Jamison had explained to Tarnia that his wife was a strict RC and, although he had discussed the possibility of divorce, his wife had flatly refused. She was prepared to have a legal separation, but she would not go against the rules of her church and give him a divorce.
Tarnia understood the problem. She knew that by staying with Jamison there could only be disaster, but she was hooked by him. He had a magnetic pull that was too much for her.
Jamison yearned for her. He wanted her to be his constant companion. What a marvellous mother she would make for his future son!
Tarnia refused gently, but firmly, to sleep with him, and this Jamison respected. He knew, unless he married her, this exciting, clandestine partnership must come, eventually, to an end.
Often they sat together in her luxurious five-room apartment in Paradise City: the big picture window looking down on the sea, the palms and the beach. They talked frankly to each other about themselves. To Jamison, it was a joy to relax in her company and to talk about himself and about her.
He had asked her why she hadn’t married before now. She was thirty years of age. She told him that marriage and a career didn’t mix in her thinking, and Jamison agreed.
‘I’m doing well,’ she had told him. ‘It has been a hard, tough struggle, but I’ve succeeded. I’ve had an occasional affair when I was young… teenage stuff. Now, most of my work is with the gay boys.’ She smiled her brilliant smile. ‘No temptation, until you came along.’
Then two weeks ago, he had a shock. They had finished an excellent dinner at a sea-food restaurant, when Tarnia said, looking lovely in the moonlight, ‘Sherry dear, we must now face facts. This can’t go on. You can’t get a divorce. Every time I see you, I suffer.’ As he began to protest, she raised her hand. ‘Please, listen. This morning I had a telephone call from Guiseppi, the best couturier in Rome. The fashion trend in Rome has enormously increased. Smart, rich women now shop exclusively in Rome. He wants me to be his chief designer. This is a fabulous opportunity. He is offering me an enormous salary and a rent-free apartment if I will go to Rome. He has given me a month to decide.’
Jamison listened, aware that his heart was fluttering uncomfortably.
‘Sherry dear, I can’t go on like this with you,’ Tarnia went on. ‘It is tearing me to pieces. I can’t even concentrate on my work for I keep thinking of you. So, Sherry, please be understanding. We can’t marry, and I must look to my future. I want us to part now. We will have lovely memories, but we must part.’
Jamison had faced many crises in the past, but this one was so unexpected and terrible, for a long moment, he was unable to say anything. Then his hard, ruthless mind moved into action.
‘Of course, I understand,’ he said, his face expressionless. ‘You have a brilliant career before you. Before we make final decisions, there’s one question I would like to ask.’ He leaned forward, looking directly at her and taking her hand. ‘If I were free to marry you, would you be prepared to give up your career, to be the mother of my children, run my homes, go with me on business trips and still remain happy?’
She looked down at their clasped hands for a long moment, then she looked directly at him and smiled.
‘Yes, Sherry. I would give it all up, and be happy with you, and I would love to have your children.’ She pulled her hand away. ‘There it is. It can’t happen, so please, please forget me as I must forget you.’
Jamison nodded.
‘Give me a month,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling that Shannon is becoming more understanding. I think I could still persuade her. Please give me a month.’
‘Sherry, you know you are trying to live in a pipe-dream,’ Tarnia said gently. ‘Pipe-dreams don’t exist. You will not be able to marry me, and I must look after myself. Let’s call it a day.’
‘Will you give me a month?’ Jamison asked, getting to his feet.
She hesitated, then nodded.
‘Yes, a month from today, I leave for Rome.’
‘Agreed.’ He gently touched her face, then left.
As he got into his Rolls, he knew now he had no alternative. He had to arrange to have Shannon murdered.
* * *
Lucky Lucan pulled up outside the offices of the Paradise City Herald. Although it was past 23.30, lights showed. This was the time when the newspaper was put to bed.
On familiar ground, he made his way up to the fifth floor where Sydney Drysdale could be found in a small office at the far end of a long corridor.
Drysdale was the Herald’s gossip columnist. He was a man with his nose and ear to the ground. What he didn’t know about the residents and visitors to the City was not worth knowing about. He had five leg-men feeding him continuous information and his scandal column was eagerly read.
With a brisk rap, Lucan opened the door and entered the office where Drysdale was at his desk, contemplating and using a tooth-pick, satisfied yet another column had been filed, and his thoughts were bent on having dinner, then home.
Many times in the past, Lucan had provided tit-bits of scandal, and the two men had a working arrangement. Drysdale always paid well for any scurrilous information Lucan had to give him.
Drysdale was about sixty years of age, immensely fat, balding, and he reminded Lucan of a big fat slug who had got among the cabbages. Untidily dressed with an open neck shirt, his eyes hidden behind pebble glasses, a dark-veined nose, Drysdale’s appearance belied his importance to the Herald.
‘Hi, Syd,’ Lucan said, closing the door.
With exaggerated care, Drysdale focused on Lucan.
‘Well, for God’s sake! Lucky!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you were in jail.’
Lucan forced a smile. He found Drysdale’s sense of humour irritating.
‘How’s life, Syd?’
‘What have you got for me?’ Drysdale asked. ‘I want to go home.’
Lucan sat down in the visitor’s chair, took out his gold cigarette-case and offered it.
Drysdale was known never to refuse anything. He took a cigarette, looked doubtfully at it and then put it into his desk drawer.
‘I don’t smoke any more,’ he said. ‘That’s a nice case. Who was the old bag who gave it to you?’
‘As if I’d tell you,’ Lucan said with his charming smile. ‘Syd, a favour.’
Drysdale lifted his shaggy eyebrows.
‘No favours,’ he said firmly. ‘If that’s all you want, piss off. I’m hungry.’
‘Would you be interested to learn that a daughter of one of our rich residents is having an abortion this week?’
Drysdale’s fat face brightened. That was the kind of news that fed his column.
‘Tell me more, Lucky,’ he said, settling his bulk back in his desk chair.
‘I said a favour.’
‘Quid pro quo?’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘So what’s the favour?’
‘I want all the dope you have on Sherman Jamison.’
Drysdale, genuinely startled, gaped at him.
‘Sherman Jamison! You must be out of your skull! Now, Lucky, I don’t love you, but you are useful. You start getting snarled up with Jamison, and you are certain to land in the slammer.’
‘Never mind that. I just want a bit of background information. Tell me about him.’
‘Jamison? He’s the big shot of the Jamison Computer Corporation, left him by his father. He’s tough, ruthless and stinking rich. I would never mention his name in my column. He could buy the Herald as you could buy a pack of cigarettes so I leave him strictly alone, as you must. He has a big apartment in New York. A big villa here. He’s on first name terms with the President and all the top shots at the White House. He is very VIP and goddamn dangerous.’
Lucan, who was listening avidly, asked, ‘How rich?’
Drysdale shrugged.
‘Who knows? I would say if you made comparisons, he would make the late Onassis look like peanuts.’
Jesus! Lucan thought, this really is the Big League!
This man had come to him and wanted him to murder his wife! A man worth this kind of money!
‘Tell me about his wife, Syd.’
Again Drysdale gaped at him.
‘His wife? For God’s sake, you’re not planning to screw her, are you? I know your racket, but that would be strictly for the birds, and could get you into a basket of trouble.’
‘Tell me about her,’ Lucan said.
Drysdale shrugged.
‘Shannon Jamison? She’s musical. She runs Jamison’s homes, and she is a strict RC. Not much else to tell you. I doubt if she and Jamison get along. No children. Something always goes wrong when she is pregnant. I do know Jamison is thirsting for a son. She goes to concerts on her own. Jamison is tone-deaf or something.’ Again he shrugged. ‘As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t make news. No scandal. No boyfriend.’
‘Jamison? Does he screw around?’
Drysdale pulled at his short veined nose.
‘If he does, it’s under the rug. I’ve had word he sees a lot of Tarnia Lawrence, the dress-designer. Nice piece of tail. In spite of many opportunities, I can’t find anything against her. She’s a worker and does well.’ Drysdale moved his bulk in his chair. ‘That all you want?’
And plenty, Lucan thought. Lots to think about. He released his charming smile.
‘Fine, Syd. Thanks a lot.’ He got to his feet. ‘I won’t keep you from your dinner,’ and he moved to the door.
‘Hey!’ Drysdale barked. ‘Wait a minute. Who’s the chick who’s having an abortion next week?’
Lucan looked innocently at him.
‘One of dozens, I guess,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I wouldn’t know. ‘Bye now,’ and he was gone.
As Lucan drove back to the Star Motel, his mind was busy.
So a man of Jamison’s wealth and stature wanted to be rid of his wife! He was offering two hundred thousand. Lucan snorted. That was chick-feed. He had been seduced by the thought of having such a sum, but he now realized, if Jamison really meant business, it was going to cost him a lot more. Maybe half a million. Lucan hummed contentedly to himself. Now, that was real money! From what he had learned from Drysdale, Jamison couldn’t divorce his wife, and he most probably had found a new girlfriend. A tough guy like Jamison wouldn’t care what he paid so long as he got his way.
Very VIP and goddamn dangerous, Drysdale had said.
Lucan could believe that. He would have to move cautiously. All the same; by putting such a proposition to him, Jamison could be subjected to subtle blackmail.
Back in his comfortable bedroom at the Star Motel, Lucan took a shower, got into pyjamas and into bed. His mind never ceased to work.
Now, he thought, I have to find a killer. That’s the job Jamison is paying me for.
A lethal accident, Jamison had told him. This has to be utterly foolproof. No police, nothing crude, a convincing lethal accident.
He considered the few professional killers he had run into in NYC. Crude, no finesse. Then he thought of Ernie Kling. He hesitated. Kling was more than a professional. If Lucan was to believe rumours, Kling had murdered at least twenty unwanted people. He seemed to have a magic touch or more likely a brilliant brain for organization. He had no police record. He lived well in a three-room apartment in down-town Washington. Lucan admitted to himself he was nervous of dealing with a man like Kling. He had met him several times in nightclubs in NYC. They had had a Casual drink together. He had sensed Kling’s lethal danger. This man was way out of Lucan’s league, but he could be the best to swing this deal with Jamison.
After hesitating for sometime, Lucan got out of bed, found his address book, found Kling’s telephone number, hesitated again, then put the call through.
* * *
Shannon Jamison said quietly, ‘The doctor assures me we can have a child. The last four attempts were a freak of nature.’
Jamison stared bleakly across the big, luxuriously furnished room. He was half thinking of Tarnia. He had heard this talk from Shannon until he was sick of it.
‘Sorry, Shannon,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘I want a divorce.’
‘But, Sherman, we have gone over this problem again and again.’ There was despair in the melodious voice. ‘This is not possible. Please don’t bring it up again.’
‘I want a divorce and a son!’ Jamison snarled.
‘There is some other woman?’
‘Of course! I want a divorce!’
‘I am so sorry for you, Sherman. You are nearly fifty. So often men of your age look elsewhere. I have been a good wife and hostess. If you want a separation, I will agree, but it is against my religion to be divorced.’
Jamison turned and glared at her.
‘Fuck your religion! I want a divorce!’
Her face white and drawn, Shannon regarded him.
‘I hope and pray you don’t mean what you are saying,’ she said. ‘There can be no divorce. Live with your woman. If you want a legal separation, tell me, but there can be no divorce.’
Jamison continued to glare at her.
‘You mean that?’
‘Sherman, dear, you know I do. Let’s go to bed. We could be successful. Come on, my darling, let’s try.’
Jamison finished his drink and set down the glass with a vicious clink. His thoughts now were only for Tarnia.
‘Bed with you? Get out of my sight! I’ve had enough of this. I want a divorce!’
There was a long pause, then Shannon walked to the door.
‘When you want me to go, tell me,’ she said quietly. ‘I will pray for you.’
Jamison heard the door close softly, then he heard her walk slowly up the stairs.
So vicious was his mood, so frustrated his mind, that he said half aloud, ‘Right, you stupid, religious bitch, you’ve signed your own death-warrant!’
2
Ernie Kling bore such a striking resemblance to the movie actor Lee Marvin, that often, gushing, blushing matrons would stop him on the street and ask him for his autograph.
His reply was always the same: ‘I only autograph checks,’ and, pushing roughly past them, he went on his way.
Kling believed in living in luxury. He had bought a small two bedroom, luxury apartment, down-town Washington, which was his headquarters. He lived like a vicious, hungry tiger, lurking in his lair, waiting for a kill. He had had a long association with the Mafia as an out-of-town hit-man. He would get instructions to go to some city as far as Mexico and Canada, and to waste some man who was being a nuisance. During the years, he had gained a reputation of being utterly professional and reliable. When he did a job, there was no blow-back. The Mafia often steered him to private jobs: a rich woman wanted to get rid of her husband: a rich man wanted to get rid of his blackmailing girlfriend. ‘As a favour, Ernie,’ a voice would say on the telephone.
Kling would never consider a killing under a hundred thousand dollars, plus all expenses, and as his hit jobs averaged three a year, he could afford to live in style.
He spent his money on clothes and in luxury restaurants. Women didn’t interest him. When in need of a woman which was seldom, he made use of a top-class call-girl service. He favoured red-heads, a little overweight, and his treatment of them, as tough as they were, often left them in tears.
Kling had no respect for human life, except his own. Man, woman or child was mere profit to him as long as the price was right.
The black woman who cleaned his apartment, did his laundry and provided dreary lunches made him realize he would have to look elsewhere. He was becoming bored eating out every night. He loved good food, and was one of the fortunates, no matter how much he ate, he never put on weight. He now wanted someone to run his apartment, who was utterly reliable, who wouldn’t listen when he answered the telephone, who didn’t yak when he was relaxing, and would give him decent meals.
Some eighteen months ago, he had encountered Ng Vee, a starving Vietnamese youth, wearing ragged jeans and a filthy sweat-shirt. The youth had implored him for a handout, tell
ing him he hadn’t eaten for three days. Kling happened to be in a mellow mood after an excellent dinner and a lot of Scotch. He liked the look of the youth in spite of his dirt. He was of medium height, thin as a stick with big dark, intelligent eyes. Kling made a snap decision and, looking back, he told himself it was one of the best snap decisions he had ever made.
He took Ng to a scruffy Vietnamese restaurant and watched him eat like a starved wolf. Ng kept glancing at him uneasily, not making anything of this tall, lean, grey-haired man, well dressed, and whose tough personality instantly commanded respect.
After eating several substantial courses of Vietnamese food, Ng slowed down. So far this tall man hadn’t said a word. He smoked, and studied Ng with probing, slate-grey eyes.
Finally, Ng said softly, ‘Excuse me, sir, you are very kind to me, but I am not gay, and I am not on drugs. I just want work.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
Ng’s story was briefly told. His mother was a Vietnamese, his unknown father a sergeant in the US army who disappeared when Ng’s mother became pregnant. She had made a tiny living selling hot snacks in the Saigon streets. Finally she decided to join the flood of refugees going to the States. By then Ng was sixteen. He had had a certain amount of education and had been fortunate to have been helped by an American RC priest who had taught him to read and write in English. Ng was a bright student, and he had slaved to improve himself. Both his mother and he hoped all would be well when they arrived in the States, but they found the going desperately hard. His mother got a lowly paid job in a Vietnamese laundry. Ng had searched and searched for work, but no one wanted him. After a year of this misery with his mother slaving to feed them both and pay the rent of the one room they had been lucky to find, Ng realized what a hopeless, useless burden he was to his mother, seeing her beginning to starve because she was also feeding him. He knew she would be better off without him. Without telling her, he took to the streets. This was now the third day of his desperate hunt for a job, no matter how menial, and without success. He felt, in misery, he had come to the end of his road.
Not My Thing Page 2
