by Ed Lacy
“Thanks!” His eyes seemed to be grinning at me —although the thin mouth was a stern line—as if enjoying my hurt. The hell of it was: I knew I felt the way many of my girls must have—when I was brushing them off.
“A snot-nose kid is cute, or merely annoying, but to find a forty-year-old...”
“I'm only thirty-nine, louse!”
“Biner, you're a tramp. A painting bum is no better than any other kind of tramp. In your case, there's not even the excuse of talent. You've been a pimp with a brush, a small time...”
“You're blowing hard—for a smug old man with a bad ticker!” I cut in, showing him the check from the New York City gallery. “Even if you can't, they sold one of my abstracts! You've heard of this gallery—big time.”
Hank laughed in my face. “Clayton, remember who you're talking to! I can sell a piece of used toilet paper if it's framed right! One sale doesn't prove a goddamn thing.”
“I thought you liked my work? Hung it halfway back in your shop, so...”
“I didn't bring you here to discuss art. You've learned a little technique, have a nice feeling for color. Right now you're a primitive—but you'll never be another Grandma Moses, believe me! Best you can ever become is a bad commercial artist who... Clayton, since you've never done an honest lick of work in your life, don't act goddamn offended when I offer you a chance to turn a large trick!”
“As a gallery owner, living off the talents of others, you shouldn't knock pimping! And Hank, what the devil do you know of honest work? You think a season as second tackle on a pro football team was a piece of soggy cake? Sure, I left it because modeling was easier money, and if I've tried making it as an artist, so what? Just you damn well remember I've always been a working artist! I've kept producing, good or bad, working hard at my... Hank, as of this second you represent nothing but a sharp pain in my can!”
His charming smile turned gentle again as he held up a slim hand. “Arguing will not get us anyplace. Clayton, I offered you a good proposition and all you do is start playing things coy.”
“You've been beating around a fat bush, what did you expect me to say?”
“To shout yes at the chance to make quiet money, ask what it's all about later!” He started to stand. “Come, I shall drive you back.”
“Easy, Hank, old boy; I never said I wasn't interested. It's... How come you never mentioned this... eh... great deal before, during all the months I've known you? When I'm rushing to go home, after a hell of a rugged day, you pop off with a hazy offer.”
“Hazy?” Hank stared at me again, eyes angry. “You haven't been listening to me carefully: told you I'm risking my life talking about this! That's the kind of deal this can be—I can say no more. Are you interested or not? Yes or no!”
“Interested,” I mumbled, certain he was putting on some kind of act—his cracks about my work still steaming me.
“You clearly understand, once I tell you the details, there's no backing out—whether you like the deal or not? They'll see to that.”
“Who's 'they'?
Hank placed his palms flat on the metal table, shrugged. “Frankly, I don't know. But 'they' won't hesitate at murder. Be absolutely certain you want in, Clayton.”
I started eating again, and talking. “One second you're nagging, insulting me because I didn't jump through the hoop. Now, you seem to be discouraging me. Talk about playing it coy...!”
“Merely reminding you there's no turning back.”
“Okay. I'm in.”
“You're positive?”
“I'm in... in... in,” I told him, hamming it up, a trifle bored with his silly games.
Hank motioned for the waiter. “Finish your sandwich in the car, while I tell you the details.”
When I was sitting on the front seat, stuffing my fat trap with the last of the roast beef, Hank reached for a package on the rear seat. Unwrapping it, he held up one of the big, ugly glass cats he sold. “Clayton, tonight you will take such a cat back to New York City. Tomorrow you register at a certain hotel. Within a few hours a man calls for the statue. He will pay you fifty thousand dollars, take the cat with him. That's it.”
Brushing crumbs from my face, I waited for the punch line to this sorry gag. “Fifty big bills for carrying one of these crummy cats? What's it made of, gold?”
“The modern day gold, Clayton... inside the cat will be seven kilos of the purest heroin.”
CHAPTER 6
“... so many people enter the USA, or any other country, it's a physical impossibility for Customs to thoroughly check everybody. When they do bag a smuggler, it's the result of a tip-off, the reward for informing. Most smugglers work on a small scale, making regular trips—word gets around and they're caught. We're only doing it once—one big haul. Few people are in on our deal—no chance of anybody blowing the whistle. I myself don't know who's the top man, and no one can know you're the courier—I hadn't picked you until an hour ago, when I read you were being deported. There's no reason for you to be suspected: you'll have a bill of sale, dated last month, showing you bought the cat at a small shop in Cagnes, for 72 NF. The statue is perfect, cloudy crystal with the inside mirrored —to all appearances a solid piece of cheap crystal. In New York you go to the Hotel Tran, on West 46th Street, register and wait...”
“Not under my right name!” I cut in, hoping my voice didn't shake. Sitting beside Henri on the front seat of his car, I felt numb—unreal. I'd done many petty and lousy things, but never anything outright criminal... like this.
Hank's slim fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. “This must be as uncomplicated as possible. What name will you use?”
“Collins. Stanley Collins.”
“All right, you are now Stanley Collins—an ordinary name. You register and simply wait in your room—not more than a few hours, but wait there. Whoever calls to see you, will merely ask for a cat statue, hand you an envelope with your money in it; you give him the cat. That's the end of the matter, as far as you're concerned. Your job is to be sure the statuette is neither lost nor broken in transit.”
“But... what do I do with it at Customs?” I asked, feeling like a spectator listening to my own voice.
Henri smiled. “Clayton, again you're not listening to me: you are to do absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. You'll declare the cat, of course, along with a few cheap ash trays, perfume—the usual tourist junk. I'll give you everything, including the necessary bills of sale. Far as the weight and craftsmanship goes, you have nothing to worry about. And there can't be any informer—that's the beauty of the plan. Various criminal elements here, and undoubtedly the French authorities, know a quantity of heroin has been brought Into France over the past year. They don't know where it has been stored—and, most important, how it will leave the country! As I told you, this is a one shot deal—a big score—and no one with a criminal record is connected with this—here. There is one other element of risk—a tiny risk if you keep your fat mouth shut —should it become known you were carrying the junk, other... eh... crooks... in the States might try to hijack it. However there is little chance of that, you'll have delivered the cat and be through with your end in a matter of hours. I can assure you this has been a long time in the planning, and whoever is in charge has waited patiently for the right man, the right opportunity.”
If my guts were in a knot, the food I'd eaten— lead; to my surprise I heard myself ask calmly, “Isn't this a lot of cabbage to pay for a simple operation like carrying a statue into the States?”
“You have no idea how big this deal is, Clayton. Heroin comes eighty-seven per cent pure, and worth about three thousand dollars per kilo at its source. In other words, to start with, you will be carrying twenty-one thousand dollars' worth of heroin. In the States the value leaps to about seventy thousand dollars, but whoever is handling this has the organization to carry through the distribution: when the heroin is diluted and peddled, it's final price will be about three million dollars! So what you are bei
ng paid, and even my share... is relatively small change.”
If still shaking with fear, the thought I was about to put my meathooks on anything worth three million bucks was staggering. Hand read my mind. Patting my knee he said in his precise English, “Clayton, please don't try to be 'clever.' You're being well paid and any double-cross would certainly result in your death. While I think you're a bit of the fool, I wouldn't have approached you if I considered you stupid.”
Under my numbness I was angry at the way he kept calling me a fool. “Just to be sure I'm getting that well founded picture, how can you be certain I won't inform?”
“For several reasons. Your cut for informing would only be a thousand or two. Secondly, while but a few people are in the deal, at this stage—obviously a large and efficient organization is behind it: you wouldn't five long enough to spend your first Judas dollar. Thirdly—and this indeed makes you the ideal courier—you've been involved in a dope case with a Monsieur Parks. Should you inform I doubt the U.S. government would believe your story—far too much of a coincidence you're being innocently dragged into two dope cases within twenty-four hours. The net result is you'd certainly do time, never leave jail alive. Now, I'll drive you back to my shop, pick up the real cat.”
I shivered as he started the Citroen. Hank's hand was still on my knee. “Frightened?”
I started to say no, then nodded.
“You are lucky—I've been involved in this for a... your period of fear will last but a day. I know what else you must be thinking—dope is dirty business. How often I've wished it was precious stones, gold, anything but this cursed junk! Still, remember this; every fast buck, lira, mark, or franc has dirt on it. I can only assure you that your biggest danger is yourself—not a word or smallest hint of this to anyone.”
“If that's the greatest danger, I'm safe.”
“As of this second, no one but myself knows you are the courier, and nobody else will know until minutes before your plane is due to land in Idlewild. Nor will it matter if New York City is fogged in, the plane forced to land at... say, Washington. Stanley Collins is to remain at the Hotel Tran until contacted. Is that clear, Clayton?”
“Yeah. But now that I'm in, one more condition,” I told him, the tension in my belly relaxing. “Since you're in a position to help my painting career, don't forget bringing my work to your buddy in Paris, the write-up in the papers.”
Hank nodded his tanned head. “I promise to do what I can. Needless to add, you are never to mention this to anybody when it is finished, and it also would be stupid to attempt any sort of blackmail on me. Always remember, it would be nothing for 'them' to have you killed.”
“Just do what you can for me,” I told him. He squeezed my knee but my thoughts were so full of three million dollars, I barely was aware of his hand.
Stopping at the gallery, Hank picked a cat from his stock which didn't look any different than the other statues. Hefting the ugly figurine—it weighed about thirty-five pounds—I told him, “Doesn't seem heavier than the cat in the back of the car.”
“Clayton, two hands for beginners,” he said, gently placing it on the counter. “As I told you, it's perfect in every detail. I won't talk about the best laid plans of men and mice... but the only way this deal can sour win* be due to some minor hitch we couldn't have foreseen... such as you dropping this while horsing around.”
“I'll be careful.”
“Be damn careful, with your big hands and bigger mouth. Now, here are a few bottles of cheap perfume, some ash tray souvenirs—sales slips for everything, each slip carefully wrinkled and aged. You'll breeze through Customs, you're under the one-hundred dollar duty-free limit.” Hank held out his hand. “I won't see you again, Clayton. You'll probably be watched by 'them,' for all I know—we both are at this second. Just act normal.”
Shaking his hand, glancing at my water colors on exhibit, I picked up the cat, told Hank, “Guess I should thank you for this... opportunity.”
“Thank me if you wish... when it's all over... if we're still alive.”
“Aren't we moody, now? Minutes ago you were full of we-can't-fail-cheer.”
Toying nervously with his wild scarf, Hank said in French, “He who handles dynamite must expect death. I have this advantage: with my blocked heart veins, death is never far from my mind or... I am an ass, there's no reason for such talk—I'm positive this will not fail! Clayton be careful, but above all—act normal: you're merely bring home some cheap souvenirs.”
“Don't worry.” I felt slightly giddy—holding three million bucks' worth of anything is a hell of a boot.
Hank said sadly, “I'd worry less if you were more frightened. Bravado is another way of spelling stupidity.”
“I'm plenty scared and worried, but on top of it all the way.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then slapped my back. “It may sound blasphemous but—God's speed, Clayton.”
Hank wrapped the cat in newspaper and I left the gallery with the statue cradled in my arms. It was minutes before eight and I wanted to phone Syd, tell her not to see me at the airport. She was now my hole ace—Australia would be a perfect hideout—if I double-crossed 'them.' I wasn't seriously considering it, three million bucks was far too much action for me to try alone... but the idea was lingering around the back of my mind.
Walking toward Rue du France, I thought of Hank's stress on my acting normal... certainly not having any girl see me off wouldn't be normal. Even if Hank knew about Syd, he probably thought she was merely another female sucker I was working. And the only way I could persuade Syd to stay away from the airport would be to see her now: if I was being followed—I couldn't chance calling 'their' attention to Syd.
Her coming to the airport, the tearful farewell, would be in character, nothing anybody would remember... And in a few days Syd would leave Nice, be in London.
I waited on Rue de France for the airport bus, which stopped within a street of my hotel. It gave me a charge to sit in the half-empty bus with more money in my arms than the entire city of Nice saw in a week, or months. But I wasn't merely daydreaming—I was watching the various gift shops along the street. Out near Avenue de Californie there are a few starving ceramic shops full of cheap tourist stuff... and in one window I saw, finally— another cat like the one in my arms.
Reaching my stop, I seemed to be alone. Walking quickly to the hotel, I told madame I was leaving and paid my bill. She hadn't read about me in the paper, still mumbled about her lousy hot water as she counted my francs. Going to my room I started packing, taking my easel-sketch box apart, telling myself if this deal went through I'd burn the damn thing up—even though I once paid seventy-five dollars for it. I wrapped my paintings, throwing out a lot of unfinished and lousy stuff. The cat was standing—almost carelessly, most of the newspaper torn off—on the floor beside my bed. After a few minutes, madame came in to see what I was taking—as I knew she would. I told her, “I'm in a hurry to leave and there is something I forgot to buy. Is the porter's son around?”
“I do not know. You cross the back yard to his rooms, if you wish to find out: he lives behind the shoe repair shop on the next street... Ah, what a beautiful and lucky cat!” She rushed over to put her crooked hands on the junkie cat.
“Careful, it's heavy,” I said, taking it from her. Why lucky?”
“I've seen many such cats, although never this big. They are said to be a copy of a cat on an Egyptian tomb, perhaps the beautiful Cleopatra's, considered a good luck omen. You take this to the States, Monsieur Biner?”
“Yeah, for bookends, but I need another. I don't have time so I thought the boy might buy me one. I know a shop which sells them, not far from here.”
“I can not leave my desk, or I would see if the boy...”
“Thank you, Madame, but I am in a hurry,” I said, glancing at my watch. I still had over thirty minutes. “I'll find him.” Taking the cat I went out the dingy kitchen door, crossed the dark patch of ground and garbage the
y called a yard. The sky was starting to fill with stars and I thought how wonderful—I'd soon be up there in the plane... and how absolutely silly it would be if I stumbled, spilled three million bucks' worth of junk on the real junk in this tiny yard. If there was a 'they' behind all this, and there had to be, I could be found face down in some other yard.
I walked with great care.
The boy was having supper but stopped when I showed him the cat, told him the address of the shop, and 100 new francs. I impressed upon him that if the store was closed, he was the find the owner's flat—undoubtedly in the rear of the shop— and explain it was a rush sale.
“I will bring it to your hotel room, monsieur.”
“No, I'll wait here.” I gave him a hammy wink. “Madame is raising the devil about the state of my room, the paint stains—it will be easier for me to wait here. Now hurry.”
