The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon

by Dell Shannon

  "I quit any time I want, Jackie," said Angelo in the same dreamy voice, "any time. Don't matter. Smarter'n some guys, before or after a Ex, me— never got inside on a taxi, I didn't."

  "You just shut up! And you just as bad, Denny— lost your nerve, gone to pieces! Don't tell me ain't all your fault the kid brother got it— if you'd held things together like, kept it steady 'n quiet like I allus did, Frank wouldn't never've got onto that lay, my God— sure there's money in it, but you got to draw a line somewheres! So Angie thinks it's bad luck get mixed up with an ace o' spades, so O.K., me, I think it's bad luck get mixed up with pushers! But here's the deal thrown into our laps, and only sense to get what the traffic'll stand!"

  "I tell you, Jack, you kinda lost track o' things while you been in."

  Denny was nervous, criticizing. "It just ain't so easy no more, make a living. Don't pay near so good, account o' the cops are different, sort of, even worse 'n just fifteen years back. You can't blame Frank— just the breaks, it was— besides, Jack, like I said I don't figure it was awful damn safe, go out to that museum place like you did— I mean, hell, they ain't got nothing to lose, they mighta called the cops right off— "

  "My God, you ain't seen no sign of it, have you? So O.K., they didn't bite on buyin' the stuff under the counter like I maybe thought, it was just a try, anybody's crooked give 'em the chance not get caught, even professors or— So it didn't come off, but that guy told me what it's really worth, didn't he? Insured for two hundred G's, he said— Oh, the hell with it! You just gone soft in the head, Denny. Listen, you remember just how it used to be, see, just let ol' Jackie do the brainwork for you, boyo. Don't worry about nothing, just do how I say, and everything'll be O.K., see?" Jackie Donovan banged him on the shoulder and made for the door.

  "Where you going'?"

  "None o' your business where— you hear what I just say? Way it used to be, Denny— ol' J ack's the brains o' the outfit, you just leave it to him and don't ask no questions, see?"

  Denny watched him out uneasily. "I still don't like it," he said half to himself. "Ask me, something fishy about the whole deal, anybody pay so much as a sawbuck for that stuff. Lot o' dirty old stuff you couldn't even— "

  "Ask no questions, you get tol' no lies," said Angelo. He rolled over on the sagging old couch in the corner of the shabby room and smiled sleepily at Denny. "Jackie, he get some older inside, don't he? Maybe forget a li'l bit, how things go. Maybe not the same ol' Jackie, fifteen years back, you guess?"

  "I— well, kinda, I guess," said Denny unwillingly. He fidgeted around the room. "Sure, I guess— only natural, for a little while— you know, Angie, away that long— only natural. He get back on an even keel, O.K., couple of months maybe."

  "Sure. Maybe. Look a lot older, Jackie."

  "Well— fifteen years," said Denny. "I— you know something crazy, what really bothers me— that damn car! Crazy fool thing. This perfeckly good almost brand new Caddy I get for him, a present, an' he says he can't handle it— goes off like that an' stalls her, an' that place too— comes back with this piece of old junk, my God, pickin' up a thing like that— stickin' me with a hot short to get rid of! Says he can't get the hang o' these new models, dashboard like a airplane or something— Jackie! Don't make sense. Well, fifteen years . . . So O.K., maybe he's got something, get all we can, but I don't like the setup. That Greek— well, I got no grudge on him for bein' Frank's boss, he acted real sorry, he allus treated Frank O.K., I guess, but— "

  "Not Skyros watch out for. The ace o' spades. Bad luck."

  "Oh, damn it to hell!" said Denny. "I wish to God I'd never picked that damn place to knock over!"

  * * *

  "He quotes proverbs at me," said Madame Bouvardier, "so I too remember one, Berthe. When in Rome one behaves like a Roman."

  "Yes, madame," said the maid stolidly.

  "So— so!" Madame Bouvardier could not think in silence; indeed, she seldom did anything in silence; and she kept her excellent Berthe, though she was not chic or very intelligent, because Berthe was utterly loyal and it did not matter what one said before her. "Since I have no longer a husband to arrange these affairs, I am pleased enough that this Skyros offers himself, as a compatriot and a sympathizer, to help me come in touch with these robbers. But no, I am not a fool, and I have now thought twice. Since when should a Skyros be so obliging for no profit? I think perhaps he gets a little piece of that money, and when I agree at once to the price, they think I am so anxious I will pay anything! Well, they must think again. Berthe, I will have another glass of wine."

  "Yes, madame."

  "It is true I am anxious to have it— in his dotage, my father was, heaven rest him— to think of selling it in America! Sacrilege! These precious relics of our nation's past— of course it is also true that for the moment it would perhaps be unsafe that the collection remain in Athens, so close to these never-enough-to-be-cursed Russians, who knows what enormity they conceive next? But it should not be in America, for these uncouth strangers to own! We shall see that it is taken out safely, Berthe. I say we, for you are the seamstress, and I have thought of an excellent way to carry it. It shall all be sewn in the hems of my clothes— piece by piece— well wrapped, of course, and only a few in each, lest the weight make the customs officers suspicious. But this is for the future. Before, there is this Donovan." She sipped wine reflectively. "Skyros need not think I am so ignorant. I have seen on the Elms how it is here, with the gangsters. Quite like the war, Berthe, This little gang and that little gang, and bitter rivalries between. And the police are not at all like the police in Paris, intelligent and honorable men— they are quite as bad as the gangsters, everyone knows that. They would not interfere if they were paid— but only if it is necessary, I do not want to pauperize myself in this affair. We shall see, about that. For the rest, well! This red-haired woman of Donovan's— this Alison Weir— has told him my message by now, he has one more day to take the offered price. If he does not— " She got up and paced back and forth to the window, to the little wine-table, sipping again. "Ah, let him try to give me the stall— I know a trick for that too! These gangsters, one may hire them. One goes to them and says, such a one I wish shot, and the bargain is made. Voilá! And I even know one, or at least the name, I remember one small thing Skyros says— it is as if to himself, but I hear the name. Italian— all gangsters are Italians. Except a few like this Donovan who are Irishmen. I have not made up my mind whether I have him shoot Donovan or this red-haired woman— Answer the door, Berthe."

  When the maid came clumping back into the suite she bore a card.

  "It's the man who was here before, madame. Monsieur Driscoll."

  “Ah, how annoying! But I must be very polite to them, until they have paid me the money. Very well, let him come in."

  SEVEN

  Jackie Donovan sat on a bench in Pershing Square, watching the pigeons, and smoked cigarettes nervously. Pigeons! he thought, savage at himself. Him, Donovan, two weeks out and he sat watching pigeons in the park. The hell of a lot of things he'd kept thinking about, wanting, if promising himself for when he got out, and what the hell was wrong with him, he couldn't just go and—

  All different, somehow. He felt he couldn't get a hold on anything. Like the car. Damn good of Denny, have it all ready and waiting like that. Handling cars since he was a kid, God, the first job he'd got dropped on for was hopping shorts— but it was different. Kept reaching for the clutch, just habit; my God, he'd driven a couple those first automatics that come out, couple years before he was sent across this time, he ought to catch on quicker. And tell the truth, these freeways, they scared the bejesus out of him. They had different kinds of signals too, those little green arrows, first off he couldn't figure them out. Oh, hell, give him a little time, things bound to be kind of strange at first. That was the longest stretch he'd done, after all. Fifteen years.

  The women looked different too. Wearing skirts short again, well, that was 0.K., but most of them, it look
ed like, with these funny short haircuts too— crazy— straight, like a man's, left just anyhow, not curled.

  But things like that he'd kind of expected. Bound to be changes. Have to get used to things outside again.

  What he hadn't expected, what made him feel funny inside, was this— this not being sure. Him, Donovan! Always the brains— ask Jackie, Jackie'll know just how— and God, he didn't, no more. Things in the business changed too, all kinds of the business, names he didn't know, all the old fences gone, new fellows all over. He felt kind of still out of everything.

  And some things he'd pulled— Jesus, a ten-year-old kid swiping stuff off dime store counters'd know better— Him, Donovan. Been on the list of Ten Most Wanted, once, he had. A big-timer.

  He kept thinking about that short— goddamned crazy thing, it didn't matter. He'd felt nervous with the Caddy, and when she stalled out there, that day, it'd been kind of like an excuse he was waiting for. That short he'd picked up— you could've fixed her up a little, a real nice piece to handle— you knew where you were with her. Always liked a hand choke, and these new things, you never— She didn't ride so good maybe, but—

  He'd like to've kept her.

  The damn hot short—

  It was a hot feeling in his chest, the little panic. Hadn't told Denny, hadn't told anybody how he'd lost that little bit. God, like a kid couldn't be trusted out with a dime— Him!

  It must've been in the car. All he could figure: he hadn't had a hole in his pocket, and he'd looked good. Damn fool to carry it loose. Must've come out in that car, somehow.

  Well, all right, so it could be fixed up. O.K. No call to get in a sweat about it. It was just damn lucky he knew how to find the car, on account— damn it, the kind of short he was used to— he'd had a kind of crazy idea of keeping it, all on the up-and-up, so's not to mess around with new plates. Denny said you'd pay the hell of a lot for safe plates now. Thought about making up some story, about seeing it parked, wanting it just for transportation like they said— after the guy had it back, go and offer him a hundred bucks for it. So he'd remembered the name on the registration. Funny name for a guy.

  Just a little piddling job. Ten to one the thing down in the seat somewhere, nobody knowing it was there. Just had to look up the address, that he didn't remember, find the garage, get in easy— tonight— and go over the car. Why the hell all this sweat about it? Nothing to it. And nobody'd ever know he'd done such a damn fool thing.

  All right, he thought vaguely, angrily.

  Go look up the address, public phone someplace, now. And maybe have a little drink on the way. O.K.

  They nicked you six bits for Scotch mostly now. Hell of a thing. Except joints where it was baptized stuff, or made under the counter and like to send you to the General.

  And that was another thing. This deal better go through pretty damn quick. Nice of Denny to have a little stake for him, coming out— pull off that job special, celebrate his getting out— but it hadn't been so much as he'd figured, Denny said, account half of it turning out to be this crazy stuff no fence'd look at.

  All the more reason, get as much as they could.

  He walked out of the park slowly and started down Sixth Street toward Main. He felt more at home down on Main. As much as he did anywhere.

  If just things— ordinary things— didn't look so different.

  He was forty-three years old this year, and he'd spent almost twenty-two of them behind bars.

  What the hell, thought Driscoll, and drank out of the bottle, shuddered. He had never consciously admitted to himself that he didn't really like the taste of whiskey. It was just one of the things you did, any kind of a fellow at all.

  The whiskey settled sickly in his stomach and he groaned involuntarily, slumped down on the hotel bed. Damn hot weather. Damn miserly company wouldn't allow enough expenses for a decent hotel, air-conditioned. Damn Howard, supercilious-suspicious— Not quite up to par lately, Driscoll, and— er— complaints about your offensive manner— I'm afraid—

  Hell with Howard. With his record, let Howard fire him-always find another job. Damn old-fashioned company was all, obsolete ideas bout things. You had to keep up a front, play it smart. People took you at face value. So all right, maybe he had been pouring it down kind of heavy, my God, everybody did— any fellow who was any kind of fellow— Set your brain working better, gave you bright ideas sometimes-and besides—

  Damn cops. That Mex, sneering at him— so damn polite, looking down his nose— looked like a damn gigolo. That suit, Italian silk: and the cuff links the real thing too— money— a cop: sure, sure, so they said, rare exception these days find a crooked cop!— higher standards, higher quality of men— Probably just as many as there always were, anybody could be bought—

  Dirty Mex cop, looking down his nose. Damned if he'd tell him anything. Sure, hell of a lot easier, ask for help on it— their records— fellow who handled the case— way you were supposed to do it. But he could handle it alone, and make Howard sit up and take notice- Say to Howard, damn regular cops no help at all, didn't bother with 'em—

  Something going on, all right. Something fishy. That foreign skirt, snotty bitch the way she looked at him, she owned the stuff, or would when the estate was transferred, she had an interest— racket, sure, shouldn't be hard to get evidence on it, that stuff.

  Crack it but good, and say to Howard (act real tough, people took you for what you looked like), say, There, boy, who's not doing so hot these days, who's slipping, hah?

  He sat up unsteadily and reached for the bottle again. Say to Howard—

  * * *

  "Ekaterina Nikolayevna Rosleva," said the old woman softly, "speak the truth to me now."

  The girl knew she was in earnest, by the formal address— the old-country form. Anything to do with the old ways and ideas she hated, reminder of how people looked down on her for the foreign name— she'd been born here, she was a citizen, wasn't she?— it wasn't fair. She hated living with the old woman, her slow old-fashioned ways, her endless stories about old days and people all dead now: she resented having to share the money she earned, for this hole-in-the-corner place and food and all it took to live, two people. If it wasn't for the old woman, she could escape.

  "Ekaterina— "

  "All right, all right, I heard you!" she said, ladling out soup carelessly into the bowls on the table. "What you think I haven't told you?"

  "There is something in your mind, I know."

  "So there's something in my mind. Usually is. Work I got to do tomorrow, clothes I got to mend, bills I got to pay." She sat down opposite and picked up her spoon.

  "You forget, we ask the blessing first."

  Escape— how she'd planned it! She resented the old woman, but one did not leave relatives to public charity, it was a duty. Secretly and often she thought of the old woman dying— then she would be free. She'd go right away from this place, didn't matter where so long as it was a long way off; she'd just leave everything, and start to be somebody else. Somebody new. Not Katya Roslev, but Katharine Ross, good American name, and a better job too, in a high-class shop where ladies came, to watch and listen to for how they acted. All her money her own.

  "Somehow I do not feel it is a good thing in your mind," said the old woman. "You should be thinking of Stevan. Praying for his soul."

  "I am thinking of Stevan," said Katya submissively. It was no lie: she was. For perhaps the first time with any real feeling— gratitude. Catch her marrying a Stevan Domokous! He had been the old woman's idea: old— fashioned. These days!— 1iving it up all like they did in the old country a hundred years back, thousand years back— the bishop and all— a good steady hard-working young man of good family, if all alone in this country. Bah! And to him that's how it had been too— way a man took a wife— picked for her dowry and family and character— not interested in her, he'd been, in herself. And a slow one, anyway: a plodder. Honest: too honest.

  She'd have found some way out of that before spr
ing, that was sure. Katharine Ross, secure in another life, was going to marry somebody with another nice American name and a better job than a clerk's, and that was for sure too. It was a pity Stevan had to die, but at least it did get her rid of him; she was sorry for him, but there it was, it had happened. And maybe it was good luck for her another way, an exciting way too. Escape.

  Money, always money, there had to be. Oh, he had been a slow one!

  That night, when he'd said about Mr. Skyros talking: she'd said to him, after, when they were on the way to the movies, maybe if he let Mr. Skyros think he heard more, knew all about it, he'd get some pay to promise not to tell. He'd been shocked— or scared, she thought contemptuously— he said, not honest: anything bad the police ought to know!

  Well, she wasn't one to split hairs like that. If there was some easy money to be had, she'd take any chance at it. And she'd take care to be smarter than Stevan too— protect herself. She could say she'd written it all out, what he'd told her— about the money— and the writing was— it was in the bank, in one of those boxes rich people kept, where nobody could get at it but her— they'd never dare harm her then.

  She'd been a fool to come out with it to that policeman, but she hadn't thought about it clear then— seen the chance it offered. Money. It might be a lot of money. Could she ask for a thousand dollars? Even five thousand? Escape: because that would be the duty money, to leave behind for the old woman— the old woman off her mind then— she could manage on the little she'd saved from her salary— go away with a clear conscience then, the old woman provided for— and start her new life, a long way off.

  "You are very silent, Katya," said the old woman.

  "I am thinking of Stevan, as you say I should," said the girl, and held back a smile.