The Mark of Cain

by William J. Coughlin

  “I said that is Eddy!” Johnson tried to pull away from Cain’s restraining hand and was surprised that he could not. “Let me go, Cain,” he said between clenched teeth.

  Cain ignored him, his eyes on the two struggling figures in the street. “Relax, I just want to see how well your boy can handle himself.”

  “Goddamn you!” Johnson tried to turn and strike Cain with his free hand, but Cain’s fingers bit deeply into the flesh of his arm, pressing a nerve. Johnson jerked helplessly up on his toes.

  “I said that you should take it easy.” Cain’s voice was low and soft, but the tone had steel in it. Johnson recognized the tone as dangerous and real.

  The two dark figures had separated and were circling each other. Cain could see their hands held no weapons.

  The larger man lunged at Eddy, who awkwardly sidestepped, catching a part of the blow on his shoulder. Eddy swung hard, and his fist landed hard in the kidney area of the big man’s back.

  “Not bad,” Cain said softly.

  The larger man was strong and quick, but Eddy was more agile. He managed to avoid most of the heavy blows, returning several hard punches. But none seemed to have any lasting effect on the larger man.

  As the fight progressed, Cain led Johnson slowly through the shadows toward the two combatants.

  The larger man was cursing loudly as he gasped for breath. Eddy kept moving in and out, avoiding the roundhouse swings of his opponent.

  Suddenly the big man reached into a pocket, drew out a switchblade knife, and snapped it open. He advanced slowly toward Eddy, who seemed hypnotized by the sight of the glittering blade. Eddy stumbled backward, his hands held out in front of him in a graceless gesture of defense.

  The man with the knife moved deliberately, the blade cutting little circles in the air as he advanced.

  “Oh, Jesus, help him, Cain.” Johnson’s voice carried the panic he felt.

  “Wait here. Don’t move, you understand?” Cain’s voice was calm, but it nevertheless was a stern command.

  Johnson watched as Cain seemed to float through the shadows until he was up to the fighters. He stepped out of the shadow, coming up swiftly behind the big man. Cain swung hard, his fist smashing into the man’s lower back. The man straightened up as if he had been pulled erect by a rope, a gasp of pain escaping his lips. Cain’s whole body snapped into a punch that landed on the man’s neck, just below his ear. There was no sound except for the thud as the man’s large body slammed into the pavement. He lay there quietly, his arms and legs twitching.

  Johnson ran up to them. “Eddy, are you all right?”

  The small man nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks; small silent rivers revealing his fear. His wide eyes were on Cain. He said nothing, but his expression revealed his gratitude.

  “What the hell was this all about?” Cain asked.

  “Eddy have a drink,” the little man said, having trouble as usual, trying to form the words. “Pay for drink, just like always. Big man says Eddy didn’t pay. Try to cheat. I walk out. He … he was going to beat me up, so I run.” Eddy trembled.

  “Go back to the boat,” Johnson said softly to Eddy. “Soldier is there. You won’t have any more trouble.”

  Eddy nodded, stole another grateful look at Cain, and then ran off quickly.

  “What do we do about him?” Johnson asked, nodding down at the unconscious man.

  Cain said nothing. He bent over, picked up the switchblade, and hurled it high into the air. They heard the faint splash as it landed far out in the dark water.

  Cain pulled one of the man’s heavy arms above his head, exposing his side. Then he stood up and delivered a sharp kick into the man’s side. The sound made Johnson’s stomach turn.

  “My God, why did you do that?”

  Cain looked down at the unconscious form. “I broke his ribs. That will give him something to think about. Perhaps he’ll hesitate the next time he’s tempted to cheat some poor unfortunate like Eddy.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell the police?”

  Cain looked at him for a moment before replying. “That would only mean trouble—statements, charges and countercharges, that sort of thing. We don’t need any trouble right now.” He smiled faintly. “Come on. I want to take a look at that casino.”

  Johnson followed him. He wondered what Cain might have done if he hadn’t been along as a witness. He wondered if those wild stories he had heard about Cain and his people might prove true after all.

  “Come on,” Cain said, looking back at him. “We’ve got work to do.”

  FIVE

  There were only three black bars on the island, and Slick had made quite a splash at each place. He had flirted with all the women, both pretty and ugly. He had pranced and danced with them all in high style. His loose and wild spending had purchased him instant friendship; companions who laughed at all his jokes, who formed a cheering section for his antics—at least as long as he paid for their drinks. He was the picture of a man who had had too much to drink and who would continue on his foolish ways until he passed out or his money disappeared. But it was only a charade. Although Slick had consumed an enormous amount of rum, he had kept cold control of himself, not allowing the alcohol to dull his senses. It was an art, this ability to control, and he had used it at other times when his life depended on his ability to have a clear mind. He used it now.

  Harry’s Place was the last, and the worst, of the three saloons. There were no working people here, only the other kind: the men and women who lived by their wits or their bodies, whichever commodity happened to sell best. Slick knew a number of watchful eyes followed his wallet each time he paid for a round of drinks. He made a mental note to be especially careful since a few of the patrons looked exceedingly greedy. He reminded himself he was after information, not holdup men.

  “Lover,” the woman on his right said as she snuggled close to him, “when do you have to leave?” Her dark eyes almost seemed to glitter in the half-light of the bar.

  Slick grinned down at her, his eyes on the deep cleavage displayed by her low-cut dress. “Woman, I’ve got all night, all night, just for you and me.” He snaked his arm around her and squeezed her to him.

  She giggled, but the sound seemed a bit forced to Slick. She blinked her eyes at him. “I like what you say about tonight, honey,” she said, “but I mean when are you goin’ to sail away on that big boat of yours?”

  Slick’s grin grew even wider. The evening had not been wasted after all. For hours he had hoped someone would show some interest in their boat and their schedule. It could mean he had finally stumbled onto something. “I guess we’ll be around this island for a day or two yet. I goes when they goes, honey.”

  She sat up, pulling away from him. She patted the blond wig she wore. Slick noticed that a quiet man at the bar had been watching ever since the woman had joined him at the table.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of working for them?” Her voice sounded harsh and bitter.

  “Huh?”

  “Those white men,” she said. “Hell, I wouldn’t lower myself to sniffing around those white pigs just to make eating money.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No.” She paused, looking away from Slick. “My mother and father slaved away their whole lives just taking care of a few miserable ungrateful white bastards.”

  Slick sipped at his rum drink. His eyes twinkled as he studied the girl. “Honey, since there ain’t no industry on this here island, and since only rich white folks provide the only employment, what is it you do for a living?” Again he reached for her.

  She pulled away from his grasp. “I do all right,” she said sharply. “I make a dollar here and there.” She stopped and looked at his laughing eyes. “And it isn’t from what you’re thinking, either.”

  He leered at her. “You’re pretty enough.”

  She glanced over at the bar, her eyes locking with those of the watching man, but only for an instant. Slick had seen the silent interchange. Suddenly
her manner was easier. She slid over close to him. “I’m sorry,” she said, batting her eyes up at him. “I suppose it isn’t too bad. After all, you only have those four men to look after, right?”

  Slick felt happy, much like a fisherman who feels that first tug on his line. Whoever she worked for had gone to the trouble of counting the men on their boat. “Actually I’ve got it even better than that,” Slick said. “I work for only one man, my boss, Mr. Cain. The other man is a guest. I just look after them. The other two are crewmen; they take care of themselves.”

  She seemed to be studying him. “But you still have to do all the dirty jobs; the laundry and the cooking.”

  Slick let his fingers play with the flesh of her soft warm shoulder. “It isn’t the worst life in the world. I take care of the two rich men and once in a while I do a bit of cooking for the crew, but they take me fishing. It sort of evens out.” He snapped his fingers as he signaled for another round of drinks.

  “Well, at least they must pay you pretty well,” she said as he pulled out some bills.

  “I get by.”

  He felt her hand softly rubbing his leg under the table. Her large eyes looked up at him. “That boat you live on,” she said, “it must be very fast.”

  He chuckled. “Fast as hell. Faster than most boats that size, at least that’s what they tell me. Hell, woman, half that boat is all motor. Biggest damn things you ever seen. And it sounds like an earthquake when they really open them babies up. It’s kind of scary until you gets used to it.”

  She made an idle design in the wetness of the tabletop with her fingertip. “What do you need a fast boat like that for if you’re only going fishing?”

  He laughed. She was quickly getting down to business. “My boss is scared of storms. He don’t want to get caught out in the middle of the ocean if something starts blowing. He’s got him a fast boat in case we have to get to shore in a hurry.” Slick’s fingers slid over the top of her shoulder. “I sort of agree with that kind of thinking, to tell you the truth.”

  She wiggled a bit closer to him. “A boat like that must waste a lot of fuel.”

  “Maybe. But we’ve plenty to waste. They tell me that thing can go almost a thousand miles before refueling. What do you think about that?” Her hand, concealed beneath their table, became more bold as if encouraging him to continue talking.

  “Do you have any guns aboard your boat?”

  Slick grinned down at her. “Baby, I said we was going fishing, not hunting.” The others at the table laughed as if he had just told an enormously funny joke.

  “Some people carry a gun to shoot the big fish they catch so they are safe to bring on board.” Slick noticed that her eyes were on the man at the bar. “Besides there are always sharks. Smart people take a gun along.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No.”

  He shook his head slowly, making sure his expression was solemn. “Maybe I better tell my boss about that. We don’t have a gun. You may be right. I never thought about the sharks.”

  She squeezed his thigh. “Excuse me, honey, but I’ve got to visit the little girls’ room.” She slid away from him and sensuously swung her way toward the rest rooms at the rear of the dingy club. Slick watched her go, appreciating the accentuated movements of her body which he knew were all for his benefit. It seemed sad to him that so young a girl was involved in this murderous business. And pretty too. He shook his head. It was a shame.

  The man at the bar gestured and called to her, a bit too loudly, as she passed. She turned and kissed him on the cheek. Just the picture of two old friends meeting for a casual moment. She spoke with him for a minute and then continued on to the rest room. Slick knew she had just reported the progress she was making. Slick hoped that luck was with him and that she had been instructed to keep working on him for further information.

  Slick laughed to himself. He knew how far she would have to go to pry out all his little “secrets.” It was becoming an even more interesting evening than he had hoped.

  *

  Cain stood behind Johnson’s chair and watched him play blackjack. The other players were leather-skinned boatmen, lean and weatherworn, their rough faces out of place in contrast to the formal jackets they wore. The dealer facing them seemed like a mechanical robot, showing no emotion on his smooth tanned face as he snapped the card that made or broke the player. His hands were soft, his long fingers supple and graceful. He looked like something that ran on batteries.

  Johnson had no card sense. He lacked the skilled experience of a veteran blackjack player. Cain knew Johnson would soon lose all the chips Cain had provided for him. The boatman played wildly, never holding to a safe hand but always trying to better it. It was a fool’s tactic, and the chips were melting away.

  The casino was crowded with people clustered around the gaming tables, their complete attention riveted on the action in front of them. There was a tension in the place, as if the concentration of the players produced some sort of mild electrical effect. Cain had observed the same sort of tension in every gambling club he had ever visited, be it London or Las Vegas. People talked in lowered tones as if they were in a cathedral. Only occasionally would someone whoop, and that person was almost always a woman who had just won big. The others always frowned at such outbursts.

  Gambling meant nothing to Cain; it had never been one of his vices. Cain knew the odds favored the house, and if you played often enough, without the element of cheating on either side, you had to lose. There was really no element of chance in it, so gaming held no fascination for him.

  “Cain.”

  He turned and looked at the man who had called him by name.

  “Hello, Cain.”

  “Hello, Finzanno.” Finzanno had changed, but Cain recognized him instantly. The gunman had put on a mound of weight over his large, muscular frame, but the basic physical power of the man was still evident. His cheeks were a bit puffy, but he was still handsome in a rugged way. Cain noticed that his dark wavy hair was flecked with gray.

  “Please come with me, Cain.” Finzanno was dressed in the old-style black tuxedo that was the uniform of the casino employees. He led Cain past several other tuxedo-clad men to a row of offices in a long corridor set away from the casino’s main floor.

  Finzanno ushered Cain into a large, expensively decorated office. A mountainous man stood up behind a long low-slung desk. The man was well over six feet tall, and Cain guessed that he weighed over four hundred pounds.

  “You are Mr. Cain, I believe,” the man said, the flesh below his chin quivering slightly from the effort of speech.

  “I’m Cain.”

  “Allow me, Princess, to present Mr. Cain.” The fat man smiled at a tawny woman curled up on a long leather couch. Her feline eyes regarded Cain much as a cat might watch a wounded bird. She wore a shimmering green gown which exposed most of her upper body.

  “This is the Princess Louise,” the fat man said. “She is a guest of mine.”

  Cain nodded toward the woman. She made no gesture in return.

  “My name is Van Pelt. I am the manager of this casino. Mr. Finzanno informed me you were here. I understand you and he are old friends from the United States.”

  “Business acquaintances,” Cain corrected him.

  The man laughed almost soundlessly. His large head was entirely bald except for a crest of thin brown hair at the top of his skull. “Please sit down, Mr. Cain. Can I offer you anything, a brandy perhaps?”

  “No thank you.” Cain was conscious of the woman’s eyes. She stared at him. She was young and yet Cain sensed evil in her; there was something about her—perhaps her makeup—that suggested decadence.

  Van Pelt eased his huge form back into his throne-like leather chair. He waved Finzanno to a chair at the back of the office. “Mr. Cain, I most sincerely hope you will not take offense at what I am about to say. We are licensed by the island government here, and they are very touchy about some things. We have to be extremely c
areful about our customers. The government is terrified that any adverse publicity might damage the tourist trade, you see. Therefore they insist that this casino must always avoid even the possibility of trouble. We really cannot entertain anyone who has a—how shall I put this?—a questionable reputation. Do you understand me?”

  “I think so.”

  Van Pelt pursed his thick lips for a moment before continuing. “As I understand it, you were formerly a police officer back in the United States?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you had, I am told, a little trouble?”

  Cain glanced at Finzanno. The gunman’s face was masklike, as if his features had been sculpted out of wax without regard for feeling or expression. Cain looked at Van Pelt. “It wasn’t a little trouble,” he said. “It was a great deal of trouble. Although I fail to see how any of this is your business.”

  Van Pelt padded his fat fingertips together nervously. “Ordinarily, you would be absolutely right, Mr. Cain; it would indeed be none of our business. However, the government insists that we bar from admittance here anyone who is, well, notorious, or at least has a controversial reputation.”

  “Do I understand that I am being thrown out?”

  Van Pelt smiled. “I suppose that is one way of describing it, but I think our methods are a bit more civil than that.”

  “No trouble, Cain,” Finzanno said softly, although he made no motion of any kind.

  “There will be no trouble,” Cain said. “But just for the record, Mr. Van Pelt, I was convicted of murder. The conviction was overturned on appeal. The prosecutor agreed to go no further with the matter.”

  “Yes, I was told that,” Van Pelt said, clearing his throat. “But I understand, Mr. Cain, that since that time you have been employed by the Zinner Oil Company, and that you have been involved in several … well … incidents. Is that correct?”

  “I am an employee of the Zinner Company’s security department.”