by Dell Shannon
She made a little exclamation of annoyance and snatched up a tissue to wipe away the minute ragged speck of lipstick on her excellent white teeth .... It was not only irritating, but puzzling. She had thought it a brilliant inspiration, about the jewelers. One gathered from the romans de policiers that that kind of thing was quite common here; it was well known that Americans would do anything for money. Very probably the owners of the place robbed had been in the affair with the robber, in order to defraud the insurance firm— the jewels taken they would then have back, and recut and remount to sell them. So, naturally, they would know the thief and where he was to be found. A delicate little matter, to speak frankly to them, explain that she had no care for that aspect, it was their own business, but if they would be so obliging to inform her where Donovan was staying .... Once they understood clearly that she knew the ins and outs of the affair, and were reassured of her tolerance in the matter—
One was aware that it was nothing out of the way here, all Americans were quite lawless. But it appeared that she had been wrong. The gentleman there in the shop, introducing himself— the same name as that on the door, one of the owners then: he had positively exuded respectable integrity. That she had recognized almost instantly: one might as well suspect the present Minister of Finance of robbing the national treasury.
In fact, when one came to the point, that was far more likely. That red-haired woman . . . It had looked to be a respectable apartment, very poor of course, but— Not probable that Donovan was actually living there. And he had ignored her messages.
And when one thought twice, it would be foolish to have Donovan shot, or his mistress, for in the one case he could not conclude the bargain, and in the other he would only be more annoyed. But perhaps to let him see that she was not a fool, to threaten him convincingly— And so she had been very practical, remembering the name Skyros had said, a cheap gangster (which was just as well, she did not want to lay out too great a sum on this), and looking it up in the directory.
But, zut!— he was not a gangster at all. He did not wear a black shirt, or leave his cigarette in the mouth-corner like an Apache, he spoke quite grammatical English, and at first he had been very polite. Later he had been annoyed, which of course was understandable if he was not a gangster.
"They say Mr. Skyros is not in his office, madame, but he is expected there after lunch."
"Ah, how provoking!" exclaimed Madame Bouvardier. "All this, it leaves me exactly where I have started! Since this Irishman makes no reply to my messages, which he must have had by now, he is evidently determined to remain obstinate. Perhaps he and Skyros have made it up between them to be obstinate, yes. Well, this Skyros shall have some plain language from me today, that I can promise!"
* * *
Mr. Skyros did not sleep much on Friday night. He got up very early, pleading business to his wife, and arrived at his office before eight o'clock, before his employees. He locked himself in and went to the small safe he kept on the shelf of the filing cupboard; from this he took five twenty-dollar bills. Then he put on the gloves he had brought with him, sat down at the desk, and addressed an envelope to one Mr. Chester Scott, attorney-at-law. He cut a strip of paper from a clean page and printed on it in carefully disguised letters, In account with M. Prettyman, and attached it to the bills with a paper clip. He put this small parcel into the envelope, sealed and stamped it, unlocked the door and left the office.
Outside, he sought his car and drove down to the main post office, and mailed the envelope at the curb box without leaving the car. Heading back for the office, he felt just a trifle more cheerful; there was one little matter off his mind, at least. But from the few details he had heard, no lawyer could get Prettyman off the hook, with the stuff found on him— a year at least .... Mr. Skyros was not much worried about the lawyer. He was not a very scrupulous lawyer, he was used to dealing with such clients as Prettyman, and he would not bat an eye at receiving this anonymous retainer. It was necessary to guarantee the Prettymans such services, of course, for otherwise they might feel a grievance and talk a bit too much while they were inside. No reasonable man could object to paying out a moderate sum for loyalty.
By the time he arrived back at his office the staff had come in, and the pretty bookkeeper gave him a cheerful good morning. "Gee, it's going to be hot again, Mr. Skyros— even this early you can tell."
"This time of year, one wishes maybe to live in Alaska, isn't it?" returned Mr. Skyros genially. "I bet all your friends, they envy you in a nice air-conditioned office. Maybe I ought to cut something off your salary for the advantage!" He passed on into his office, sat down and worried a little more, waiting for the phone call.
When it came, he had thought of a place. Sometimes it was inconvenient, going all round to get somewhere, but it was only sense to be careful. About the cops you never knew: they could be almost cunning sometimes, and if they did know about others besides those they'd taken, and were watching . . . "Come to the airport," he said. "Municipal Airport, isn't it? In the men's room, the main building."
Such a nice public place, and perhaps— if he was ever asked about it— he'd been thinking of a little holiday somewhere, inquiring about fares. Yes.
He told the bookkeeper he'd be back after lunch, and drove out to the airport. A terrible drive in traffic in this weather, but these things a ways came up at inconvenient times. He sought out the men's room and waited; whenever someone else came in he pretended to be washing his hands, straightening his tie. And presently he was joined by the man he waited for, but, my God, he had this stupid lout, this Denny, with him.
"We kinda figured I maybe oughta come along, Mr. Skyros, on account you never met Angie before and I could say he is."
"No names, for the love of heaven," implored Mr. Skyros. "All right, I am assured, this is he himself." And then they all fell silent, as a pair of men came in. Mr. Skyros washed his hands industriously, looking at Angelo Forti out of the corner of his eye. No, him he had not met before, but he knew a good deal about him from Prettyman. A useful man— for the time being— because he was, by what Prettyman said, such a very persuasive salesman. A specialist in the high school kids, looking a little like a kid himself, though not young-but a small, frail-looking man, a man nobody could ever be afraid of, a little not-unhandsome man with dreamy dark eyes. And of course, also the profit was higher on Angelo, since he was a user himself. But for that very reason Mr. Skyros much disliked having any dealings with him, and that was going to pose a little problem ....
"It was Castro," said Angelo, turning his soft dark eyes on Mr. Skyros as they were left alone. "Way I heard it. One of his boys come around askin' for me, probably an offer get me into that string, see, and Pretty and some o' the boys, they just figured rough him up a little. You know. No trouble. But it kinda went wrong— I don't know, seemed the guy was a little bit tougher than he looked— there was quite a ruckus, and somebody called the cops."
"Such a thing!" said Mr. Skyros crossly. "All over such a little business!" There were times he wished he had never had a disagreement with Bratti, and actually that had been unnecessary too, looked at calmly. A little matter of a thousand dollars or so, and it was quite possible that it had not been Bratti or Castro who had waylaid Hogg and taken the stuff from him. Hogg had not been able to say, he had been riding high himself at the time— madness to get on the stuif, these irresponsible people!— and Mr. Skyros had perhaps leaped to a conclusion. But that was past praying for now, the quarrel established.
"I figured," said Angie, "I take over for Pretty, and maybe so, you tell me now where to pick up the stuff and when? It'd be just fine, you got some stashed away maybe now, on account the cops got everything at the Elite."
Yes, and here was the problem. Mr. Skyros had no desire at all to put Angelo in Prettyman's shoes: you could not trust any man who was on the stuff himself. Angie might be worth his weight in gold as a pusher, but to take any responsibility— my God! To know dangerous information— on
e never knew what that kind would do. He gave Angie a genial smile and said, "Well, now, you see, my friend, I haven't just made up my mind, I've thought maybe it's a good idea to lie quiet awhile. If the cops know some more than it looks like— dropping on the boys so— "
"Ah, that was just the breaks," said Angie. "They don't know nothin'. Just happened find the stuff on Pretty, after that ruckus. Everything's O.K. I can get you three-four new guys, no time at all, to take over. Find a new drop, the Elite closed up. No trouble."
"Well— " said Mr. Skyros. "I take a little time to think it over." It was awkward: very awkward. There would be all the nuisance of contacting someone else to take over. Someone reasonably trustworthy. And Angie would hear about it. And Angie knew—
"Time," said Angie, and he smiled very sweet and slow at Mr. Skyros. "Not too much time, because I'll be needing some more myself pretty much right away. And I done favors for you, big favor not so long back, didn't I, and I'm right here to take on where Pretty left off. No trouble. I don't want no trouble, you don't want no trouble, nobody wants trouble, Mr. Skyros."
Dear heaven, no, thought Mr. Skyros, turning away as another man came in. He straightened his tie at the mirror with a shaking hand; the genial smile seemed painted on his face. Angie knew— Speak of dangerous information! Angie knew too much entirely already. Really he had Mr. Skyros at bay . . .
"Big favor I done you. Acourse there's this deal o' Denny's— and Jackie's— kinda hangin' fire, ain't it, maybe you've been kinda worryin' over that. And can't say I blame you," said Angie thoughtfully. "This deal with the ace o' spades. Anything to do with an ace o' spades, bad luck."
Ace of spades— a widow, that was what they called a widow, these low-class crooks, remembered Mr. Skyros distractedly. All about that Angie knew, too. When things got a little out of hand, they very rapidly I, got a lot out of hand— it seemed to be a general rule. All just by chance, and in a way tracing back to poor Frank, all of it, because naturally— brothers, living together— and Angie— ? Mr. Skyros did not at all like the look on Angelo's regular-featured, U almost girlishly good-looking face— or indeed anything about Angelo. Mr. Skyros was not a man who thought very much about moral principles; he found money much more interesting; but all the same he thought now, uneasily, of the way in which Angelo earned his living— and paid for his own stuff— and eyed the soft smile, and the spaniel-like dark eyes, and he felt a little ill.
"Look, my friend," he said, "in my life I learn, how is it the proverb says, better an ounce of prevention to a pound of cure. I stay in business so long because I'm careful. Two weeks, a month, we talk it over again, and maybe if nothing happens meanwhile to say the cops know this and that, then we make a little deal, isn't it?"
"That's a long while," said Angie. "I tell you, you want to leave it that way, I don't fool around with it. I go over to Castro and get fixed up there. I can't wait no two weeks."
And Mr. Skyros didn't like Angie, but what with Prettyman and three of his boys inside, and not likely to come out— And Angie such a valuable salesman, Prettyman said— All the nuisance and danger of getting in touch with practically a whole new bunch of boys— Why did everything have to happen at once?
Denny said stupidly, "Why, you ain't turning Angie down, are you, Mr. Skyros? I mean, we all figured— I guess anybody'd figure— Angie— "
Angelo gave him an affectionate smile. "Mr. Skyros too smart a fellow want to get rid of me," he said. "It's O.K., Denny, everything's O.K. Ain't it, Mr. Skyros?"
Oh, God, the name repeated over and over, anybody to hear— Not I being a fool, Mr. Skyros knew why. But aside from everything else, it would scarcely be pleasant to have dealings with one who was nominally an underling and actually held— you could say— the whip hand. And all because of Domokous! If Mr. Skyros had dreamed of all the trouble that young man would eventually cause—
Of course, there was another factor. Angie worth his weight in gold right now, but these users, they sometimes went down fast. Who knew, Angie might not last long .... The sweat broke out on Mr. Skyros' forehead as he realized he had been actually thinking— hoping— planning— perhaps—
Good God above, had not Domokous been enough?
He patted Angelo's thin shoulder paternally. "Now you don't want to go talking that way," he said. "Sure, sure, you're the one take over for Pretty, soon as I get the supply, get started up again, isn't it? You don't need worry, Angelo. I tell you, I know how it is with you, my friend, I sympathize, and I'll make it a special point— a special favor— get in touch, and get some stuff just for you. I don't know if I can manage it tonight or tomorrow, but I'll try my best, my friend. You see, you got to remember, we all got schedules, like any business! My man, he won't be around a little while, he just fixed me up with this stuff they took out of the Elite. It's awkward, you see that, isn't it?"
"Well, that's your business, Mr. Skyros," said Angie, and his dreamy eyes moved past Mr. Skyros' shoulder to gaze vaguely out the ground-glass window. "I appreciate it, you do that. Sure. We don't none of us want no trouble .... I'm in a room over the Golden Club on San Pedro, you just ask for me there, you want see me. Or maybe I call you— tonight? About nine o'clock, I call and see if you got any. A couple decks for me, Mr. Skyros— and ten— twelve to sell, see, I like to have a little ready cash."
"Oh, now, I don't know about that much," said Mr. Skyros. "And you know, Angelo, Pretty, he always keeps it a strict cash basis, like they say— "
"Sure," said Angie. "Sure, Mr. Skyros. Fifty a throw, that the deal? Sure. I bring you the cash, say five hundred for ten decks. Never mind how much I cut it, how much I get," and he smiled his sleepy smile again. "Standard deal, Mr. Skyros. You go 'n' have a look round for it."
“I do my best," said Mr. Skyros earnestly, "just for you, my friend. This is awkward for everybody, isn't it, we all got to put up with inconvenience sometimes. But I do my best for you." He got out of there in a hurry, brushing past another man in the door, mopping his brow. The expedient thing— yes, very true, one must make do as one could, in some situations. It could all be straightened out later. Not very much later, but when things had settled down a little. After this deal with the Bouvardier woman went through. An ace of spades .... He was not a superstitious man, but he felt perhaps there was a little something in that, indeed. He rather wished he had never got into the business, and still— scarcely to be resisted, a nice little profit with not much work involved, easy money . . .
* * *
Katya Roslev, who would be Katharine Ross so very soon now, rang up her first sale of the day and counted back the change. She did not notice that the customer seized her purchase and turned away without a smile or a word of thanks. Usually she marked the few who did thank you, you didn't get that kind much in a place like this: and she played a little game with herself, seeing how downright rude she could act to the others, before they'd take offense, threaten to call the manager. Funny how seldom they did: used to it, probably. The kind who came into a cheap store like this! Grab, snatch, I saw that first! and, Here, I'll take this, I was before her, you wait on me now or I don't bother with it, see! This kind of place . . .
She'd be through here, just no time at all— leave this kind of thing 'way behind. Off at noon, and she'd never come back. Never have to. Money— a lot of money, enough. She'd be smart about it, get him to give it to her in little bills so's nobody would suspect— maybe couldn't get it until Monday account of that, the banks— But that wasn't really long to wait. Not when she'd waited so long already.
No need say anything at all to the old woman. She had it all planned out, how she'd do. She'd say she didn't feel good on Sunday, couldn't go to church— there'd be a little argument, but she could be stubborn— and when the old woman had gone, quick pack the things she'd need to take, all but the dress she'd wear Monday, and take the bag down to that place in the station where you could put things in a locker overnight, for a dime. Then on Monday morning— or it might have to be T
uesday— get up and leave just the usual time, and last thing, put the money in an envelope under the old woman's purse there in the drawer. She wouldn't be going to get that for an hour or so after Katya had left, go do the daily shopping. No need leave a note with it, either-or maybe just something like, Don't worry about me, I'm going away to make a better life.
A better life. Escape. It wasn't as if she wanted much. She didn't mind working hard, not as if she figured to do anything wrong to live easy and soft— all she wanted was a chance, where she wasn't marked as what she was. To be Katharine Ross, and work in a nicer shop somewhere, at a little more money so she could have prettier clothes, and learn ladies' manners and all like that, and get to know different people than up to now, not just the ones like her here, with foreign-sounding names, the ones went to the same church and— Different place, different job, different people, she'd be all different too. Prettier, she'd do her hair another way; smarter, and wear different kinds of clothes— she'd be Katharine Ross, just what that sounded like.
"You've give me the wrong change," said the customer sharply.
"Think I can't count?"
Katya made up the amount in indifferent silence. She was listening to other voices, out of the future. Some of those vaguely-imagined new, different people. Oh, Katharine's awfully nice, and pretty too, like Katharine— Let's ask Katharine to go with us, she's always lots of fun— Katharine—
Soon, very soon now . . .
SIXTEEN
Mendoza didn't wake until nearly nine-thirty. It was going to be another hot day; already the thermometer stood close to ninety. Alison was still sound asleep; he made fresh coffee and searched through all the desk drawers for more cigarettes before thinking of her handbag, and found a crumpled stray cigarette at its bottom, which tasted peculiarly of face powder. He left a note propped on the desk asking her to call him sometime today, and drove home.
