Enforcer

by Sydney J. Bounds

  A voluptuous negress wearing a dark blue evening dress picked up her bag, collected the slip and swept out of the lounge.

  Greco watched the wall clock and sweated. All right, assume this first operation was a success, then he could expect more business to follow. He dreamed a little, his own home and office — a fixed address with no risk attached — and one organiser after another asking him to put a team together.

  He couldn’t wait to get out of the rackets — even this escort agency. Since Diamond had hit on him, things were falling apart, too many of his managers trying to set up on their own. And he wasn’t getting any younger. Now the cops were snooping around, sticking their noses into his business.

  Well, Diamond was as good as taken care of. Haggar wasn’t the sort to give up. He was a real black-hater, and he’d keep after Diamond till he nailed him.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Pussy Cat Escort Agency . . .’ The blond young man held out the receiver.

  Greco took it and heard Madden’s voice. He stopped sweating and put down his cigar. Now he could relax.

  *

  The First National Bank in Baton Rouge was on North Boulevard, not far from the junction with Nicholson. This Friday morning the sun shone and traffic was light, pedestrians few — most people were already at work. It was just after opening time when a Pontiac drew up and parked outside the main door.

  A young and obviously pregnant woman got out of the back; she looked as if she’d dressed in a hurry and the hands holding a small drugstore package were agitated. A clean-shaven man in an executive-style suit and carrying a briefcase followed her into the bank. The driver remained at the wheel with the engine running.

  The uniformed security man standing just inside the doorway looked up sharply, then smiled and said, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Taverner.’

  She didn’t answer, but hurried to the manager’s office and entered without knocking. The man with the briefcase followed her inside and closed the door.

  The manager stared in surprise. ‘Claire —?’

  He half-rose in his swivel chair as Claire Taverner said, ‘I’ve brought them,’ and held out the package.

  The manager looked bewildered, ‘What —?’

  Madden made one quick movement, covering his face with a stocking mask. So far she had been too upset to look closely at him, but the situation was about to change. A second swift movement opened his briefcase and he brought out a sawn-off shotgun.

  ‘This is a hold-up,’ he said clearly and pointed the gun at Claire’s bulging stomach.

  The bank manager gaped in disbelief; his daughter’s face turned ashen.

  Madden’s cold grey eyes watched them over the twin barrels.

  ‘You a hunter, Mr. Fisher?’ The manager nodded. ‘Then I don’t have to tell you what a double load of twelve-gauge Double-O buckshot will do to your daughter’s womb. You’ll lose both your only daughter and your unborn grandchild. If you remain calm and do exactly as I say, she won’t be hurt — try for an alarm or waste time and I’ll pull both triggers. Maybe you’d better take one of those pills now.’

  Claire said dully, ‘He told me you’d had another heart attack and needed your pills in a hurry.’

  Fisher made a tight smile. ‘I’m all right, Claire — relax if you can. I shan’t do anything to put you at risk.’

  Madden said: ‘You’ve got the bills ready for people cashing their pay cheques? Is the vault open yet?’

  ‘Yes, and yes.’

  ‘Right then, this is what you’ll do. You’ll organise your tellers to work for me — they’ll put the notes into plastic bags. By now, I’ll have three men in the bank and they’ll provide the bags. Don’t bother with the small stuff — just twenties and up, the lot, understand?’

  Fisher nodded, and sighed. ‘I understand, and I’ll do exactly as you say.’

  ‘That’s fine. If nobody tries any clever stuff, no one gets hurt. You’re on your own — you tell your people what to do and make damn sure they do it right and fast. Just remember I’ll be with your only daughter and that I’ll blast her belly wide open at the first false move. Ready?’

  Fisher moistened his lips. ‘I’m ready. Try not to worry, Claire, nothing will happen to you.’

  He stood up behind his desk, crossed to the door and opened it. He stepped through, into the public section of the bank and raised his voice so that everyone would hear.

  ‘May I have your attention, please?’

  Business was temporarily suspended as all eyes turned to him. He was acutely aware of Claire behind him and the shotgun behind her.

  He moistened his lips again. ‘Please, please don’t anyone make a wrong move. This man has a shotgun on my daughter!’

  Two men stopped pretending to fill in forms, opened briefcases and whipped on stocking masks. They pulled out large black plastic bags and stepped up to the counter.

  A third masked man moved up to the security guard and removed his revolver from its holster. ‘Just to avoid temptation, pal,’ he murmured. With gloved hands, he pinned a notice to the street door:

  BANK CLOSED

  Due to an electronic fault

  We regret the inconvenience

  Open at Noon

  As he closed the door, he caught a glimpse of the waiting Pontiac. Ted Paley was revving his engine and both doors facing the sidewalk were open.

  The robbery went smoothly. At Fisher’s instruction, the tellers stuffed bundles of banknotes into the plastic bags; there were six bags, extra strong with a quick-release fastening at the neck.

  Madden stood alone, shotgun placed against the lower part of Claire’s back; she was pale and sweating. He watched the customers; an elderly man in a hard-worn suit, a burly guy in overalls, a couple of teenagers. They waited like statues. He looked at the hands of the wall-clock, calculating.

  ‘Enough,’ he said.

  The three masked men took two bags each, secured the tops and carried them, one in each hand to the main door.

  ‘You will all face away from the door,’ Madden said.

  The robbers waited till he was obeyed, then whipped off their masks and hurried outside.

  Madden walked Claire Tavernier towards the front door, and paused.

  ‘No heroics, please. If no one panics, nobody gets hurt. We’re leaving now — and I suggest you don’t poke a head outside for at least three minutes.’

  He glanced past the half-open doorway; his men were already in the car with the bags. He whipped off his mask.

  ‘Sorry to scare you, lady,’ he murmured, and ran down the steps.

  The get-away car was moving before he had the door shut. Paley, cool as a Grand Prix driver, rapidly built up speed, turned at the intersection and accelerated out of town.

  In the back of the Pontiac, Hendriks, Woody and Violets were busy transferring banknotes into briefcases.

  Madden watched the rearview mirror. ‘No one yet.’

  ‘They won’t be long,’ Paley said, his foot hard down.

  The car kept going till the Louisiana State University showed ahead, then Madden cautioned: ‘All right, take it easy now. We’ve got the time.’

  Paley slowed to cruising speed and turned into the huge University lot where upwards of a hundred cars were parked in neat rows. He pulled up alongside a Buick with Skip waiting at the wheel.

  They changed cars in seconds. Then sitting sedately with briefcases on their laps, they headed back towards Baton Rouge. The Buick cruised at a moderate speed as police cars, sirens screaming, rocketed by in the opposite direction. Skip drove down to the levee and parked out of the sun while they waited for the steamboat.

  *

  Detective Cave sat in his Plymouth, chewing an indigestion tablet and reading the Times-Picayune. His stomach was acting up again. Why was it he couldn’t be bothered to eat a decent meal? Always hamburgers or the Colonel’s fried chicken or some damn pizza.

  From where he sat he had a view of Pierre’s, on Decatur. Greco had the resour
ces to put the boot in, and Cave wondered why he hadn’t. Turk had gone to ground and Diamond was out of town and nothing much seemed to be happening. His pale eyes flicked from the restaurant front to his paper and the lead story.

  DARING DAYLIGHT RAID

  Mr. T. Fisher, manager of the First National Bank and his daughter, Mrs. Claire Taverner, were the dupes of —

  The car door opened and Breeze slid into the back seat.

  ‘Reading about the Baton Rouge job, huh? Half a million in notes — Geez, some haul!’

  Cave said sourly, ‘It’s not my worry, thank God. We’ve got enough crime here, without borrowing from the capital.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The informer’s voice held a note of slyness. ‘A real pro job, smooth with no leads to follow. They got clear away — so who got it all together then?’

  ‘An organiser, of course. Could be any one of a dozen.’

  Breeze pushed back long floppy hair from his eyes. ‘Maybe there’s a new one in town,’ he said softly. ‘I hear a lot of rumours on my rounds — and one says Greco was spotted talking to a couple of bank job specialists just recently. It’s only a rumour, mind.’

  He slid from the car and merged with a bunch of tourists as though he were one of them.

  Cave set his Plymouth in motion, turned up Esplanade to Rampart Street and drove past the Louis Armstrong Paris. He cruised automatically, his eyes registering the scene but his mind fitting together pieces of the jigsaw.

  If Breeze’s rumour had any truth, it looked like Greco was branching out — and that would account for his half-hearted attempts to keep his managers in line. And sometime, someone else would make a bid to take over. Right now would be a good time to put on the pressure.

  Was Greco setting up as an organiser? Not likely. An employment agency?

  Fred Cave thought that idea had the ring of truth as he followed the traffic flow. It excited him. There might be something for him there, a way to set up Greco so Diamond could reach him.

  Meanwhile, a clean-up was scheduled. He broke away from the traffic, smiling, and headed for Police Headquarters; he wanted to put his idea to Lieutenant Stoner.

  Chapter Sixteen – Live Bait

  The moon hung above the Mississippi like a yellow globe in the summer darkness. The Queen of the South lay hard against a stone jetty, moored for the night; there was a gangway lowered to allow passengers who had the inclination to stroll along the river bank.

  It was quiet except for the lapping of water against the jetty and a background murmur of conversation. The band had packed in for the night and most of the tourists had gone to their cabins. Mosquitoes whined about the gleam of swamps and, on the shore road, cars passed with a dazzle of headlights. A few couples huddled together in shadowed corners.

  Chelsea Hull leaned on the deck rail and stared into the night; the moon’s reflection rippled in dark water and bright stars pierced the sky. Behind her, twin funnels reared, tall and slender and rimmed with brass. It was the first time she’d played upriver and she was pleasantly relaxed and humming Vince’s final number, happy to be waiting for Wash to join her. Their jazz had been good.

  She couldn’t remember feeling so content with life. Just to be out of the city, with no pressures, watching the shifting surface of the great river as it raced south to the Mexican Gulf. She promised herself she would sing with a riverboat band as often as she could get a date. It was a great life.

  No Vogel, no Leon Greco, no Detective Cave; she had Wash to herself for a while . . . he seemed to be taking the investigation bit seriously, checking on those convention types who came aboard at Baton Rouge.

  She glanced idly at the jetty where a station wagon was parked without lights. There was a shadow inside and she smiled, imagining a pair of lovers.

  Cloud passed across the moon and she heard a car door squeak, then footsteps on the gangway. A man’s footsteps. She smelt whisky and the sourness of dirty clothes and an unwashed body.

  A hand touched her arm and a voice with a Southern whine asked, ‘Chelsea?’

  She peered into the dark but could not make out much. ‘Yes.’

  Then the moon came out and she wished she were not alone on deck. She saw a stubbled face and looked into lecherous eyes. She tried to break away, but the claw-like hand was stronger than it looked.

  ‘Let me go!’

  She brought up her knee, but his body was turned so she only connected with his thigh.

  ‘I’ve handled gals like you before,’ the man said, and leered.

  She turned her head, looking for help, and saw Diamond come up the steps from the lower deck.

  ‘Wash!’

  Diamond started, then moved forward.

  Chelsea felt herself lifted and hugged tightly as the Southerner ran down the gangway and across the jetty to the station wagon. It didn’t help that she was small; she felt like a doll, the way he slung her in the passenger seat and drove off.

  She twisted around and saw Diamond running after the car. She tried the far door — locked — and then made a grab for the handbrake. The driver slammed his elbow into her solar plexus, knocking the breath out of her and doubling her up in pain.

  ‘Wash’ll kill you, Whitey,’ she gasped, eyes watering.

  ‘He’ll try,’ the redneck admitted, watching his rearview mirror.

  Diamond was falling behind. The station wagon slowed and Diamond gained ground in great loping strides. Then it turned off the road onto a bumpy dirt track between overhanging branches. There was deep shadow with only faint streaks of moonlight filtering through a dense canopy of leaves. Chelsea could smell a bayou as she bounced about.

  It was a totally deserted area, silent except for a buzz of insects. The car stopped and the driver gripped her arm and dragged her out, holding her with one hand and carrying a rifle in the other. Rifle . . . this had to be the man who’d shot Wash.

  There was a footpath, partially over-grown, leading between live oaks. He pushed her along in front of him as he moved into cover. Chelsea tried to call a warning but her lungs wheezed and only a murmur came out.

  ‘Shout all you want, gal,’ her captor encouraged.

  She pressed her lips together and prayed; now she knew she was bait in a trap . . .

  Diamond’s chest heaved and sweat trickled under his shirt. He rested a moment beside the empty station wagon, getting his breath back and allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the gloom under the trees. There was no hurry now that the man who had grabbed Chelsea was on foot; it was a time for caution.

  He exercised his left arm gently; the wound was healing nicely but he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

  The moon made a faint shimmer of light on broad leaves and there was a sound of trickling water nearby. He reminded himself the bayou was part swampland, that he couldn’t afford to go blundering about in the dark. He peered along the footpath; shadows shifted, making a confused pattern of light and shade.

  He started to think for the first time since he’d chased after Chelsea and the man who had grabbed her. Maybe, just maybe there was more to it than the rape of a black gal by one of the Klan. Could be she was a decoy. He remembered the Southern voice on the telephone that had lured him to a parking lot on Front Street. The rifleman . . . and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled.

  Diamond decided to play it sneaky. He moved off silently, recalling his training in Vietnam; avoiding patches of moonlight and gently bending back projecting branches; watching where he put his feet, avoiding fallen twigs and pools of water. He glided through the dark like a shadow, sure as a hunting cat. And now he was glad of his black skin.

  He wanted to get his hands on the Southerner before he hurt Chelsea — but he had to stay alive to help her. And his sixth sense warned him it was a trap he was moving into. There was almost certainly a rifle muzzle waiting for him at the end of the trail.

  He pulled his revolver free of its holster as he eased his way forward.

  The path petered out in a clearing, mo
onlit, with the dark trunks of trees rising like a wall around it. He heard a movement somewhere ahead, and froze. The stench of the bayou was getting to be overpowering.

  Vines dangled from high branches. A frog croaked. Then a bullet winged past his head and tore the leaves.

  A voice swore, then jeered: ‘Ah’m gonna screw your gal real good.’

  Diamond crouched like a track runner ready to sprint.

  ‘Ah know’s you’re out there, Diamond, and I’ve got a rifle at her back . . . see?’

  Diamond peered between dripping leaves. Moonlight gleamed on Chelsea’s coffee-brown face as she was pushed forward; she looked mad enough to spit. The unknown man was behind her, using her body as a shield.

  ‘Jest drop your gun, Diamond, and step out where I can see yuh — and do it now or she gets a slug in the spine!’

  Diamond shifted his position quietly. The man didn’t know exactly where he was, so he still had a chance. He straightened up, measuring the distance he had to travel, then tossed his revolver to one side of the clearing. The rifleman’s eyes tracked it automatically — and Diamond came hurtling from the undergrowth in a savage spring.

  Chelsea slammed the rifle barrel sideways as it was triggered, wrenched herself free and dropped flat.

  Diamond went over her and hit the man like an enraged elephant. They both sprawled in the mud and wet leaves and Diamond grabbed the rifle and tore it out of the Southerner’s hands.

  ‘Chelsea?’

  ‘Goddamn it, my hair’s ruined!’

  The would-be assassin rolled into shadow, swearing under his breath, then he was up and running. Diamond swung the rifle barrel around and loosed off a shot. Cloud covered the moon and, in the darkness, Diamond said, ‘Stay put, baby, I’ll be back for you,’ and went hunting.

  Somewhere ahead, he heard his quarry crashing through a tangle of undergrowth. With no rifle and no hostage, the hunter became the hunted, and it sounded as though he weren’t enjoying the change.

  Diamond smiled grimly as he pressed on with his silent pursuit; if Chelsea was worrying about her hair she wasn’t seriously hurt. He heard the slosh of legs through water, a rasping of breath, and knew he was closing the gap. It seemed as if the Southerner was in a panic.