The Faster She Runs

by Robert Colby

  For a moment the night faded into deeper darkness, then cleared again just as Tony’s other fist was held aloft for that precise delivery that would end the fight and probably’ Warren’s life.

  Warren rolled desperately, swung his arm over his head and took the pounding on his shoulder. Now he rolled back again, at the same time arching his fist upward and catching Tony squarely on the Adam’s apple. Viani choked, grasped his throat. Warren bounced up, blood pouring into his left eye, blinding him. Tony was barely standing when he clobbered him down again with such tremendous drive that he felt the bones of his knuckles splinter.

  Viani gurgled, spitting teeth and red drool. He seemed to understand neither pain nor fear, for he was up again instantly, his eyes wildly dilated with fury. Head down, he bulled forward. Warren stepped aside and chopped his ear. Tony weaved, but continued his course, gaining speed.

  Too late, Warren saw that he was making for the guns which lay a few feet beyond. Tony fell upon them, got his fingers around the automatic and whirled. He took aim and fired at Warren’s plunging figure. The shot barked at the night, breaking its silence into echoing fragments. Warren hardly felt the bullet sear his hip. He was already launching his foot for the kick when the second shot blasted from the muzzle, thrusting a thin finger of yellow-orange flame toward the sky two inches left of Warren’s head.

  Shoe leather and flesh came together with a meaty sound. Viani fell backward like a stone. For seconds, as Warren took the gun from his limp hand, he lay in a crimson wash of his own blood. Then, astonishingly, he began to hoist himself agonizingly to a sitting, then a kneeling position. Apparently unable to stand, he looked up at Warren, his battered grotesque face slashed by an obscene, blood-smeared grin.

  “You—you wait,” he said moistly. “You got twenty-four hours. Then I’m gonna kill ya. Last—last thing I ever do, I’m gonna hunt ya down and watch you die!”

  Abruptly he stood, stumbled toward Warren, his chest heaving, sinewy biceps bulging from the fragments of his sport shirt. He lunged a big ham at Warren, the blow powerful but inept. Warren dodged it easily. Then Viani stood gasping, his eyes fogged and staring.

  “Oh, you poor dumb bastard,” Warren murmured. “So long, lover-boy.” And with that he cocked his fist, measured the target with his good eye, and buckled Tony’s nose with a sickening wham that toppled him slowly backward until he fell in a thumping heap of oblivion.

  For a few moments Warren leaned over Viani, staring down at the wreck of his features. Then he worked his mouth and spat carefully in Tony’s face.

  He scooped the weapons from the ground and walked wearily back to the Chevy. He climbed in and wound the motor to life.

  For a time he sat contemplating the fallen body of Tony Viani. Not bad for a city boy, he thought. Not bad at all for a desk-jockey.

  Aloud, he said, “Round two, Marian. There’s a little present for you. I’ll be seein’ you, honey.”

  Then he backed and gunned away into the morning.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  That afternoon, with Miami newspapers on the stands headlining the Food Thrift bomb extortion, Marian Emrick placed a casual call to Anita Wymer at her office.

  “Just wanted to know how you were getting along, sweetie,” said Marian. “We missed you last night—had a wing-ding ’til all hours—champagne, floor show—the works.”

  “Yes, I heard all about it from Tony,” said Anita. “Well, maybe next time.” Anita sounded pleasant though somehow remote.

  “Sure,” replied Marian brightly. “Just give us a few days and we’ll plan something special.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay then…listen, Marian, I’m going to have to run. All hell has broken loose and I’m rather tied up at the moment.”

  “Oh? That’s too bad, dear. Anything wrong?”

  “Wrong! Didn’t you read the newspapers?”

  “The papers? Why, no. We got home so late, we’ve been sleeping all day. Now you’ve got me curious. Can’t you tell me in one big breathless sentence?”

  Anita explained briefly what Marian knew all too well.

  “Dear God, what a mess!” Marian exclaimed, winking at Tony who lay supine on the couch listening, his face a patchwork of bandages. “How perfectly awful, Anita! Well, they certainly aren’t going to let those—those gangsters get away with it, are they?”

  “No, of course not,” Anita answered. “Mr. Carling says that Mr. Stienmetz—he’s the president—is absolutely determined to catch those filthy bombers if it takes him a year and every cent he has. It’s a matter of pride with him, you know. The police are on it and Mr. Stienmetz has hired private investigators, too.”

  “I see, I see. How very exciting to be right there on the spot, darling! No use to read the newspapers when you know so much more than they do.” Again she winked broadly at Tony. “Now I won’t hold you another minute but I just have to know. Are they actually going to be so stupid as to pay those dirty swindlers that money?”

  “Marian, what else can we do?” said Anita possessively, speaking now as one flattered by this small limelight of attention. “It’s a very dangerous situation,” she went on, apparently having forgotten all about being in haste to get back to her work. “If we don’t pay they could blow up another store—perhaps in broad daylight with customers shopping. And that would be the end, the living end, you know. We’d have no choice but to close down.”

  “Well, I just hate to see them get away with it!” said Marian indignantly. “Isn’t there some way those monsters can be trapped? I mean, when they try to collect the money couldn’t you people nail them then?”

  “Not then,” said Anita. “It’s very complicated and I haven’t time to explain. But we’ll catch the criminals because we’ll have police following their contact man, and then when he tries to deliver—oh, Lord, here comes Mr. Carling!” she said in a near whisper. “Have to go now, Marian.”

  “Phone you tomorrow, dear.”

  “Bye,” said Anita, and cut the connection.

  “Well…?” Tony growled.

  “It looks good, Tony. They’re going to pay. But they’re going to tail our boy and try to nab us that way.”

  “Huh? Fat chance! I’m way ahead of them. What else?”

  “Nothing important. Stienmetz is in an uproar and he’s hiring private detectives to work on us, too.”

  “That’s funny. Any other jokes? What’s with the little pigeon? She sound suspicious?”

  “Oh, she swallowed the bait beautifully. She would have gushed another ten minutes but her boss came and she had to hang up.”

  Tony nodded sagely, dragged on his cigarette and pondered. His swollen, disordered face seemed to have been taken apart and put back together with careless attention. His eyes appeared lost in puffy enclosures of red-purple flesh.

  He glanced painfully at his watch. “Okay,” he said. “Another half-hour and I’l make a call. We’ll set this grab in motion. We should have it wrapped up by ten tonight.”

  Marian crossed to hover above him anxiously. “Oh, dear,” she groaned. “You do look frightfully uncomfortable. What a cruel thing! That horrible animal. I told you Warren was a brute and you shouldn’t underestimate him. How did I ever stand him?” She reached down and stroked Tony’s head. “May I get you something, darling? Coffee? A drink?”

  He brushed her hand aside and gave her a backward shove. “Take off, you bitch! Go see what you can do for Lubeck or Rosen. Yeah, they might want a little service, too, and you’re just the one to service ’em. Eh, baby?”

  “Tony, how can you say such things? Oh, Tony, why do you do this to me? Don’t you love me any more?”

  But Tony wasn’t listening. He smoked silently, examining some invisible plan which apparently outlined itself across the face of the ceiling.

  Watching him, Marian began to cry softly. Suddenly she turned and fled from the room.

  Precisely at seven that same evening a taxi entered the gates of a great, white cream puff of a mansion on the oce
an at Miami Beach. The taxi circled the drive and paused at the door.

  The cab was empty and after a few moments, during which the cabby gazed with curiosity at the magnificence around him, he alighted and jabbed a finger at the bell button. He did not notice the man who peered from the shrub-thick darkness beside the dwelling and who signaled to someone unseen behind him.

  The door was opened immediately by a slight, gray-haired little man who wore out-sized, horn-rimmed glasses which seemed to intimidate his small features. His was the mild, studiously abstract face of the stereotype bookkeeper, hunched from a lifetime of self-effacing devotion to his musty ledgers.

  “Uh, I’m supposed to ask for a Mr. Stienmetz,” said the cabby.

  “You’re talking to him!” snapped the man with a brisk authority.

  “Mr. David Stienmetz?” asked the cabby, who had been certain that he was being screened by a factotum of some sort.

  “Well, what is it you want?” Stienmetz asked.

  The driver screwed up his face, prodding his memory for an answer. “Uh—my name is Speedy and Mr. Greengold sent me for the samples.” He chuckled, shifted his weight and looked embarrassed. “That’s what I’m supposed to tell ya, anyway.”

  “I know all that,” said Stienmetz irritably. “Now what is your real name?”

  “Well, sir, people just call me Buck. But it’s Buckmaster, Henry Buckmaster.”

  “And how long have you been driving a cab for your present employers, Mr. Buckmaster?”

  “Ahhh, lemme see…” Buckmaster consulted the stars for an answer. “’Bout twelve years now. Yeah, it’s twelve because I remember when—”

  “I have no time for nostalgic reflections,” said Stienmetz. “Who sent you on this errand?”

  “This Mr. Greengold, like I tole ya. Ain’t he a friend of yours?”

  “You met the man?”

  “No, sir. The call came over the radio. Dispatcher says, come out here, give you the message and pick up a brief case.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m supposed to hold on to it until this Greengold calls in and tells me where to bring it. I thought it was a joke, but this man is supposed to gimme fifty bucks tip when he gets the case. Now that kinda dough I take serious.”

  “Go back to your cab then, Buckmaster. I’ll bring the brief case out to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stienmetz returned in a minute carrying a large, bulging brief case. The case was new and made of a rich tan leather. Concealed in a specially constructed pouch within the case was a tiny radio signaling device by means of which the progress of the brief case could be determined a mile away.

  Stienmetz leaned in the cab window and offered up the case. “Now I want you to guard these—uh—samples carefully, Buckmaster. They have no cash value, you understand, but they can’t be replaced. Don’t let them out of your sight until delivery. I’m going to hold you personally responsible.”

  “Yes, sir. You can rest easy. They’re in good hands.”

  Stienmetz flipped a ten dollar bill from his wallet and passed it to the cabby.

  “Thank you, sir. Thanks very much! I’ll take care of it, you bet!” He touched his cap and shifted into gear.

  “Just a moment,” said Stienmetz. He leaned inside the rear of the cab and studied the driver’s framed photo. Then he peered into Buckmaster’s face. “All right,” he said gravely. “You can go now.”

  Stienmetz watched the tail lights of the taxi fade around the drive and vanish.

  Instantly two men came trotting from the shadows to stand beside him.

  “Got the license number, sir,” said one. “It’s a genuine hack all right.”

  “The driver is either a pawn or the world’s best actor,” Stienmetz observed. “Is everything set?”

  “Yes, sir. The first tail will pick him up about a block away. The next in half a mile, and so on, in relays.”

  “Good,” Stienmetz replied. “You boys have a lot going for you. I don’t see how we can miss. With that radio gadget to home in on, the slimy bastards won’t get far.” He walked away toward the house. “Keep me informed, will you?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir. Sure will.”

  “I’m not going to close my eyes until they’re caught, so don’t hesitate to call me at any hour.”

  “That’s a promise, Mr. Stienmetz.”

  “Bombs,” he said. “Atom bombs and homemade bombs. A bomb for every occasion. What kind of a world is this?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned and went into the house.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Anita Wymer came out of the kitchen with the cocktail shaker and sank down next to Warren on the sofa. She poured another round of Black Russians.

  “That’s four,” she said. “And that’s plenty. Really, I think I should fix dinner. I’m beginning to feel just a wee bit stoned.”

  Warren knew it was true, and he was secretly amused. He lifted his glass and drank. “I don’t recommend these on an empty stomach. But they do stimulate the appetite, while promoting cordial relationships all over the place.”

  “I’ll go whip something together,” said Anita, starting to rise.

  Warren withstrained her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder, allowing it to drift over her back caressingly. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’m not very hungry for food. Maybe a little later.”

  “Warren,” she said with mock severity, “when a person speaks of appetite, I usually assume they are referring to food.”

  Warren grinned. “Appetite is a broad word,” he suggested, his arm circling her shoulders.

  “I think loose word is a better description,” Anita returned, fixing him with a scolding eye, though her lips twitched with the need to laugh. “Yes, you’re becoming a loose character, Warren. The Russian influence is not good for you at all. You must confine yourself to the straight-thinking, square-shooting purity of the American martini.”

  “True,” said Warren, “but it was your idea to go Russian. Remember?”

  “I was tempted by the promise of the one we had last night.”

  Her expression altered, she inspected the ugly purple welt on his forehead. “Does it still hurt?” she asked.

  “Not much. Not any more than that lead burn I’ve got on my hip. Nothing, really.” He glanced at his free hand, the bandaged one. He examined it. “Now this I can feel. I think I broke a knuckle or two on that ape’s skull.”

  “Warren, listen to me. That man is going to find you and kill you! I know him. Oh, why did you have to fight him? You should have taken the whole thing to the police.”

  “Money isn’t a crime, even in trunk loads. I need something more. Besides, that fight was a kind of medicine. Every time this hand stabs me with a little pain, I feel better. I feel whole again. I feel almost clean. The pain reminds me that Tony Viani is nursing his wounds somewhere and he’s one sorry sonofabitch who won’t ever forget.”

  Anita gulped her drink, then put down her glass. “It’s going on seven-thirty. Why do we just sit here, pretending to relax? We should be doing something!”

  “I know,” said Warren with a twisted smile. He bent and kissed her—lightly, with the intention of exploring her mood. But she responded immediately with parted lips and searching tongue. Her arm swept around him, her hand pressed the back of his neck, stroking with electric fingers.

  With his good hand he slowly unfastened the buttons of her blouse, spreading it open. She helped him with the bra, her breath coming in tight little gasps. His lips followed the long rising swell of one tremulous breast, found its crest and lingered there.

  He reached for her skirt and slowly hauled it back until the V formed by lush, stockinged legs and rich, soft thighs was revealed to the apex, nestled in sheer, pink panties.

  Abruptly she stood, buttoning her blouse, smoothing her skirt. She lighted a cigarette with a trembling hand, inhaled deeply and crossed to a window. She parted the drape and for a moment stared tho
ughtfully out into the night.

  She turned. “Please don’t misunderstand, Warren. I’m no prude. I want to make love to you. In all honesty I—I need just that kind of sensual oblivion right now. And I hardly ever meet a man I would be willing to—” She caught her breath. “But Warren, I just can’t! Don’t you see? I’m so tense, so frightened. This crazy thing at the office, the threat of Tony—and Randy involved in God knows what. It’s simply a matter of bad timing.”

  “Don’t apologize,” said Warren. “I knew about the timing, but I got carried away.”

  She returned to the sofa and plucked her glass from the table. “Oh, hell—let’s have another of these Russian bombs!”

  “We’re all but bombed out,” Warren objected.

  She gave him a baleful look. “Bomb is a lousy word tonight. My boss is practically sitting on one.”

  Warren studied her in silence, pursing his lips. He got up and paced the room. “When I read the bomb story in the papers, Anita, there was a little offbeat tune running around in my head, but I couldn’t get the words. Then, when you told me that Marian called, full of curiosity, I heard it again.”

  “What tune? Is this a riddle?”

  “Just a way of saying that I’m looking for the words to a very dirty song entitled extortion. Do you believe in coincidence?”

  Anita considered. “Yes, to a degree.”

  “But a fantastic coincidence is so rare as to be unlikely—correct?”

  “Correct. What’re you driving at?”

  “Did you know that just before Marian left Proctor Drugs her company was taken in the same kind of bomb racket?”

  “No! She never said a word!”

  “Well, that makes it even more suspicious. Now she’s down here cozying up to you and suddenly one of your Food Thrift markets is blown to bits and the play is on again.”

  “Do you really think…?”

  “Yes, I really think. For instance, I think that you have another unlikely coincidence when you find a quarter million in Tony’s suitcase, because that’s exactly how much it cost Proctor to pay off the extortioners.”