on Forty-Seventh Street. He pressed his face against the door to attract the attention of clerks and cashier hustling to go home.
A porter came to the door and threw his hands in the air. “We closed, man!” he hollered before he broomed away.
Jelly Drop turned disconsolately away. He waddled to his car parked in front of his apartment building. He unlocked the car, got in, and pulled away for a sure shot source of jelly drops. Fresh! He sped down Martin Luther King Drive to Sixty-first Street. He turned and pulled up to park in front of a drugstore. Open! He got out and started across the sidewalk.
The corner of his eye snared a figure with a unique equine stride walk from a parked tan Mercury Marquis across the sidewalk into a liquor store in the middle of the block. Jelly Drop forgot his candy dope. He scuttled to the liquor store window and peered in at Pony standing at the rear of a long line of last-minute customers. Jelly Drop told himself, “He’s the size, the height. It’s him!” He scrambled to a drugstore phone to call Red.
