* * *
Grandi sat in a lounging chair in a small room in which there were other chairs, and a table covered with glossy magazines. The air conditioner made the only sound. He had been sitting there for the past two hours, and while he sat, he thought back on his life.
He had been born in a Naples slum. His father had been killed in a knife fight. He had a strong tie with his mother, and at the age of six, he was selling phony Parker pens to tourists. Later, he sold them obscene postcards. His mother took all his earnings and saved them. They lived on spaghetti and the fruit he stole from the market. When his mother was killed by a drunk driver who didn’t stop, Grandi spent three months mourning. He was then entirely on his own. Using the money, his mother had saved for him, he bought a small cabin cruiser and began the smuggling run between Tangiers and Naples, bringing in cigarettes, then later drugs. Money, always carefully saved, accumulated in the bank. At the age of twenty, because of his knowledge of boats, he became friendly with a rich industrialist who was glad to have him around to handle his motor yacht. He told Grandi he was deeply troubled because his daughter had got involved with a lesbian. Grandi offered his help in return for a large sum of money. The industrialist didn’t ask questions, but had agreed. Grandi had walked into a de luxe apartment and had strangled the lesbian to death. Now, suddenly rich, Grandi moved to Rome. At the age of thirty-five, he had invested his money so well, he was now out of the danger of the poverty bracket. He cultivated the right people who were impressed by his shrewdness. He invested, saved, reinvested, expanded. He had the golden touch. When he was forty years of age, and already a multimillionaire, he married Maria Vendotti, the daughter of the Italian ambassador to France. This marriage increased his riches, but he was too occupied in turning his money into more money, and finally after sixteen years, his wife killed herself, and Grandi was left with Gina.
As he sat in the small waiting room, Grandi realised that Gina was the last of a family link, and family links meant everything to him.
Now, because of this bastard, Frost, Gina was slipping away. Grandi’s fingers closed into fists.
Then the door opened and a tall, lean man came in.
‘Mr. Grandi? I am Doctor Vance. About your daughter . . .’
Grandi sat like a stone man, listening to the quiet voice.
Finally, Dr. Vance said, ‘I’m sorry, but I want you to know the facts.’
Grandi looked down at his clenched fists.
‘You are telling me there is no hope for her?’
‘She will live, but . . . no . . . there is no hope for her ever to be normal again. She has suffered massive brain damage. We can keep her alive on a machine. That’s all we can do. She could live for ten years, even longer.’
‘Just breathing?’ Grandi asked.
‘Yes.’
Grandi clenched his fists.
‘Then she’s better off dead.’
‘That’s not for me to say, Mr. Grandi,’ Vance said quietly. ‘It is my job to keep her breathing.’
‘You are quite sure there is no possible hope of her recovering?’ Grandi asked. ‘You are quite sure?’
‘No hope at all. The brain damage is massive.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘Of course. She is on the machine now. Come with me.’
He led Grandi down a long corridor, and into a room where two nurses sat at desks with control panels before them.
In the middle of the room was a bed. Gina lay under a sheet. Wires and tubes ran from her to the machine that kept her alive.
‘All right, nurses,’ Vance said curtly. ‘I’ll call you when I want you.’
Ignoring them, Grandi walked to the bed and looked down at his daughter. For the first time since he had lost his wife, he felt overpowering sorrow, but he kept control of himself. He stood motionless, regarding his last and only link with a family life.
He watched the slow rise and fall of Gina’s breasts, hidden by the sheet. He stared at the blank mask of her face and her half open, blank eyes.
‘She could remain like this for years?’ he asked, half aware that only Vance and himself were now in the room, and the nurses had gone.
‘Yes.’
‘You are quite sure?’
‘Yes. There is no hope for her.’ Vance walked around the bed and pointed to a red plug. ‘That is the connection to the machine. I must now leave you. I have other patients.’ He regarded Grandi. ‘If she was my daughter, I would pull out this plug and let her die with dignity.’
Grandi rubbed his hand over his sweating face.
‘Is that all I have to do?’
‘If the plug remains in, she will continue to breathe. If it is pulled out, she will drift painlessly into death. I’ll see you are not disturbed. It is your decision.’
He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Grandi pulled up a chair and sat by the bed. For a long time, he regarded her, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, then suddenly, he realised the hopelessness of it all.
‘At least, baby,’ he said, ‘you killed the bastard who fed you the drug. Now I’m going to kill the bastard who set you free, you poor, crazy little daughter of mine. He’ll suffer, baby, be sure of that.’ Getting to his feet, he bent and kissed her cheek, then walking around the bed, he pulled out the red plug.
He stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes on the rise and fall of her breasts, then after a while, and when the sheet became still, he put his hand against Gina’s face, then left the room.
As he walked across the reception lobby, the nurse at the reception desk said, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Grandi, there’s a message for you.’
Grandi paused.
‘Mr. Frost says he will be at the Orchid Villa if you want him.’
Grandi stared at her, then inclined his head, then walked on into the hot humid night.
As he was opening the door of the Rolls, a voice, out of the darkness, said ‘My name is Lu Silk. I work for Mr. Radnitz.’
* * *
Back at his cabin in Orchid Villa, Frost had one burning desire: to get the hell out of Paradise City. The whole setup had turned sour. His dream of owning five million dollars had gone up in smoke. He felt instinctively that Gina would never again be normal, and it gave him a sick feeling, that he had been responsible for freeing her.
He walked around the room, slamming his fists together.
How could he have known she was a nut? How was he to have known that Amando was a brain-shrinker?
What a goddamn mess!
Now, he had to look after himself. He dropped into a lounging chair. He took out his wallet and checked on his money. You can’t live, you can’t move without money!
He still had the four thousand dollars he had got for Gina’s ring, and another thousand. So, okay, he was worth five thousand dollars. Where to go? He had no transport. Too risky to take the Lamborghini. Grandi could nail him for stealing his car.
He looked at his watch. The time now was 23.15.
Tomorrow, he told himself, was another day. Getting to his feet he took off his jacket and tie, then walking over to the bed, he dropped on to it.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he would hire a car, and drive away. That would be the end of this stupid nightmare. Drive away to where? He was still wondering, still trying to make a plan for his future life, when he drifted off to sleep.
He came awake four hours later, hearing a constant tapping on the cabin door. He became immediately alert.
His hand groped for his gun as he swung his legs off the bed. Holding the gun by his side, he walked to the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Ross. Sorry to have woken you up, Mike, but there’s talking.’
Keeping the gun behind him, Frost slid the bolt, then stepped back.
‘Come on in.’
Umney came in, his charming, wide smile in evidence.
Frost kicked the door shut and slid the bolt. He looked at his watch.
‘For God’s sake! Do you
know the time?’
Umney crossed to one of the lounging chairs and sank into it.
‘I could do with a drink.’
Frost slid the gun into his hip pocket.
‘What do you want?’
‘That’s a good question,’ Umney said. ‘No Scotch?’
‘Talk!’ Frost said. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘I like you, Mike,’ Umney said, smiling. ‘You are my people. The moment I saw you, I said . . .’
‘Skip the crap!’ Frost barked. ‘You like me as I like you! What are you here for?’
Umney made a grimace.
‘Don’t play so tough, Mike. I’m sticking my neck out coming here. I want to tell you something. I’m being a good friend.’
‘Okay, so tell me,’ Frost said, ‘and cut the good friend out of the script.’
‘It’s about Lu,’ Umney said.
‘What about him?’
‘A good question. Lu makes his money putting bullets into people, and he’s good at it.’ Umney made another grimace. ‘We all do things for money . . . that’s the way the cookie crumbles, but I don’t go along with it. That’s why I’m here, Mike.’
Frost tensed.
‘So . . . go on.’
‘This girl . . . Gina . . . died. She was on a machine that would keep her going for years and Grandi pulled out the plug.’ Umney shook his head, and his expression was sorrowful. ‘I’m glad I didn’t have to do it.’
‘Cut the crap, Umney!’ Frost said, ‘and get to it.’
‘Well, once she was dead, there was no money, was there?’
‘So, okay, there was no money. It was a foul up. So why are you here?’
‘Lu is a professional killer,’ Umney said. ‘He looks around for money. So he and Grandi got together. I felt I should tell you.’
‘Tell me . . . what?’ Frost said, staring at Umney.
‘A good question,’ Umney said with his wide smile. ‘Well, Grandi and Lu got together. Grandi needs you dead. He has got this bee that if it hadn’t been for you, his crazy daughter would still be screwing and swimming and having a ball. So he comes up with a proposition. He has hired Lu to knock you off. Crazy, isn’t it? I thought I’d tip you off.’ He rubbed his fingernails on his shirtfront. ‘The money is good . . . two hundred thousand dollars. We were after millions, but I guess two hundred thousand is better than nothing.’
Frost leaned back in his chair.
‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘Grandi has hired Silk to kill me and the payoff is two hundred thousand . . .right?’
‘That’s it,’ Umney said. ‘Liking you as I do, I thought I would tip you off.’
‘When does Silk plan to kill me?’ Frost asked.
Umney nodded with approval.
‘That’s also a good question. So you get the photo, Grandi now hates your guts. He wants to prolong the agony. He’s that kind of freak. That’s why I’m here to tip you off. It’ll be the long gun. Lu’s in a class of his own with a silenced telescopic rifle. Last year, he did a job just like this. The money wasn’t so good, but it was good enough. He didn’t put the guy away for six months, but he kept piling on the pressure, and after six months, this guy was a complete wreck. He was a real toughie, just like you, but after six months, never knowing when he would have a hole in his head, he fell apart.’ Umney leaned forward, waving his charming smile at Frost. ‘Because I liked this guy, as I liked you, I tipped him off. I told him, as I’m telling you, never walk on a lonely street. Never look out of a window. Never answer a knock on your door without checking. Be careful when you get into a car, and be ready to drop on the floor when the windshield shatters. I told him to go to ground, but I also told him, that sooner or later, Lu would find him.’
‘And of course, he did,’ Frost said.
‘That’s right.’ Umney’s voice hardened. ‘This guy followed the tips I had given him, but he ran out of guts. He did something stupid. He got a gun and went looking for Lu.’ Umney looked sad. ‘This guy’s wife gave him a good funeral. Lu sent a wreath.’ Umney got to his feet. ‘Well, if you’re not going to give me a drink, I guess I’ll go biddy-byes. I just wanted to tip you off. Sooner or later, Lu will get you lined up. He’s a professional.’
Frost leaned back in his chair and released an explosion of laughter.
Umney, staring, stiffened.
‘Do you imagine all this crap scares me?’ Frost asked. ‘It’s pathetic. If you imagine you can wage a war of nerves on me, you’re a bigger jerk than I thought. Now I’ll tell you what you say to this one-eyed phony. Tell him he’s picked on the wrong guy to scare. I can take care of myself. I’ve been taking care of myself since I could walk. Tell him from now on, he and I have a war on. I’m a professional too. His nerve could be softer than mine. Tell him he will have to earn his blood money the hard way, and tell him, I’ll kill him with pleasure and for nothing.’ Frost pointed a finger. ‘Take off. The next time I see your face you start praying. Get out!’
The two men stared at each other. Umney felt a sudden empty sensation inside him. The cold, vicious expression on Frost’s face sent a chill through him.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Mike,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’m just passing on the message. I told you, I’m your friend. I am keeping out of this. It’s between you and Silk.’
‘Losing your guts already?’ Frost grinned. ‘You’re in, and so is your pal, Goble. Tell him. When I’ve fixed you two, I’ll fix Silk, but you two go first.’ He drew his gun from his hip pocket and aimed it at Umney. ‘Piss off! I won’t send a wreath to either you or Goble, but tell Silk, I’ll send him one. Get out, before I give you a second navel!’
White faced, Umney bolted out of the cabin.
Frost had a built-in instinct for survival. As the door slammed behind Umney, Frost slid out of his chair, reached the light switch and plunged the room into darkness. He then dropped to the floor.
A split second later, the window smashed and he heard the thud of a bullet into the back of his chair.
He lay still.
A warning shot? Beginning of a war of nerves or was this the business?
He waited until he heard a car start up and drive away.
He heard the car stop, then start up again.
Could be Umney had picked up Silk. Could be it was a fake, and Silk was still out there in the darkness.
Frost remained on the floor, his mind active. Silk had proved he was the better man with a rifle, but he still had to prove his nerve was better than Frost’s.
During the Vietnam war, Frost had learned you don’t sit around, waiting to be shot. You took the initiative. You went out into the jungle, and you hid, and you waited for movement, a rustle of leaves, a passing shadow, a stifled cough, then you squeezed the trigger, and there was one sniper less.
Frost felt a surge of excitement run through him. This threat of death was like a shot of adrenalin in his veins.
‘Okay, you one-eyed punk, let’s see who’s the better man,’ he said, half aloud.
Getting silently to his feet, he left the cabin by the back door. Storm clouds shrouded the moon, and it was dark. Even if Silk was still out there among the flowering shrubs and the trees, Frost was confident he couldn’t see him.
Keeping in the darkest shadows, he ran silently to the guardroom. He heard the dogs snarling and barking and bounding against their wire compound. No one had fed them. They sounded ferocious.
Reaching the guardroom, Frost closed and locked the door, then turned on the light. From the gun rack he took down one of the automatic rifles, checked the magazine, then laid the rifle on the desk. Then he picked up the telephone receiver and called the guard at the entrance of the villa.
‘Did my two friends just leave?’ he asked, when the guard came on the line.
‘Yeah. I’ve just checked them out. What’s going on?’
The guard sounded worried. ‘Was it okay I let them in?’
‘No problem. I’m leaving. Miss Grandi died. You
go home.’
‘She died. For the love of mike!’
‘I’m shutting the place up. You be here tomorrow at 08.00. Marvin will take over.’
‘Well, if you say so . . .’
Frost hung up, then picking up the rifle, he walked back to his cabin. He quickly packed his clothes, then carrying the suitcase and the rifle, he walked to where he had parked the Lamborghini. He was uneasy about taking the car, but he had to get away fast. He remembered what he had been taught in the Army: Always take the initiative. Always strike first.
There was a light on in the guardhouse, but the barrier was up. He gave a tap on the horn as the guard appeared in the doorway and shouted something to him, but Frost didn’t stop.
The clock on the dashboard showed 03.15. He drove fast to the airport. A sleepy-eyed clerk behind the Hertz desk rented him a 200 Mercedes. He drove the car to where he had parked the Lamborghini, transferred the rifle and his suitcase to the boot of the Mercedes, then headed back to the highway. He stopped at the Twin Oakes motel, booked in and shut himself in a small, air-conditioned cabin. He stripped off his clothes, took a shower, then dropped on to the bed.
Tomorrow, he told himself, would begin his own private war: not a war run by generals who couldn’t care less how I many men died as long as the battle was won. This was I going to be his own private war against three men who had started the war, and he didn’t intend to die.
* * *
The time was 02.50.
The Ace of Spades was in darkness except for a light from the room over the swimming pool. The clients had gone home. Marcia had returned to the Spanish Bay hotel.
The staff had left.
Mitch Goble sat at the table, a flabby hamburger on a plate before him. His eyes felt heavy. He liked his sleep, but he wanted to know how Umney’s prepared talk with Frost had gone off. The three had discussed the best way to soften Frost, and it had been Goble’s idea of the long gun threat.
As he was cutting a slice off the hamburger, he heard a car arrive, then he heard pounding feet, and the door jerked open.
Goble felt an unease run through him when he saw Umney’s white, scared face.
1978 - Consider Yourself Dead Page 17
