by Lionel White
He had a cup of coffee in Jamaica.
It took him more than an hour to find a secluded spot at the end of a dirt road out near Freeport. He pul ed into the shade of a clump of bushes and got out of the car. The pliers and screw driver were wrapped up in a smal package with the Florida license tag. In less than ten minutes he had the New York plate off the car and had substituted the other one. Later, he found a sea food place in Freeport and had a good lunch.
He was back, cruising slowly about a mile from the track, at twelve-thirty. At twelve-forty he fol owed the route Johnny had marked on the map and which he had memorized and drove up to the northeast parking lot. The MG's top was up, but he had not used the side curtains. The army blanket was spread over his legs and covered his lap and his feet, where they rested on the pedals.
The man at the entrance to the lot yel ed at him as he drove across the double lane to the gate.
“Use one of the other lots, buddy,” the attendant told him as he pul ed up to a stop. “This one ain't open yet.”
Nikki looked up at the man, his eyes half closed behind the dark glasses.
“Listen, Mac,” he said. “I'm a paraplegic. I wanted to get in this lot and watch the races from my car.”
He took out his wal et as he spoke and reached in, taking hold of a ten dol ar bil .
“Say, they can get you a chair...”
“1 know,” Nikki said, “but I just can't manage it. Particularly in the crowds. And I have to leave before the races are over.”
The man hesitated for a second and Nikki held out the ten.
The attendant looked down and saw the blanket.
“Oh the hel with it,” he said. “Go ahead on in. We ain't open yet so you can skip...”
“Take it and get yourself a lucky bet,” Nikki said.
The man hesitated, then, almost shyly, reached for the bil .
“Go on in,” he said gruffly and lifted the chain barring the entrance way.
Nikki maneuvered the car into the southeast corner of the parking lot and pul ed up seven feet away from the low rail fence marking its boundary. The space was next to the long aisle leading to the exit and in such a position as to make it possible to pul out either by going forward or by turning to the left.
There was nothing on that side but a second aisle; there was one place for a car to park behind him and one for a car to park to his right.
He sat back and lighted a fresh cigarette.
They started running cars into the lot ten minutes before the first race was due to begin.
Nikki was reaching back for the trombone case when the man came alongside the MG and leaned on the door. It was the lot attendant who had taken his ten dol ar bil .
“Bought you a program, chum,” the man said.
Nikki looked up, startled, and then quickly smiled.
“Thanks.”
“And if you want anything else, I can get it for you.”
Nikki thanked him again.
“Not a thing,” he said. “I already got a couple of bets down with a bookie at my hotel.”
By two-thirty the lot was fil ed. A Packard limousine, chauffeur driven, had parked next to the MG and its four passengers had gone to the clubhouse.
The chauffeur waited only a few moments and then fol owed them in the direction of the box office. Behind the MG was a Caddie convertible. A man and a girl had parked it and had left at once.
From where Nikki sat behind the wheel he had a perfect view of the curve of the track where the horses broke at the three quarter pole for the home stretch. The track was approximately two hundred yards away and there was nothing between the car and the track but green turf.
At the end of the fifth race, Nikki found the side curtains and put them up. There was a smal oblong of plastic glass in each one. Then he reached forward and opened the hasps on the windshield. He had to loosen the top in order to drop the windshield so that it lay flat and paral el with the hood of the car.
He waited until five minutes before the start of the seventh race before taking the rifle from the trombone case. It was tricky, doing it under the blanket, but he had assembled and reassembled it so many times within the last few days that he had little difficulty.
He attached the silencer and threw a shel into the firing chamber. There were five shel s in the clip, but he didn't believe he'd have to use more than one. He didn't think he'd have time to use more than two at the most.
It was a mile and a quarter race and the horses had to pass the grandstand twice.
Nikki, completely oblivious to the roar of the crowd, held a pair of field glasses to his eyes. He was watching the colors—brown and silver.
Black Lightning
was away to a slow start, but he picked up on the backstretch and as they came past the grandstands for the first time he took the lead.
The horses were bunched the second time around the backstretch, with Black Lightning in front by a ful length.
Nikki didn't bother to look around to see if he was being observed. It wouldn't matter now. He was going to do it anyway.
He pul ed the blanket away and lifted the rifle, poking the long barrel through the open windshield.
He took his time and waited until Black Lightning was directly opposite. Then, careful y leading the target as though he were aiming at a fast moving buck, he drew a bead.
The sound of the shot, muffled as it was by the silencer, was completely lost in the steady, rhythmic roar of sixty thousand voices as the crowd urged its favorites on.
Nikki waited just long enough to see the horses behind Black Lightning begin to pile up when the favorite stumbled and fel .
There was no one on duty at the gate, a minute later, as Nikki wheeled the MG through the exit.
* * *
Val Cannon said, “You're not talking.”
He leaned back, his hands supporting him on the desk and his back to it. He looked at the girl sitting in the chair two feet away, facing him.
Sherry Peatty looked up at him, her eyes glassy with fear. She started to say something and at once her mouth fil ed with blood. She leaned forward to spit it out and then she began to vomit.
Val watched her, hooded eyes cool, almost amused.
“You know something,” he said, “so why not tel me? What do you want to do this to yourself for?”
He waited until she looked up again. She started to weave and would have fal en if the fat man standing behind her chair hadn't reached over and held her up by her arms.
“It's four-thirty,” Val said. “I got al the time in the world. Right now I'm going out and get a drink. When I come back, I want you to tel me what you know.”
He turned to the desk and picked up his leather belt and casual y threaded it around the waistband of his trousers. He watched Sherry where she sat, half conscious in the chair, naked down to her hips.
“You got cagey with the wrong guy,” he said. “Think it over. Tel me when they're doing it. Tel me everything you know. I'l be back in a few minutes and God help you if you're stil stubborn.”
Sherry opened her split lips. She tried to say something and then she began to cough. A second later and she slumped.
“Fainted,” the fat man said, shrugging.
Chapter Nine
Four years he had been waiting for it. Waiting for this day, this Saturday in the last week of July.
There hadn't been a single day, not one of the three hundred and sixty-five days in each of those long, heartbreaking years, that he hadn't at some time or other thought of how he would be feeling at this exact moment. The moment that he would be waking up in a strange bed in a third-rate hotel, broke, in debt, a parole violator. And knowing that before sunset he'd be either dead or he'd have found the money which would bring him the escape he had always been seeking. The escape which, for him, only money could buy.
It was the first thing that came to his mind as he opened his eyes.
He reached over and took the pack of cigarettes from the
night table. He knocked one out and then fumbled around until he found the lighter. Laying back on the pil ow, he inhaled deeply; slowly letting the smoke escape from between thin, wel -denned lips.
He felt great.
He took another puff, and he spoke in a clear, low voice, directing his words at the dirt-encrusted ceiling.
“Brother, this is it!”
He laughed then, realizing that he was talking to himself. Turning his head, he was able to see the face of his wrist watch where it lay on the night table beside the pack of cigarettes. It was exactly eight o'clock.
He had plenty of time.
The telephone was over on the scarred writing desk next to the door leading into the bathroom. He got up, completely naked, and went over to the chair in front of the desk. The curtains covering the single, opened window were pul ed apart and he could look directly into a room across the court. The window was closed and too dirty to see much through. He knew, however, that he himself could be seen. He laughed again. It didn't bother him in the slightest. Today, nothing bothered him.
The clerk at the desk in the lobby told him over the phone that they didn't have room service. “Hel , we ain't even got a restaurant,” the voice said. “I can send up a bottle and some ice and soda, though, with a bel hop,” he added.
“Too early,” Johnny said, “but you tel that bel boy to go out and get me a container of coffee, some orange juice and a couple of hard rol s and it's worth a fast buck to him.”
“Wil do,” the clerk said.
There was no shower in the old-fashioned bathroom so Johnny ran a tub ful of water. He waited, however, until his breakfast showed up, before climbing in.
The bel hop brought a paper along and Johnny casual y glanced at the headlines as he ate. He sat by the open window, stripped down to his shorts.
His mind, however, was not on the news. He was careful y going over everything which he had done during the last couple of days since he had left Marvin Unger's apartment to take the hotel room. He wanted to be absolutely sure he hadn't overlooked anything.
It had been a smart move, checking into the hotel. He had found himself growing jittery, hanging around Unger. Another day of it and something would have had to give. The tension was too much. For a while he had considered staying at the room up on a Hundred and Third Street, but then he had decided against that. He wanted to keep that place for one purpose and one purpose only.
He smiled to himself as he thought of Joe Piano. Joe hadn't liked the idea when Johnny had told him that Randy was going to stop by. Joe couldn't understand what he was doing playing around with a cop. It had taken a little explaining. At least there was one thing about Joe; he hadn't shown any unhealthy curiosity.
Johnny had stopped by to pick up the suitcase which held the sub-machine gun. Joe, answering the doorbel , had asked him into the kitchen; wanted him to have a glass of wine. It had happened on Friday afternoon. Then they had gone up to Johnny's room.
“Taking this out now,” Johnny told him, indicating the suitcase. “Tomorrow afternoon a friend of mine is stopping by. He'l leave a bundle for me. He's a cop.”
“A cop?”
“Yeah, drives a prowl car.”
“Funny kind of a friend to have,” Joe said.
“He's O.K. A very special cop.” Johnny winked at him. “He's leaving this bundle for me sometime around six or six-thirty at the latest. I'l be in early in the evening to pick it up. And that's the last you'l see of me.”
Joe nodded, noncommittal.
Johnny took a folded bil out of his watch pocket. It was a fifty.
“I'd like to see that Patsy gets this,” he said.
“That isn't necessary,” Joe told him. “I can take care of Patsy al right.”
“I know,” Johnny said. “But he's a good friend of mine.”
Joe said nothing but he did reach out and take the bil . Johnny left soon afterward.
“The idea of that cop leaves me cold,” Joe told him as he walked down the long hal way to open the gate for him, “but any friend of the boy's has got to be al right.”
Johnny found a cab on Second Avenue and told the driver to take him to Penn Station. He carried the suitcase into the lobby and found the bank of steel lockers. Checking the suitcase, he took the key and put it in an envelope. That night he had a messenger service drop it off at Big Mike's apartment.
Buying the brief case had been easy. He got the kind you carry under your arm and that you close with a zipper. The duffel bag had been harder to find. He final y dug one up in a chain sporting goods and auto accessory store. It was made of heavy canvas, leather reinforced and had a drawstring at the open end. Folded flat, it just fitted into the brief case.
When he had cal ed Fay around nine o'clock at her home, she had quickly memorized the number he gave her and then had gone out to a pay booth and cal ed him back. She'd wanted to see him, but he had told her it would be better if they didn't meet.
“It'l only be another twenty-four hours,” he'd said. “Then it's the rest of our lives, kid.”
She told him that everything was ready. He detected the slight quiver in her voice and he hung up as quickly as possible. He knew that she'd be better off not seeing him; not even talking with him.
And then he'd gone back to the hotel. There was nothing else to do. Getting to sleep had been a problem. He knew it would be and he'd considered taking sleeping pil s, or perhaps a half bottle of whiskey. But he'd decided against either escape. He wanted to be sure to be in top form the next morning.
He didn't want a hang-over or even as much as the trace of one. He didn't want the dopey feeling that the sleeping pil s would be sure to leave.
The lack of sleep itself wouldn't bother him. It would, in fact, merely keep him keyed up and tense. That he wanted.
But he had slept. In spite of everything he awakened in the morning feeling completely relaxed and completely rested.
Now, as he slowly ate his breakfast, he tried not to think of anything but the immediate moment. Everything was set in his mind, his plans were made down to the finest detail. He didn't want to think about what might happen during the crucial hour this Saturday afternoon. Thinking about it wouldn't help.
He'd already done his thinking.
Johnny Clay left the hotel at eleven o'clock. He checked out, carrying the leather suitcase he had used at Unger's in one hand, the brief case in the other. The suitcase held the new clothes he'd bought during the last two days. The old stuff he left upstairs. He was wearing the slacks and the checkered sports coat he would wear that afternoon at the track.
It was a warm day and he was tempted to remove the coat, but then decided against it. Under the coat he had two shirts; one a soft tan with an open col ar, over that a deep blue shirt, the col ar closed. He wore neutral tan, low shoes, tan socks and a soft gray felt hat with a wide brim, turned down in the front. In his coat pocket was a second rol ed-up, light-weight felt hat, powder blue with a low crown and a narrow brim.
The glasses had dark green lens. His first move after leaving the hotel was finding a cab. He ordered the driver to take him to La Guardia Airport.
He checked the suitcase at the airport and then went to the restaurant and ordered coffee and toast. He spread the early edition of the World Telegram on the table and turned to the sporting pages.
At one o'clock Johnny left the airport in another cab. He was carrying the brief case under his arm.
He arrived at the race track at one-forty.
The cab driver had been wil ing to go along with him. Johnny told him he'd give him ten bucks for the cab and pay his entrance fee into the grandstand. And he wanted to be taken back to New York after the races.
“The only thing is,” Johnny said, “I got to leave the second the seventh race is over. Have an appointment back in town and I won't have any time to spare. I'l plan to be out at the parking lot by the time the race ends. I won't wait for the results. I want you to be there and ready to leave.”
; It was O.K. with the cabbie.
“Hel ,” he said. “I'm getting paid, I'l be there. Anyway, I don't bet 'em; I just like to see them run.”
They'd found a parking space in the lot at the south end of the track. The cab was one of the last cars in the lot, which would make it easy for them to get out. Johnny got out of the back, slamming the door. He reached through the window and handed the driver a ten dol ar bil .
“Buy your ticket out of that,” he said, “and use the change to try your luck. You be here waiting when I get here and you get another ten when we pul into New York.”
“I'l be here.”
Johnny turned toward the clubhouse. The brief case was under his arm. He walked slowly. He had plenty of time.
* * *
It was as he knew it would be. He never yet had gone to a track without that feeling. That strange, subtle sense of excitement. Even as he stood at the box office buying his ticket, he became infected by it. There was something about the track that always gave it to him.
The first race was already over and done with and the crowd, for the moment, was quiet. But he caught the inevitable undercurrent of excitement.
Walking through the downstairs lobby and stopping off to buy his program, he found himself unconsciously fingering the loose folded bil s in his pants pocket. He laughed quietly to himself. Here he was, on the threshold of a caper which would mean more than a mil ion dol ars, and he couldn't wait to get the program open and place a bet on the second race.
Walking up the stairs, he went through the main lobby and passed within thirty feet of the bar behind which Big Mike was rushing drinks to an impatient clientele. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the door marked “Private.” The one leading into the main business offices and the one out of which he knew he would be coming before that afternoon would be over and done with.
He also quickly looked in the direction of the other door. The door which was set flush into the wal and through which he would have to pass in order to get into the employees' locker room. The door which would have to be surreptitiously opened from the inside to permit his entrance.
