Knock Knock Whos There

by James Hadley Chase

  would be in bed with Melanie during the time of the steal with his

  car parked outside her pad. He knew he could rely on Melanie to

  cover those thirty minutes when he was making the steal.

  Because the safe had been obviously opened by a key, the full

  weight of Massino’s suspicions would fall on Andy, and the police

  would really take Andy to the cleaners since he had the only key and

  had a criminal record. Maybe Andy wouldn’t be able to clear himself,

  but if he did, then Massino would look around at the other members

  of his mob. He would know it was an inside job because of the key.

  He had two hundred men who came and went. The last man, Johnny

  told himself, he would suspect was his faithful Johnny who had saved

  his life three times in the past, had always behaved himself and had

  always done as he was told.

  Sitting there before the window, Johnny went over the plan

  again and again and he couldn’t fault it and yet he was uneasy.

  He could hear Massino’s harsh, ruthless voice saying: There’sno

  onedumbenough to tryto takeanythingfromme.

  But there could be someone smart enough, Johnny thought and

  putting his fingers inside his shirt, he touched the St. Christopher

  medal.

  21

  TWO

  Melanie Carelli, Johnny’s girl, had been born in a Naples slum. At

  the age of four she had been sent out on to the streets with other

  kids to beg from the tourists. Life had been hard for her and also for

  her parents. Her father, a cripple, had touted postcards, and faked

  Parker pens outside the better-class hotels; her mother had taken in

  washing.

  When Melanie reached the age of fifteen, her grandfather, who

  had a tailoring business in Brooklyn, wrote to say he could use her in

  his tiny factory and her mother and father were glad to see her go:

  the steerage fare provided for by her grandfather. Melanie was too

  keen on the boys and her parents dreaded the almost certain

  prospect that sooner or later she would land them with an unwanted

  baby.

  For three soul-destroying years she had worked in the factory

  and finally decided this wasn’t going to be her way of life. She stole

  fifty dollars from her grandfather and left Brooklyn. Arriving at East

  City, Johnny’s town, she decided it was far enough away from New

  York to be safe and she settled there. She had no need to worry

  about safety: her grandfather was only too happy to find her missing.

  She got a job as a waitress in a sleazy snack bar, but the hours

  were killing. She quit and other jobs followed, then after a year she

  finally got taken on in one of the many cheap stores in town which

  suited her. The pay wasn’t much, but at least she was on her own

  with no one to tell her what to do or how to behave and she had a

  tiny room that belonged to her, and to her only.

  Melanie was sexually attractive without being pretty. She had

  long, coal-black hair, large breasts and solid hips and the hot sun of

  Naples in her loins. Men, looking at her, knew it. The store buyer, a

  timid, fat man, living in terror of his wife, became infatuated with

  her. She allowed him from time to time to put his hand up her skirt,

  but no more, and in return he put her in charge of the men’s shirt

  counter with a raise in pay.

  It was while Johnny Bianda was buying shirts that he became

  aware of her. At that moment, he was without a girl, having

  quarrelled with a pick-up who had been too exacting, and he was in

  need of a girl. As always, Melanie was in need of a man. He dated her

  for dinner, proved he was generous and for the past three years,

  they had been going steady.

  Within two months of meeting Johnny, Melanie moved out of

  her tiny room and into a two-room apartment in a walk-up, Johnny

  providing the rent and the furnishings.

  In spite of being grateful and liking Johnny, Melanie regretted

  that he was so much older than she, that he was bulky and far from

  glamorous, but he treated her right, was nice to her and always had

  money to spend on her. They met three times a week: sometimes he

  would take her out to dinner and then to a movie, sometimes ‘she

  would cook Italian food for him at home. Whatever the programme,

  they always finished up on the big double bed that Johnny had

  bought for her, and it was then, after so much experience with

  younger men, that she really appreciated Johnny as a lover. He and

  no one else could satisfy her.

  To Johnny, Melanie, although so much younger than he and with

  no thoughts in her head, was a girl he felt he could trust and this was

  important to him. He was sick of the diggers, the cheats and the

  toughies with whom he had previously associated. Melanie came as

  a breath of fresh air. To him, she was more than attractive: she was

  wildly eager in bed and she didn’t yak as all those other women had

  yakked. She would be content to sit by his side in silence or talk

  when he was in the mood, and she never hinted of marriage.

  Johnny felt in his bones he would never marry. He didn’t want a

  permanent woman: all he wanted was a boat and the sea and sex

  when the mood was on him. Sooner or later, he knew he would lose

  Melanie. Some young punk with a little money would come along

  and that would be that. Because he knew he would eventually lose

  her, he had never told her about his urge to own a boat, and now he

  was committed to the steal, he was thankful he hadn’t told her: that

  he had told no one. Massino was an expert at squeezing information

  from anyone when he wanted and if the steal turned sour and

  Massino even suspected it was he (Johnny ) who had taken the

  money he would brutally quiz everyone connected with Johnny. If

  Massino ever got the idea that Johnny was boat mad, it would be

  goodbye to the boat.

  23

  Most of Massino’s mob knew that Johnny’s girl was Melanie. You

  can’t take a girl out three times a week for three years without

  running into some of the mob at the restaurants Johnny could afford

  nor at a movie house showing the latest film. This thought worried

  Johnny a little, although he kept assuring himself that nothing would

  turn sour the way he had planned the steal and that Massino would

  never suspect he was the thief. He was fond of Melanie. Love? No,

  he told himself, he wasn’t in love with her. He felt that love didn’t

  come into his life. Love bound a man, but he was fond of her and

  wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.

  He lit another cigarette. In the street below a child yelled, a

  woman called across the street to another woman, the car crawled

  by in low gear, making a racket of noise. Listening to the noise, he

  thought of the sea in the sunshine and felt the breeze against his

  face. His hands closed on the spokes of the tiller and he heard the

  murmur of the powerful engines. Patience, he told himself. Two or

  three years and he would be afloat.

  Every Friday night he took Melanie out to dinner and then to a

  movie. This night—he glanced at his
watch—he would be taking her

  out. Next Friday would be different, but he wouldn’t tell her tonight.

  He would jump it on her. Although she wasn’t a talker, if she knew

  beforehand that next Friday was going to be special, she might

  worry.

  He spent the next two hours going over his plan again and again,

  then finally, realizing the futility of this constant rehashing, he got

  up, stripped off and took a shower.

  An hour later he picked Melanie up outside her apartment and

  drove her to Luigi’s restaurant.

  They had a good Italian dinner. They didn’t have much to say to

  each other. Melanie always seemed to be hungry and when the food

  was placed before her, she ate happily and in silence while Johnny,

  now thinking of Friday 29th, pushed his food around on the plate and

  didn’t eat much. He kept looking at her. His eyes took away her

  clothes and saw her olive-skinned, lush body naked and he thought

  of the wasted three hours ahead of them when they would sit in a

  stuffy movie house and watch some goddamn film before he could

  lay her on her back on the big double bed.

  “Have you something on your mind, Johnny?” Melanie asked

  suddenly. She had devoured an enormous plate of spaghetti and was

  sitting back, eager for the next course, her big breasts forcing

  themselves against her cheap skimpy dress.

  Johnny jerked his thoughts back to her and he smiled.

  “Just looking at you, baby,” he said and put his hand over hers.

  “Right now, I’ve got the hots for you.”

  She felt a hot rush of blood to her loins.

  “Me too. Let’s skip the movie tonight. Let’s go back and have a

  real ball.”

  That was what he wanted and his fingers closed tightly over the

  back of her hand.

  “You have yourself a deal, baby.”

  Then a shadow fell across the table and Johnny looked up.

  Toni Capello was standing there. He was wearing a black suit, a

  yellow-and-white striped shirt and a yellow kipper tie. He looked very

  dressy, but his flat snake’s eyes remained snake’s eyes.

  “Hi, Johnny,” he said and his eyes shifted to Melanie and then

  back to Johnny. “The boss wants you.”

  Johnny turned hot with anger. He knew Toni was almost as good

  as he was (had been?) with a gun and he hated Toni as he knew Toni

  hated him.

  He sensed Melanie was scared. He glanced at her and saw she

  was looking at Toni with wide, frightened eyes.

  “What do you mean . . . he wants me?” Johnny demanded.

  A waiter hovered to change the plates, then moved away.

  “Like I said . . . he wants you and pronto.”

  Johnny drew in a long deep breath.

  “Okay. I’ll be along. Where?”

  “At his place and right now. I’ll take the doll back to her pad.”

  Toni smirked. “A pleasure.”

  “Get the hell out of here, you cheap punk,” Johnny said quietly

  and dangerously. “I’ll be there, but in my time.”

  25

  Toni sneered.

  “Okay, if you want to cut your throat . . . that’s fine with me. I’ll

  tell the boss,” and he walked out of the restaurant.

  Melanie turned, her eyes wide.

  “What is it, Johnny?”

  He wished he knew. He had never been called to Massino’s

  house before. He felt cold sweat start out on his forehead.

  “Sorry, baby,” he said gently. “I have to go. Suppose you finish

  your dinner, then take a taxi home and wait for me.”

  “Oh, no! I . . .”

  He got up and was moving around the table.

  “Do it, baby, to please me,” he said, a hard note creeping into his

  voice.

  There was something now about him that frightened her. He had

  lost colour, seemed to have shrunk a little and there were sweat

  beads on his forehead.

  She forced a smile.

  “Okay, Johnny, I’ll be waiting for you.”

  He had a word with the waiter and slipped him a bill, then giving

  her a wave, he went out on to the street.

  It took him some twenty minutes in the heavy traffic to reach

  Massino’s house on 10th street. He found parking with difficulty and

  walked up the marble steps leading to the massive front door.

  While he had been driving, his mind had been racing. What in

  God’s name, he wondered, did Massino want him for at this hour?

  Never before had he been summoned to this opulent house. He rang

  the bell, and as he was wiping his sweating hands on his

  handkerchief, the door opened and a lean, hard-faced man wearing a

  tail coat and a winged collar ( for God’s sake! ) aping an English butler

  from the old movies, stood aside to let Johnny enter the vast hall,

  lined on either side with oil paintings in gilt frames and several suits

  of polished armour.

  “Go ahead, bud,” the butler said out of the side of his mouth.

  “First door right.”

  Johnny entered a large room, lined with books and full of heavy

  dark furniture. Joe Massino was lounging in a big wing chair, smoking

  a cigar, a glass of whisky and water at his elbow. Sitting in the

  shadows was Ernie Lassini, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood.

  “Come on in, Johnny,” Massino said. “Sit down.” He waved to a

  chair opposite him. “What’ll you drink?” Johnny sat down stiffly.

  “A whisky will do fine, thank you,” he said.

  “Ernie, get Johnny a whisky and then get your ass out of here.”

  There was a long pause while Ernie fixed the drink which he

  handed to Johnny, his fat, scarred face dead pan, then he left the

  room.

  “Cigar?” Massino asked.

  “No, thanks, Mr. Joe.”

  Massino grinned.

  “Did I interrupt something?”

  “Yeah.” Johnny stared at the big man. “You sure did.”

  Massino laughed, then leaning forward he slapped Johnny on his

  knee.

  “It’ll keep. She’ll be all the more eager when you get to her.”

  Johnny didn’t say anything. Holding the drink in his sweating

  hand, he waited.

  Massino stretched out his thick legs, drew on his cigar and puffed

  smoke to the ceiling. He looked very relaxed and amiable, but Johnny

  didn’t relax. He had seen Massino in this mood before. It could

  change into snarling rage in seconds.

  “Nice little pad I’ve got here, huh?” Massino said, looking around

  ‘the room. “The wife fixed it up. All these goddamn books. She

  reckons they look fancy. You ever read a book, Johnny?”

  “No.”

  “Nor do I. Who the hell wants to read a book?” The little cold

  grey eyes moved over Johnny. “Well, never mind that. I’ve been

  thinking about you, Johnny. You’ve worked for me close on twenty

  27

  years . . .

  Here it is, Johnny thought. The kiss-off. Well, he had been

  expecting it, but not quite as soon as this.

  “I guess it’s around twenty years,” he said.

  “What do I pay you, Johnny?”

  “Two hundred a week.”

  “That’s what Andy tells me. Yeah . . . two hundred. You should

  have squawked long befor
e now.”

  “I’m not squawking,” Johnny said quietly. “I guess a guy gets paid

  what he deserves.”

  Massino squinted at him.

  “That’s not the way these other punks think. They’re always

  moaning for more money.” He drank some of his whisky, paused,

  then went on, “You’re my best man, Johnny. There’s something in

  you that gets to me. Maybe I remember your shooting. I wouldn’t be

  here with all these fancy goddamn books around me if it hadn’t been

  for you . . . three times, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Three times.” Massino shook his head. “Some shooting.” Again

  a long pause, then he said, “If you had come to me two . . . -three

  years ago and said you wanted more money, I’d have given it to

  you.” The red tip of his cigar suddenly pointed at Johnny. “Why

  didn’t you?”

  “I’ve told you, Mr. Joe,” Johnny said. “A guy gets paid what he

  deserves. I don’t do much. I work off and on. Friday is the big day . . .

  so . . .”

  “You and Sammy get along okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s scared. He hates the job, doesn’t her

  “He needs the money.”

  “That’s right. I’m thinking of making a change. I’ve had a beef or

  two from the boys. Times change. They don’t seem to like a smoke

  picking up the money. I want your angle. Do you think I should make

  a change?”

  Johnny’s mind moved swiftly. This was no time to support

  anyone, even Sammy. In another six days—if it worked out—he

  would have something like $150,000 hidden away.

  “I walk it with Sammy,” he said woodenly. “That’s been my job

  for ten years, Mr. Joe. I’ll walk it with anyone you pick.”

  “I’m thinking of making a complete change,” Massino said. “You

  and Sammy. Ten years is a hell of a time. Can Sammy drive a car?”

  “Sure and he knows cars. He started life in a garage.”

  “I heard that. Think he’d like to be my chauffeur? The wife has

  been nagging me. She says it isn’t good class for me to drive the

  Rolls. She wants a uniform for God’s sake! She thinks Sammy would

  look real good in a uniform.”

  “Top can but ask him, Mr. Joe.”

  “You talk to him, Johnny. What does he get paid?”

  “A hundred.”

  “Okay, tell him it’s worth a hundred and fifty.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Again a long pause while Johnny waited to hear his own fate.