Читать книгу The Scheme of Things - Lester Del Rey - Страница 8

CHAPTER 3

Mike got home just as the phone rang. He picked it up. A guarded voice said, “I got it.”

Mike was surprised. He hadn’t expected the operation to go so smoothly. “Okay. What’s holding you up?”

“I called. You weren’t home. I didn’t want to stand around in front of your place with no satchel in my mitt.”

“I’m home now,” Mike snapped, and broke the connection.

He scowled at the phone for a moment and then went out on the patio and scowled at the vast city spread out before him. From thirty floors up, the people looked like tiny dolls moving along the streets.

The view from his patio was always a source of satisfaction to Mike. It was symbolical of his rise. “A floor at a time—the hard way,” he’d told Lorry the first time she’d looked down from his luxurious suite. “Up here with the eagles, kid.”

Lorry had been properly adoring and Mike liked that. She’d been another of his conquests. Well, not a conquest exactly. She’d tipped over into his arms like a wobbly ten pin. Lorry was the crowning luxury that went with his position and his success.

But at the moment, he wasn’t thinking about Lorry. He was filled with the tension and the excitement of the things of the moment—the deal. Two hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money to move safely. It was Mike’s job to take it in and see that various shares got into the right hands.

For all his confident image and the sure, smooth manner in which he worked, Mike ran scared in the maneuvers. He was noted in his circle for the complex arrangements he could create and execute. The secret of success as a fixer was to complicate the payoffs to a point where “all the snoopers ever smack into is a lot of brick walls.”

That had been the compliment accorded him from higher up. Nobody worried when he was handling grease job.

But he never let down; never got cocky; never became contemptuous of the jerks who would make such headlines as:

$200,000 GRAFT UNCOVERED IN MUNICIPAL CONSTRUCTION

Or:

BRIBE SUSPECTS INDICTED BY BLUE RIBBON GRAND JURY

One fumble like that and a man was through in this touchy game.

Over a scotch and a quiet cigarette, Mike reviewed the devious sequences through which he’d nursed this one. Then he went to the phone and dialed a number. A female voice answered.

“Tell Frank his car’s been oiled and greased.”

The voice was cool and showed no surprise. “Fine. When can we pick it up?”

“Right away if you want it. Who’s coming?”

“I am,” the cool voice stated.

“You?”

“Why not? I drive very well.”

“I’ll have it outside waiting,” Mike said, and there was a faint uneasiness in his tone.

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll come straight to the garage”

“I could have it delivered.”

“What’s the matter?” the voice mocked. “Is the garage crowded?”

“It’s empty.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

As he put the phone down, the door bell burped discreetly and when he opened it an inoffensive little man who might have been an underpaid bookkeeper pushed a canvas airline zipper bag at him. He took the bag and closed the door.

After bolting the door, he unzipped the bag and found everything all right. The bag contained green money banded into $5,000 bundles. He counted the bundles and found them correct.

But as he worked, the annoyance generated by the phone call increased. Big Frank had become a danger because he had woman trouble and of all the diseases that could land you behind bars, none was more dangerous than that. He was gone on Fay to a point where he’d let her in on his affairs.

Care in selecting women was one of his own first rules. Lorry was beautiful, luscious, in every way satisfactory as a female. But, and this above all, monumentally stupid:

“Darling! How did you make the money that made all this possible?”

“I inherited some money from my father and I was lucky. I now own a small investment business.”

And he was covered, too; a modest office in the financial district—Intercontinental Investments—that so far as legality was concerned, passed all tests.

But Big Frank was stupid, with the situation made doubly dangerous by Fay’s predatory instincts. Lorry was a challenge to Fay. This put him in a potentially dangerous position with Big Frank. If Fay ever hinted at a non-existent affair between them, Big Frank would have him crippled some dark night.

What angered him was the crudity of the thing. Pure cornball. But then, in this racket, you dealt with cornball people; elemental; the types long on emotion and muscle and short on judgment and brains.

He glanced at his watch after dividing the money, and made another phone call. A man answered this time:

“Barney’s Pet Shop.”

“I’d like to get my French poodle clipped.”

“Sorry. We’re all booked up for the rest of the week.”

“But he needs attention. He crawled under a car and got all greasy.”

“Oh. Well, I guess we can take care of him.”

“Can you pick him up?”

“Sure. When?”

“I’ll have him ready in an hour.”

“We’ll be there.”

“Who’ll come?”

“He’ll have a uniform on.”

“Okay.”

He broke the connection and went to the closet with the false wall behind which there were various types of containers. He selected a hat box with a French name on it and put a silly-looking hat into it. He took out the box and also a small animal carrier and took them into the living room. There, he stacked packets of money under the false bottoms of both containers and then put them back behind the wall in the closet. Both containers would be moved out shortly, so putting them back into their place of concealment may have seemed overcautious. But he believed in being overcautious. It would be stupid to have arranged things wisely and then get raided with the loot lying out in plain sight.

The money that would stay with him went into the closet also and then the bell signaled and he went to the door to admit Fay.

Maybe she did have it on Lorry; at least a little; nothing in the purely physical; nobody could beat Lorry there. But Fay had more spirit. A totally submissive woman could bore you at times, but Fay was different. She would always keep a man guessing. She didn’t do that with Big Frank of course because he didn’t appreciate the subtle aspect of things and all it would have gotten her would have been a bat in the mouth. But Fay handled herself pretty well when he wasn’t around.

She knew clothes, too. At the moment, she wore a thing with a full skirt that added to her already perfect legs, and a leopard skin top that added something up there too.

As he closed the door, she peered expectantly about. “Where is she? In bed?”

“Cut it out. I told you I was alone.”

‘“When she’s here, darling, you’re still alone.”

“I’ll get your package.”

“Take it easy, dearest. Let’s not overlook the amenities. I’ve got a few minutes between cabs.”

“Aren’t you due at the theater?”

“If I don’t make it, they’ll hold the curtain.”

They would too, even though Fay’s part consisted of a walk-on and four lines in the first act. This consideration attested to the fact that Big Frank’s money kept the show from closing. It was a dog.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I was wondering how soon you’d ask.”

He made two scotches and brought one to Fay where she’d arranged herself on the lounge so that quite a little thigh was exposed. It did not move him. He had seen thighs before. He could take it or leave it alone.

Sure of her power over men, Fay accepted the glass and studied him with faint mockery in her eyes. “You have a nice place here, but you could do a lot better—you really could.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“Has Lorry helped you any?”

“She isn’t supposed to.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, darling. You could have all that and additional advantages also. I’ve helped Frank a great deal.”

“Maybe you’ll help him into jail some day.”

Her eyes stopped being soft. They flared. “You’ve got a lot of a nerve, saying that.”

“A man should run his own business.”

“When he’s got a dumb broad on his hands, he has to,” Fay sneered. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t dare send Lorry across the street for a pack of cigarettes.”

“Why are you always sniping at her? I’m satisfied. Why not leave it alone?”

“Are you begging, darling?”

“No, I’m just asking.”

“Because I have your interests at heart.” She paused and when he didn’t answer, added, “I could make Frank take a bigger interest in you, too.”

“You’re out of your skull. You know that if Frank got the idea you were even looking around, he’d separate you from your head.”

She got up and crossed over and sat down on the arm of his chair. “But he wouldn’t have to know, sweetie. I’ve got Frankie right in my handbag.”

“Like the black eye you were wearing for over a month last year?”

Fay snarled like a beautiful cat, showing teeth just as white and sharp. “You’ve got a big mouth, buster. All I’d have to do would be to—”

“I know—go home and tell him I made a pass. Then I’d have to start watching out for his boys.”

“I was wondering if you had sense enough to realize that.”

“Look, angel. I’m not quite as helpless as you think. And I’m not as scared of Big Frank as you’d like to believe. I just don’t want trouble for no reason. So why don’t you take your hat box and be on your way?”

Fay pursed her beautiful lips—thus making them very kissable—and retreated gracefully. That was what it was about her—you could never tell whether you’d get a fistful of snails in your face or a warm purr. “Frank said for you to call him, darling,” she said. Their war was over for the moment. She finished her drink and took the hat box and threw him a kiss as she left.

Alone, he again checked his watch. There would be time to call Big Frank.

As he waited for the connection, he had a touch of uneasiness; not about Fay. She wasn’t ready to make any sort of move; about Big Frank himself. He had a bluff, crude, uneducated approach to things. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t clever. His record spoke for him; definitely the man to see; twenty-six arrests with only one conviction and that set aside.

The phone buzzed twice at the private number before Big Frank’s voice came back.

“Dion’s Flower Shop.”

This was a manifestation of Big Frank’s broad sense of humor. Long ago, in the wild Chicago days, there had been a flower shop owned by a man whose first name had been Dion. One day two gunmen had walked in. One held the owner’s hand in a grip of good-fellowship while the other fanned him down with a bouquet of slugs from an automatic. Big Frank seemed to like the historical attachment in the name.

“I said, Dion’s—”

“The car was just picked up.”

“Oh, it’s you. I know. It just got here.”

“I was supposed to call.”

“Oh, yeah. I got wind on something. An injustice. I thought about you.”

“Why me?”

“I’d hate to see you have to walk up thirty floors to get home nights.”

It sounded silly—like a lot of double talk. But then, what with bugs and things, it always did. You had to listen between the words.

“That would be rough.”

“It sure would—on you and a lot of other joes that live up high.”

“An elevator strike?”

“Uh-huh. All that hardship and stuff.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Might be. First, have a talk with Sid Garms at the Real Estate Association. That ought to do some good. Then drop in on Bailey at the Union. Tell both of ‘em I sent you. Maybe you can get it stopped.”

“Okay.”

“And by the way, I’m putting my house up for sale.”

“How much?”

“Fifty grand.”

“Steep price.”

“It’s worth it.”

“If the buyer thinks so.”

“The buyer will…”

He broke the connection. The buyer would be the Real Estate Board. They’d pay fifty grand out of their public relations budget to keep their elevators repaired and running without handing anything more to the slobs who did the work—the union rank and file.

So it was another job for a good in-between man; a fixer. He would contact the principals in this deal, tie them together with an invisible thread of skill and finesse and when it was over, no one would be able to prove that anything had happened.

He should have received the news with a glow of satisfaction. But he did not. He went out onto the patio again and stared down at the ants. They were still crawling around with satisfactory aimlessness. They were still ripe for many, many lootings.

But he was uneasy. It seemed that there was something he was supposed to remember. But for the life of him, he couldn’t pull it into his mind.

The bell sounded. That would be a uniformed messenger after the French poodle. Still frowning, he went to the door.

But it wasn’t a messenger. It was three men in blue suits. One of them waved a paper.

“Search warrant. Stand aside. We’re checking over these premises.”

They pushed in and fanned out like experts. He tightened up inside as he watched in silence. He moved back just inside the living room. Two of the men, iron-faced, stood alert while one of them headed straight for the bedroom. The closet door opened.

Suddenly, it dawned. This wasn’t law. This was somebody’s muscle! A key rattled in the lock. The door opened and Lorry stood there. Her eyes went wide in fright and surprise. One of the men slipped a gun from where he’d been gripping it in his side pocket.

The drawer of the desk opened silently and easily. The butt of the automatic lying there was cool and reassuring.

This was the first time he’d ever been invaded, so there was no previous experience to guide him. Thus, his action was foolish. He realized this, but too late; after the automatic had gone off and the blue-suited man holding the other gun had doubled over and gone to his knees.

The other man stared at his fallen companion and then looked accusingly at the offending automatic. As he raised his eyes, his companion joined him from the bedroom.

“You stupid son-of-a-bitch,” the man muttered.

Lorry was screaming.

The man on the floor jerked in pain.

Then the scene did not fade. It just wasn’t there anymore…