Knock, Knock! Who's There?

by James Hadley Chase

  Knock, Knock! Who's There?

  James Hadley Chase

  Johnny Bianda is a man with a dream. He wants to own a boat off the coast of Florida and he only needs $186,000 to buy it. He steals the money from his firm, knowing that one day they’ll notice and one day they’ll kill him for it — after all, it is the Mafia. But for Johnny Bianda, the risk is worth taking and he knows it will be at least a year before they catch up with him…. Unfortunately for Bianda, the knock on his door comes sooner than he thinks.

  James Hadley Chase

  KNOCK, KNOCK! WHO’S THERE?

  ONE

  The drizzling rain fell on Sammy the Black’s sweating face as he shuffled along carrying the bag of money. He was a tall, gangling negro of around thirty years of age. With the muscular shoulders of a boxer and huge hands and feet, few would guess he had the spirit of a mouse. His large black eyes rolled fearfully as he walked, aware that he was carrying some sixty thousand dollars in the shabby holdall and what was worse that everyone in the district knew it.

  Every Friday, at exactly the same time, he did this long walk which took four hours. During those hours, he collected money from bars, news-stands and from the Numbers men. During this stop-start walk, Sammy sweated with fear, expecting at any moment some nut would shoot him down and grab the money.

  For five hundred and twenty Fridays, he had done this walk and even after so many Fridays when nothing had happened, he couldn’t shake the fear out of his system. He kept telling himself that if it wasn’t this Friday, it could be the next.

  Sammy couldn’t believe, even after ten years, in the power of his boss, Joe Massino. He couldn’t believe that any one man could have this sprawling town of close on half a million inhabitants in such a relentless grip that no one—not even a nutter—would dare attempt to steal the bag of money that Sammy was carrying.

  Sammy had told himself often enough that he was crazy to be so scared since Johnny Bianda was always with him and Johnny was considered the best gunman of Massino’s mob.

  “If anything happens, Sammy,” Johnny had said, time and again, “fall on the bag and leave the rest to me.”

  These should be comforting words, but they didn’t comfort Sammy. The fact that even Johnny thought something could happen turned Sammy sick to his stomach.

  All the same, he told himself, it was a lot better than nothing to have Johnny’s protection. He and Johnny had been Massino’s collectors now for the past ten years. Sammy, at the age of twenty, had taken the job because the money was good and his nerves were in much better shape than now. Also, in spite of his fear, he was proud to have been picked as Massino’s collector for that meant the boss trusted him. Well, maybe not quite trusted him for Johnny always went along and there was a fool-proof system against a fiddle. Sammy was given a sealed envelope containing the money and Johnny a sealed envelope containing a signed chit stating the amount of the money. It was only when they got back to Massino’s office and stood around while the money was being counted that they learned the amount they had collected and the amounts, during the ten years they had been collectors, increased every year until the take on the previous Friday had been the alarming ( to Sammy) sum of sixty-three thousand dollars!

  Sure, in spite of Massino’s ruthless reputation and Johnny’s ability to shoot fast, some nutter would be tempted to snatch the money, Sammy thought as he trudged along. He looked uneasily around him. The busy, shabby street teemed with people who made room for him, grinning at him and calling out to him.

  A big, black buck, nearly as big as Sammy bawled from the steps of a tenement, “Don’t lose it, Sammy ol’ boy, ol’ boy. That little ol’ bag’s got my winnings!”

  The crowd laughed and Sammy, sweating more heavily, lengthened his stride. They had one more call to make before they could get into Johnny’s beat-up Ford and Sammy could relax.

  Watched by the crowd, they walked into Solly Jacob’s betting office.

  Solly, vast, with a tremendous paunch and a face that looked as if it had been fashioned out of dough, had the envelopes ready.

  “Not bad this week,” he said to Sammy, “but tell Mr. Joe, next week is going to be a bonanza. February 29th! Every sucker in town will be trying his luck. Tell Mr. Joe you’ll need a truck to bring the money in. Don’t kid yourself you’ll be able to carry it.”

  Sammy cringed as he put the envelope in the bag. “And, Johnny,” Solly said, handing Johnny his envelope, “maybe it would be an idea to get more protection for Sammy next week. Have a word with Mr. Joe.”

  Johnny grunted. He was a man of few words. He turned to the door and went out into the street, followed by Sammy.

  They had only a few yards to walk to where Johnny had parked his car and with relief Sammy got into the passenger’s seat. The handcuff around his thick wrist was chaffing his skin. That was another thing that scared him: to be handcuffed to the bag! He had once read of some bank clerk who had had his hand chopped off with an axe by some nutter, trying to get the bag from him. To be without a hand!

  Johnny sank into the driving seat and searched for the ignition key. Sammy looked uneasily at him. He had an idea that Johnny had something preying on his mind. For the past few weeks, Johnny had been more silent than he had ever been. Yes, Sammy was sure something was preying on his mind and this worried him because he was fond of this short, thickset man with his thick black hair, shot with grey, his deep-set brown eyes and his firm, hard mouth. Sammy knew Johnny was as tough as teak and he carried a punch like a sledge-hammer blow. Sammy had never forgotten how Johnny had once handled a punk who had tried to pick a quarrel. He and Johnny were enjoying a beer in a down-town bar when this punk, twice Johnny’s size, came up and said in a voice like a fall of gravel that he didn’t drink in the same bar as a nigger.

  Johnny had said quietly, “Then drink somewhere else.”

  That was something Sammy always admired about Johnny: he always spoke quietly: he never shouted.

  The punk had turned on Sammy who was sweating with fright, but Johnny had stepped between them so the punk had hit him. To Sammy, it seemed a hell of a punch, but Johnny didn’t even grunt. He swayed a little, then the punk took a bang on the jaw that broke it and flattened him. Sammy hadn’t seen the punch: it had been too fast, but he had seen the effect.

  Yes, Johnny- was as tough as teak, but he was fine with Sammy. He didn’t talk a lot. In fact, Sammy, after going around with him for ten years, knew little or nothing about him except that he had been Massino’s gunman for some twenty years, was maybe forty- two or three years of age, unmarried, no relations, lived in a two-room apartment and Massino thought a lot of him.

  Whenever Sammy got worried or had woman trouble or his young brother was playing up or something he would consult Johnny, and Johnny, speaking in his quiet voice, always managed to make Sammy feel good even if he didn’t solve his problem.

  When they began the collection together, Johnny had been more talkative. He had said something that Sammy had never forgotten.

  “Listen, Sammy,” Johnny had said. “You’ll make good money from this racket, but don’t let it kid you. You put by ten per cent of what you earn every week. Understand? Out of every ten dollars you earn, put one dollar aside and don’t touch it. In a few years you’ll have enough to be independent and you can get out of this racket, for as sure- as God made little apples, sooner or later, you’ll want to get out.”

  Sammy had followed this ‘advice’. It made sense to him. He bought a steel box and every week when he got paid he put ten per cent of his earnings in the box which he kept under his bed. Of course there had been times when he had been forced to milk the box. There was that business with his brother who had to have five hu
ndred dollars or go to jail. Then there was that business with Cloe who had to have an expensive abortion, but over the years the ten per cent mounted up and the last time Sammy checked the amount he was astonished to find he was worth three thousand dollars.

  The box which wasn’t large was getting too full of ten dollar bills for comfort and Sammy began to worry whether to buy another box. There was something about Johnny these days that made him hesitate to ask his advice. He was sure Johnny had something on his mind and he didn’t want to be a nuisance. He thought maybe he would wait a little longer before consulting him. Maybe he would get whatever it was off his mind and then, he would be in the mood to advise him.

  They drove in silence to Massino’s office: a large room with a big desk, a few chairs and a filing cabinet. Massino believed in austerity when he was downtown, although he had a Rolls, a sixteen-bedroom house up-town, a yacht and a ten-bedroom house in Miami.

  He was at his desk when Johnny and Sammy came in. Leaning against the wall was Toni Capello, one of Massino’s bodyguards: a thin, dark man with snake’s eyes and nearly as fast as Johnny with a gun. Sitting on a hardbacked chair, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood was Ernie Lassini, another of Massino’s bodyguards: a fat, hulking man with a razor ‘Sear’ down the left side of his face: another good man with a gun.

  Sammy shambled up to the desk and put the bag in front of Massino who leaned back in his chair and grinned at the bag.

  At the age of fifty-five, Joe Massino was massively built. Medium height, he had barn-door shoulders, no neck, a heavy fat face with a flattened nose, a straggly moustache and bleak grey eyes that scared men, but intrigued women. Massino was a great womanizer. Although fat, he was still tough and there had been times when he had personally disciplined one of his mob and that man hadn’t been fit for active service for two or even three months.

  “No problems, Sammy?” Massino asked and his small grey eyes shifted to Johnny who shook his head. “Okay… get Andy.”

  But Andy Lucas, Massino’s accountant, had already come into the office.

  Andy was sixty-five years of age: a tiny, bird-like man with a computer for a brain. Fifteen years ago he had served a -stretch for fraud and when he had come out, Massino, realizing Andy’s brilliance, had hired him to control his financial kingdom. As with most things Massino did, this was a wise choice. There was no one in the State as smart as Andy when it came to a tax form, an investment or an idea to make money.

  Andy unlocked the handcuff from Sammy’s sweating wrist, then pulling up a chair by Massino, he began to check the contents of the bag while Massino watched as he chewed a dead cigar.

  Both Sammy and Johnny moved away and waited. The count came to sixty-five thousand dollars.

  Andy put the money back in the bag, then nodding to Massino, he carried the bag into his office and put it in the big, old-fashioned safe.

  “Okay, you two,” Massino said, looking at Johnny and Sammy, “take time off. I don’t need you until next Friday. You know what next Friday is?” His hard little eyes rested on Johnny.

  “The 29th.”

  Massino nodded.

  “That’s it; the freak day: Leap year’s day. It’s my bet the take will be around $150,000.”

  “Solly said the same.”

  “Yeah.” Massino dropped the dead cigar into the trash basket. “So… Ernie and Toni will go with you. You’ll collect in the car. Never mind the traffic. I’ll have a word with the Commissioner. Next Friday, the cops will look the other way if you have to double park $150,000 is a hell of a lot of money and maybe some hop-head just might try,” He eyed Sammy. “Take it easy, boy, you’ll be protected. Don’t sweat so.”

  Sammy forced a sick grin.

  “I’m not worried, boss,” he lied. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

  Out in the drizzle, Johnny said, “Come on, Sammy, let’s have a beer.”

  This was the usual ritual after the collection and Sammy walked along beside the short, thickset man, gradually relaxing until they came to Freddy’s bar. They went into the warm darkness, climbed on stools and ordered beer.

  They drank in silence, then Sammy ordered more beer.

  “Mr. Johnny…” He paused and looked uneasily at the hard, expressionless face. “Excuse me, but have you got worries? You’re sort of quiet these days. If there’s anything I can do…” He began to sweat, scared he had talked out of turn.

  Johnny looked at him and smiled. Johnny didn’t often smile, but when he did it sent a glow of happiness through Sammy.

  “No… there’s nothing.” He lifted his heavy shoulders. “Maybe I’m getting old. Anyway, thanks, Sammy.” He took a packet of cigarettes, rolled one towards Sammy and lit up. “This is a hell of a lifer isn’t it? No future in it for us.” He let smoke drift down his nostrils, then asked, “How do you feel about it, Sammy?”

  Sammy shifted on his stool.

  “The money’s good, Mr. Johnny. I get scared, but the money’s good. What else could I do?”

  Johnny regarded him, then nodded.

  “That’s right… what else can you do?” A pause, then he went on, “Have you been saving?”

  Sammy smiled happily.

  “Just like you told me, Mr. Johnny. One dollar in ten. That’s what you said and now I’ve got three thousand bucks in a box under my bed.” He lost his smile as he paused. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

  Johnny sighed.

  “You keep all that money under your bed?”

  “What else can I do with it?”

  “Put it in a bank, you goon.”

  “I don’t like banks, Mr. Johnny,” Sammy said earnestly. “They’re for white men. It’s best under my bed. I guess I’ll have to buy another box.”

  Although Sammy looked hopefully at Johnny wanting him to solve this problem, Johnny shrugged and finished his beer. He couldn’t be bothered with Sammy’s stupid problems. He had too many problems of his own.

  “Please yourself.” He slid off the stool. “Well, see you next Friday, Sammy.”

  “Do you think there’ll be trouble?” Sammy asked fearfully as he followed Johnny out into the drizzle.

  Johnny saw the naked fear in Sammy’s big, black eyes. He smiled.

  “No trouble. Not with me, Ernie and Toni with you. Take it easy, Sammy… nothing will happen.”

  Sammy watched him drive away, then he set off along the street towards his pad. Friday was a long way off, he told himself. $150,000! the Boss had said. Was there that much money in the world? Nothing would happen. He’d believe that when Friday was over.

  Johnny Bianda unlocked the door of his two-room apartment. He moved into the big living room and paused to look around. He had lived in this apartment now for the past eight years. It wasn’t much, but that didn’t worry Johnny. At least it was comfortable, although shabby. There were two battered lounging chairs, a settee, a T.V. set, a table, four upright chairs and a faded carpet. Through the door opposite was a tiny bedroom that just took a double bed and a night table with a built-in closet. There was a shower and a loo off the bedroom.

  He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and parked his .38 automatic, then pulling up a chair to the window, he sat down.

  The noise from the street drifted up to him. Noise never bothered him. He lit a cigarette and stared through the dirty window pane at the apartment block without seeing it.

  Sammy had been right in guessing he had something on his mind. This something had been on his mind now for the past eighteen months. It had begun to nag him on his fortieth birthday. After celebrating with his girl friend, Melanie Carelli, and when she had fallen asleep, he had lain in the darkness and had thought about his past and had tried to imagine what his future was going to be. Forty years old! The halfway mark… always provided he didn’t have an accident, got lung cancer or stopped a bullet. Forty years old! His life half over!

  He had thought of the years that had moved behind him. First, he thought of his mother who ha
dn’t been able to read or write and who had worked herself to an early death to keep a roof over his head while his father who had been able to read but not write had slaved in a fruit-canning factory: two decent God-fearing Italian immigrants who had loved him and bad hoped for great things from him.

  Just before she had died, his mother had given him her only possession: a silver St. Christopher medal on a silver chain that had been in her family for over a century.

  “There’s nothing more I can do for you now, Johnny,” she had said. “Take this: wear it always: as long as you wear it nothing really bad can happen to you. Remember that. I’ve worn it all my life and nothing really bad has happened to me. It’s been hard, but not really bad.”

  He had been superstitious enough to have worn the medal and even now as he sat by the window, he put his fingers inside his shirt to touch the medal.

  Lying by the side of the gently breathing Melanie, he had thought of the years after his mother’s death. He hadn’t settled to anything. He had got tired of his father’s constant nagging and had left home. Although only seventeen, he had got a job as a bartender in a dive in Jacksonville. There he associated with the wild boys, the little crooks and the petty con men. He had hooked up with Ferdie Ciano, a small time heist man. Together, they had pulled a number of jobs, mostly gas stations until the police caught up with them. Johnny did a twoyear stretch and that decided his fate. He came out of prison, educated in crime and sure that next time he wouldn’t be caught. For a couple of years he worked solo as a stick-up man. The money hadn’t amounted to anything but he was always hoping for something big. Then he ran into Ciano again who was now working for Joe Massino, an up and coming gangleader. Ciano took him along and Massino looked him over. He thought Johnny was made of the right material. He had been looking for a young, reliable man, good with a gun, to act as his bodyguard. Johnny knew little or nothing about guns. As a stick-up man he had used a toy pistol. This didn’t bother Massino. He had Johnny trained. After three months, Johnny proved himself to be a top-class shot and during the years of Massino’s rise to power, Johnny had killed three times, saving Massino’s life each time from certain death. Now, he had been with Massino for the past twenty years. There were no more killings. Massino was firmly in the saddle. He not only controlled the Unions in this big town, but also the Numbers racket and there was no one powerful enough to challenge him. Johnny was no longer his bodyguard. He had been assigned to take care of Sammy when Sammy collected the money for the Numbers pay-off. Massino believed in having young men to protect him. Anyone over thirty-five was too old, too slow for protection.