by Robert Colby
“How much?” said Stienmetz after a heavy silence.
“Three hundred thousand.”
“Three hundred thou—not a chance! We won’t pay it!”
“You’ll pay it all right, and this is how you’ll deliver. Listen good, because I’m only gonna say it once. Tonight at seven sharp we’ll send a messenger to your house for the dough. Three hundred grand in hundreds—old hundreds, not a new bill in the bunch. Pack the money in a brief case and band it in thirty stacks, ten thousand to a stack.
“Now this messenger will be a flunky. He won’t know one goddamn thing about the deal, just that he’s out to pick up a case and deliver it somewhere. So don’t try havin’ the cops sweat him and don’t hold him or the game is called. Ditto if you have him followed. No cops—not one, or we wreck another store. Get me?”
“Yes, but let me tell you something! I’ll have you—”
“Now this messenger will say like this: ‘My name is Speedy and Mr. Greengold sent me for the samples.’ You don’t deliver unless you get that line—‘My name is Speedy and Mr. Greengold sent me for the samples.’ So it’s seven sharp, Stienmetz. Have the cash ready, or we’ll make splinters outta the whole chain all the way to Jacksonville.”
“Now you wait a minute, you dirty punk! Are you crazy? We can’t get hold of that kind of money on such short notice. My God, we—”
“You better deliver, chum. Right on time!”
Tony slapped the receiver down. For a moment he stood in a thoughtful attitude, head cocked as if he might be listening to a distant sound. Then he left the booth.
The car eased gently from the curb, again becoming lost in southbound traffic. Tony leaned back comfortably, munching a hamburger, sipping coffee, occasionally crowding his mouth with a handful of French fries scooped from the greasy white bag in his lap.
No one spoke. Tony did not like to talk when he was eating, though this had nothing to do with good manners. He simply would not permit anyone to distract him from his pleasurable absorption with food.
The Cadillac paused as Rosen paid the toll at the entrance gate to Biscayne Key, then skimmed on again.
Tony smiled, a narrow secret smile, remembering his promise to exact his own tolls from all the fat monarchs of the world in which he found himself. He felt expansive, vastly confident and superior. He had an enormous sense of well-being.
After a while he finished eating and tossed the empty paper bag and coffee container out the window. The wind hurled these behind, sucking them into the night, at last depositing them at the base of a sign which read:
Dumping Refuse Along Highway Forbidden Under Penalty of Fines Up to $100.
Tony’s well-being included a warm current of sexual desire. His groin felt lazily tumescent. In the dark his hand came up beneath Marian’s breast and closed around it.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not now, Tony. I’m not in the mood.”
Tony ignored her. His other hand snaked beneath her skirt and began a sinuous path upward over her thigh. For a moment she clamped her legs together and tried to move them sideways out of his grasp. But Tony found resistance fascinating and, wedging his hand between her legs, forced it onward.
Suddenly she relaxed, her head fell to his shoulder with a little sigh of pleasure. “But won’t they see us,” she whispered in his ear.
Tony shrugged. “Who cares?” He chuckled. “Make ’em sweat a little, huh? It might be kinda fun.” So saying, he took her hand and pressed it solidly against his crotch….
Lubeck was the first to voice alarm as they slid around a corner and the house became visible a block away, a bold island of light set against the darkness of the dwellings surrounding it.
“Hey!” he bawled. “F’crissake, look at that! Who turned the goddamn lights on in the house?”
Tony quickly undid himself from Marian’s embrace. Sitting up, he gaped in astonishment.
“Maybe the cops,” he muttered. “I don’t know how, but maybe the cops. Gun past on the double, Harry. We’ll have a look.”
His hand darted to his pocket and came up with a.38 automatic. He held it poised, hooded eyes probing house and grounds as they flew past.
“Nothing,” he said. “Anyway, would the cops set up a stake-out and leave the goddamn lights torching? Let’s go back. Fast, Harry, fast! I can smell trouble.”
Tony got to the closet first and spied the note. He ripped it away and gulped the contents at a glance. Getting the drift immediately, he reached for the closet door and nearly tore it from the hinges.
“Gone!” he thundered. “Gone, gone, gone!” His big fist smashed against the door panel and splintered it. He plucked the note from the floor where he had dropped it and this time read it with more care.
“You!” he shouted, aiming a finger at Marian. “You! You’re the cause of this. A quarter million bucks out the goddamn window because of a lousy dame!”
He advanced two steps and walloped her across the face with his open hand. She fell sideways and crumpled to the floor, whimpering, blood showing at a corner of her mouth.
Tony was a muscled giant standing over her, a nerve twitching his eye. “All right, all right,” he said in a dark, soft voice, terrible with menace. “So you cost me a quarter million and you’re not worth fifty bucks, you cheap slut! But you’re gonna help me get that dough back. And then I’m gonna do you just one more favor—I’m gonna make you a widow!”
CHAPTER NINE
Earlier, Warren Emrick had been locked in his hotel room thinking about the money. He lay fully dressed upon the bed, a forgotten cigarette drooping from a corner of his mouth, a new fifth of Canadian Club resting untouched beside him on a night table.
The suitcase yawned from a chair across the room, revealing a welter of currency. Warren stared at the money and pondered the problems it created. Though he was not excessively brave, he wasn’t afraid of Tony Viani and his stooges. This was partly because his hate was bigger than fear and partly because he no longer gave a particular damn what happened to him.
He was full of dead and bitter things which corrupted his will and dissipated his spirit. Still, he was basically a man of good judgment. And now that he felt somewhat vindicated, he began to consider his actions in a more careful light.
At first, caught by a reckless, vengeful impulse, it had seemed a superb idea to exchange that quarter million of Tony Viani’s for Marian—in payment for treachery and the theft of his forty-seven thousand. The irony of it was marvelous, and such a gift of riches was enormously tempting. But he had not reckoned with the habit patterns of a lifetime.
It would certainly be a kind of stealing to keep more than the forty-seven thousand and one did not become a thief overnight. One could not develop long habits of discriminate behavior and then put them aside with a careless shrug. One could, of course, do many things inconsistent with his character on impulse—driven by emotions which distorted perspective. But these were only temporary aberrations.
So now, in a calmer more thoughtful mood, it seemed to Warren that he had made a mistake. He should have taken only the money which was his. Then he should have cornered this Viani, at a time when the odds were not three to one in Viani’s favor, and clobbered him witless!
It was not too late, though he would have to move cautiously. Tony would certainly be carrying a gun, and he would probably use it. And in spite of his former abandon, Warren was not going to kill or be killed in an idiot attempt at vengeance now that he had regained some of his sanity.
Really, why should he destroy what was left of his life in a moment of crazy violence? What he wanted was his money and the satisfaction of mauling Viani so that he would never forget. As a bonus he might uncover the truth behind that quarter million. Surely the bastard wouldn’t be in possession of that kind of dough and an arsenal of guns unless he was a very bad boy. So it was quite possible that he could put Viani in a cell for a few years where he would have time to think over the miscalculation he made when he figured he cou
ld sucker Warren out of his wife and his lifetime savings.
The police would be delighted with such a prize, especially if Warren could furnish them with enough information for a conviction. God, even the tax boys would take a very dim view of all that unreported cash!
And what of Marian? He could make up his mind that she was a vicious tramp and not worthy of tears or violence. Or he could find a more subtle way to settle with her.
He would have to puzzle that out later. Meanwhile there were things to be done. He would have to get a line on Tony Viani, and he would have to do it fast. Viani would be in a highly nervous state and he might jump in any direction. Warren couldn’t tell what he might do next—not without a better understanding of the sort of creep he was. One thing he could predict—Viani would be hunting for a guy named Warren Emrick and a quarter of a million bucks.
Warren reached for a tray and crushed his cigarette decisively. He found Anita Wymer’s phone number and gave it to the operator. He glanced at his watch. It was just after eleven and it was unlikely that Wymer would be home.
To his surprise she answered at once. Her voice sounded edgy. Abruptly he changed his mind and hung up. She might give him the brush on the phone. Better to appear in person.
Wymer was important to him now, more so than ever. She was the only link. She might furnish him with enough clues to sink Viani and company. She would probably be a most unwilling pigeon, but now he had fresh ammunition and there were certain pressures he could bring to bear.
He did not understand the relationship between Wymer and Marian. He could find no basis for the apparent bond which held them and caused Anita to be so fiercely protective. Even less could he fathom the tie between Wymer and Viani. But then, there was a time when Marian displayed the same face of innocence.
Warren climbed out of bed and scanned the room for a place to hide the currency. He discarded several possibilities because of their space limitations. Only the obvious enclosures would hold that much paper.
Well, was he really concerned with the cash in excess of his own forty-seven thousand? Only in so much as it could be used to convict Viani. With a shrug he counted the portion which was his and crossed with it to the air-conditioner, presently out of use in the cooler climate of winter.
He removed the vented cover and the filter screen. Behind this was the cavity housing the fan. There was enough room, though it was a tight squeeze. After stashing the bills he replaced the screen and cover. He returned to the suitcase and piled clothing on top of the remaining loot and weapons. He stowed the case beneath the bed, knowing it would not be disturbed because only Viani and his tribe were aware that the money existed. Hiding his own share was merely an extra precaution against the freak circumstance of a hotel robbery.
He cut the lights and went out, locking the room behind him. In fifteen minutes he was again standing before Anita Wymer’s door.
She answered in a matter of seconds, opening the door to the limits of a chain. She peeped out at him with narrowed eyes, her expression wary. There was a glimpse of pale blue negligée.
“Again!” she said sharply. “What do you want now?”
“I thought you were going to a party.”
“There was no party. It was an excuse. And if you don’t tell me what you’re doing here at this hour I’m going to close this door in your face and call the police.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“About Tony Viani.”
There was a taught silence. “Well, I knew you would find out sooner or later. What about Tony?”
“He’s a very bad boy and he’s in trouble.”
“With the police?”
“With me.”
She snorted. “Obviously you haven’t met Tony. You’re a child in the dark aiming a toy gun at a tiger.” She laughed unpleasantly, a chill sound, both mocking and piteous. “You’d better go home, my friend. While you can. Forget about Tony—and Marian. Let the dead bury their dead—know what I mean?”
There was a grim sincerity about her, a frightening undertone of conviction. Suddenly he knew she was right. He should take his money and he should go home and try to forget. But of course he wouldn’t. He was driven by pride and the need to maintain the image of himself as a man.
“Never mind,” he said. “You seem like a pretty decent sort and I thought you might help me. But I‘ll just run along and tell my troubles to the police. They have real guns and sometimes they’re pretty good with tigers, even in the dark. Besides, I have some new light I can throw on Tony for them.”
“What could you possibly tell the police that could hurt Tony?”
“Ahh. Now you’re interested!”
Behind the door she shifted her position and peered at him intently. “I’m only curious. Why should I care what happens to Tony?”
“I‘ve been wondering about that.” He smiled wryly. “Anyway, when Tony falls, you and Marian might just stumble a bit, don’t you think? That is, if you don’t go down with him. God knows what small fish might get caught in the net, innocent or not. Am I beginning to make sense?”
“What do you want from me?” she said after a thoughtful space.
“Just conversation—if you’ll open the door so I can come in and ask a few polite questions.”
“The next time I open this door,” she answered bitterly, “it will be morning and I‘ll be on my way to work and you’d better not be around. I’ve had experience with your ‘polite’ questions.”
He shrugged. “There are other ways. Just trying to save time. Well, see you around. Maybe down at the police station, huh?”
“Wait. Drive two blocks north along the bay,” she commanded. “There’s a bar called The Mast. Take a booth. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
She closed the door firmly.
The Mast was a dim rectangular den, carelessly simulating the interior of an ancient schooner. Tight rows of booths lined the water-view side of the building, and in one of these Warren waited, sipping a Black Russian strong enough to loosen the soles of his shoes by osmosis.
He was turning from the soft flicker of lights across the bay, preparing to order a fresh drink, when Anita appeared. She was wearing a gold-mesh sweater and a silky black hobble skirt. The ensemble clung to the ripe hills and graceful valleys of her lush terrain. She came toward him with brisk, clever little steps that caused her tawny hair to sway rhythmically against her shoulders.
It was as if he saw her for the first time. He was a traveler returning over the same route, astonished that in his earlier distraction he could have missed the delicate beauty of her landscape.
She sat down with the barest hint of a smile, her features abstract, shadowed by the tension of some secret turmoil.
“What is that you’re drinking?” she asked.
“A Black Russian.”
“I’ve never had one.”
“They make them of vodka and a coffee liqueur.”
“Are they strong?”
“Herculean.”
“I’ll try one.”
“A true gambler.” He signaled the waiter to bring two of the same. “You won’t be sorry. It’s not a drink, it’s a sort of creeping paralysis. After the second one you can’t even remember what you’re trying to forget.”
She smiled wanly. “How tall and brave and carefree are the people poured from bottles,” she said. “Alcohol, when it’s done with you, is like a dirty street in harsh sunlight right after an impossibly romantic movie.”
“That’s good,” he said. “That’s very sensitive. I don’t come up with deep comparisons that easily.”
“Neither do I. I put things like that together after a lot of thought in my quiet hours. Then I hurl them out at little games and parties as if they were quick adlibs from a fertile brain.”
“You’ve just revealed your secret,” he said. “Thus your honesty remains intact.”
“Flattery will get you no answers. Not one.”
“Then you do have answers?”
“No comment.”
“If not, why did you come?”
“Well, I…”
The waiter brought the drinks and they were silent until he had gone.
“I came because I don’t want you to go do anything foolish that might endanger—”
“That might endanger who? Me? The little boy in the dark with the toy gun?”
She sipped her drink, her expression neither approving nor disapproving of it. “Well, if I’m going to forgive your acrobatics with me this evening, I really have nothing against you. So I wouldn’t want to see you hurt, naturally. But I don’t know you well enough to care as much about what happens to you as certain others.”
“Marian? Tony?”
“Marian, yes. Tony also. Because what happens to him will affect Marian and—”
“You?”
“I suppose so. Yes, I’m only human. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Then you must be involved.”
“I didn’t say that! I’m no more involved than a man sitting at a lunch counter is involved in an accident which happens outside on the street as he watches through the window. Still, a car out of control could crash through that window, and kill him.”
“Isn’t that about what I said awhile ago? The innocent bystander?”
Her thin smile was vague, detached. He had the feeling that her real personality was not there at all, except in the most mechanical sense.
“Aside from stealing wives,” he said, “and conning them into absconding with hubbies’ bank acount, what kind of racket is lover-boy Viani operating?”
“Who told you he had a racket?”
“Oh, c’mon, Anita, let’s not play games!”
“Well, he’s a bookie, a kind of super bookie. Is that so terrible?”
“Does the modern bookie have a whole arsenal of guns?”
She stared at him blankly.
“Maybe Tony has a sideline—like bank robbing.”
“I don’t know much about Tony,” she answered gravely. “He certainly ran a book. I know several people who placed bets with him—or his runners. Then he left town and I lost track of him. Not so long ago he returned. He gave me a call and I met him for lunch. But he was really interested in Marian and we had very little else in common. Exactly what he does now, I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t talk about his business, and anyone who has nerve enough to ask questions is either stupid or a lot braver than I am.”
