Читать книгу Carla's Revenge - Sydney J. Bounds - Страница 5

CHAPTER TWO

Carla’s hand gripped the wheel of the car and her foot kept the accelerator hard down. She thought King would want to know what had happened at Joe Mazzini’s coffin shop and she was in a hurry. Ham sat beside her not saying anything.

The olive-green Lincoln flashed through the drab streets of Manhattan’s Bowery and crossed the East River by Brooklyn Bridge. The night sky was dotted by a million lights from the unshaded windows of New York’s skyscrapers. Below, the water gleamed and flowed, and a tug hooted. The skyline was majestic; tall, stately buildings rose almost from the water’s edge and the riverfront was noisy with traffic. But Carla had no eye for the scene.

She kept the Lincoln to the centre lane, passing everything on the road. Once on Long Island, Carla left the main road and threaded her way between dingy Brooklyn tenements. It was an area of squalor, where large families lived cooped up in one room, where children played in the streets, and lines of washing hung in the caverns between giant concrete blocks.

King Logan had been born in Brooklyn and, now that he could afford to move to a more select area, he refused to leave. Brooklyn was home to King Logan and he intended staying there, though now he lived in a hotel and hired the best suite in the place.

It was called the Royal, a name that tickled King’s fancy. Carla drove the Lincoln into the all-night garage at the rear of the hotel and she and Ham took the elevator to King’s floor.

King Logan was standing by the window, looking out over the river, when Carla hurried in. It was a favourite pose of his, standing there looking out across the river to Manhattan Island; he said it gave him ideas. King had a secret longing to be acknowledged the gang boss of all New York—and Manhattan was most of New York.

He turned as he heard Carla and Ham. He was tall, over six feet, and well-proportioned. He looked as if he had been carved out of muscle, and prided himself on being as tough as he looked. His hair was dark and close-cropped, and his eyes were too much like round beads, and too close together for him ever to be called handsome.

He wore a maroon sweatshirt and grey gabardine slacks. A green silk dressing gown draped his shoulders, and the right side sagged under the weight of the heavy .45 automatic he kept in his pocket. King never went anywhere without his .45. He said it was his best friend.

His feet were covered by hand-made slippers, but they were hardly visible for the thick rug that carpeted the floor. King spared nothing to impress his visitors that he was a big-shot. The furniture, the hangings, everything about the suite suggested big money. If King had had any taste, it could have looked like an emperor’s palace—as he hadn’t, it resembled an opulent and gaudy nightmare.

His eyes, when they settled on Carla, seemed to bore right through her white gown, to caress her from head to toes. He moved towards her, swiftly for so large a man, and brought his hands out of the pockets of his dressing gown. The little finger of his right hand had been shot away at the second joint—the result of a gang fight early in his career—and gave him a sinister appearance.

He caught hold of Carla and swung her off her feet, cradling her warm body close to his chest. His lips sealed hers in a long kiss before she could speak, almost bruising her with the force of his passion. He lowered her to the ground and removed the fur wrap.

Carla gasped for breath. King’s passion always roused her; the way he wanted her took her breath away. She stepped back, brushing off his hands, and sat down on a long. low divan.

“Trouble,” she said. “Nick got his tonight.”

King Logan frowned. His eyebrows seemed to meet in one dark line and his face showed the brutality of his way of life. He glanced at Ham, but Ham’s scarred face and dull eyes told him nothing. He turned back to Carla.

“Cops?” he said, His voice was harsh, grating like a file on rusty iron.

“Yeah,” said another voice, “what sort of trouble, Carla? And what happened to Nick?”

Carla looked towards the bar built into the wall. She hadn’t noticed that Jerry was in the room, but then King hadn’t given her a chance to notice anything.

Jerry leaned against the bar, a cigarette drooping from his thin lips, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. Jerry usually looked that way. He was King’s right-hand man, a thin, lanky man with a mean face. Viciousness gleamed in his eyes and lean hands were like claws. He never stood upright, but crouched, like a bird of prey about to pounce on its victim.

Jerry wore an exaggerated drape suit with thickly padded shoulders; his shoes were black and shiny and pointed. He looked as if he tapered from wide shoulders to lithe hips to pointed toes. His head was small and seemed incongruous perched atop such exaggerated shoulders.

The jacket of his drape was open, hanging free to show the .22 target pistol in the holster under his arm. Jerry was a crack shot with a .22 and didn’t need a heavier gun.

Carla wasn’t in a hurry to tell her story. King hadn’t been very nice to her lately, and now she had the floor, she was going to make the most of it. Carla liked it when she was the main attraction.

“No,” she said softly, “not the cops. Another gang.”

She relaxed on the divan, leaning back into the cushions, drawing up her dress and crossing her legs. She had nice legs, slender and curved and clad in sheer silk hose, and she showed them off whenever she could. No one took any notice.

“What gang?” King Logan demanded harshly.

Carla selected a cigarette, fitted it into a long, jade holder. She placed the holder in her mouth, lit the cigarette, and blew a stream of smoke, very gently, very slowly. She wasn’t in any hurry—not now she had them waiting on her.

She opened her handbag and drew out a wad of greenbacks.

“The weekly haul,” she said. “Five hundred each from Jamie, Franks. Willet. and—”

“Never mind that,” King snapped. “Tell me about Nick.”

Carla told him. She told him how they’d gone into the coffin shop on Nugget Street, how Joe Mazzini had refused to pay any more insurance, how Rufus Waldemar had appeared and Nick had died on the end of his swordstick, how the three hatchet-men had stopped her taking immediate reprisals, and how Shapirro had warned King to leave town. She didn’t tell him that Waldemar had suggested she leave Logan and join Shapirro—that was something Carla kept to herself. She thought it might not be a bad idea, if King looked like coming out the loser.

King paced the room, scowling. His voice was bitter and his hands tightly clenched.

“Me get out of New York,” he raged. “Me!”

He brought out his automatic and balanced it in his hand.

“If I had Shapirro here—” His voice died away, but the tone he used left no doubt in Carla’s mind that it would have been strictly unhealthy for Shapirro to have shown himself at that particular moment.

Carla smoked her cigarette in silence. Ham wasn’t saying anything either. Jerry emptied his glass and lounged across the room.

“What yer gonna do, boss?” he asked.

King roared like a wounded lion.

“Do? I’m not letting any slick shyster like Shapirro run me outa town! I’ll blast him and his gang into tiny shreds! I’ll—”

“Shapirro’s smart,” Jerry said, shaking his head. “He isn’t gonna be easy to get at.”

King calmed down. He pocketed his .45 and walked over to the bar. He poured himself a rye and seated himself next to Carla, on the divan. Absently he stroked her arm while he drank, thinking hard.

Carla was curious about Shapirro. She’d heard of him, but didn’t know enough to gauge the menace he represented.

“Who is Shapirro?” she asked. “What’s his angle?”

King said: “Shapirro’s a high-class racketeer. He operates on West Side: gambling saloons, dope, women. Anything the suckers in dress suits will pay for—and they pay big. There’s nothing small-time about Sylvester Shapirro.”

Jerry said: “Shapirro ain’t nice people. He’s a fancy man.” He spat out the words to show his contempt.

“And now he’s horning in on my territory,” King said indignantly. “Why can’t he stay on West Side? I don’t interfere with him—why should he try to cut in on me?”

No one answered that question.

King said, grimly: “I ain’t running from no fancy guy. If he wants to fight it out, I’ll be around.”

Jerry lit a fresh cigarette. Through the haze of blue smoke, he observed:

“Shapirro’s place is the other end of Long Island up by Montauk Point. He never comes out—lives behind a high wall, guarded by a private army. He’s gonna be tough to crack.”

King sipped his rye.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s right. But his mobsters have got to operate in the open. We’ll shoot ’em up. We crack down on every guy who pays Shapirro protection money. And if Shapirro doesn’t call it off then, we’ll take the boys up to Montauk Point and start a war. We’ll blast him out with tommy-guns and pineapples!”

He turned to Carla, and said:

“This Waldemar guy, describe him for me.”

Carla described the debonair man with the blue eyes and gold-tipped cane in detail. King shook his head.

“I’ve never heard of a guy like that,” he said. “Have you, Jerry?”

“Naw,” said Jerry. “Sounds like one of Shapirro’s fancy boys to me.”

“You heard of him, Ham?” King asked.

Ham shook his head; his dull eyes registered nothing. Ham wasn’t a guy to waste words when a shake of the head would do.

“I guess he must come from outa town,” King said thoughtfully. “When I’ve finished with him, he’ll wished he’d stayed there!”

No one mentioned Nick. He didn’t count any more. King looked at Jerry and Ham; he said:

“You two beat it. Round up the boys—tomorrow, we start gunning for Shapirro’s mob.”

Jerry lounged across the room and went out. Ham lumbered after him. When the door had closed behind them, King looked at Carla.

“Jeez,” he said, “but you’re lovely.”

He hauled her closer and started to kiss her. King was big and strong and she liked the touch of his rough hands on her smooth skin, liked the savageness of his kisses. She clung to him, kissing him back.

* * * * * * *

The morning was bright and sunny. Carla drove north, out of New York City, taking the main highway and passing everything on the road. She wasn’t in a hurry—she just liked to drive that way. Anything for a thrill. Danger was something she craved.

The sun was bright on the trees lining the road, and on the distant hills, and there was a crispness in the air. But Carla didn’t notice. She had other things on her mind. Like the coming battle between King Logan and Shapirro. And thinking about that brought back the past.

It was nine months since she’d met King and decided he could give her what she craved out of life. Excitement. Carla had always craved excitement—it was in her blood. Blood that went back to the pioneers of the Old West, men who had fought halfway across a continent to make new homes for their families. Carla had been born in the Deep South—her mother had died bringing her into the world—and she’d lived there with her father until she was ten. Then Matthew Bowman had moved north to New York.

Old Matthew Bowman was rich by then; his lands brought him millions from white cotton. He bought a large house on Mount Vernon with the intention of giving his daughter, Carla, the finest education money could buy. He wanted her to mix with high society, to learn to conduct herself like a lady of high birth.

But Carla had wild blood in her. At seventeen, she rebelled, walked out of finishing school, and got mixed up with a fast-living set of city parasites. She gambled away a small fortune, drank more than she could hold. She was in and out of police courts on charges of dangerous driving, assaulting policemen, and generally misbehaving to the public nuisance.

She lived in nightclubs and gambling dens until her father took to his bed with heart disease. The doctor said it had been brought on by worrying over Carla. That stopped her cold. Her father was the only person Carla had any feeling for—she reformed, for a time. Then broke out again.

Matthew Bowman, confined to his bed, knew nothing of his daughter’s current activities. If he had, he’d have died of shock. Carla was determined he should never learn of her association with King Logan.

She had been just nineteen when she met King. Tired of society life, Carla had gone slumming in the Battery, looking for life in the raw. She’d been attracted to King, thrilled when she learned he was a gangster with several killings behind him. This, she thought, was the real thing. Life in all its rawness, exciting, dangerous.

She had become King’s current flame and joined the gang, collecting protection money, learning to use a gun, to hate the law, to live adventurously. King thrilled her, too. She wasn’t in love with him—she’d never loved any man—but she liked it when he took her in his arms. It roused her blood, made her conscious of her beauty, her hold over him. King Logan was tough, a giant of a man, well-muscled, and it gave Clara a sense of power to know that she could control him whenever she wanted.

The car moved swiftly along the broad avenue, carrying her towards Mount Vernon and her father’s home. She visited him once a week, telling lies to account for her absence. Old Matthew Bowman would never learn from her how his daughter was living.

She drove a high-powered, low-slung Chevy, not the armoured Lincoln King kept for the gang’s use. It climbed the hill towards the rambling old house where her father lay dying. The doctor said he would last a good many years yet—if he didn’t have any sudden shocks.

She stopped the Chevy outside the steps leading up to the house, jumped out, and went inside. She was wearing a plain skirt of dark brown that hung below her knees, a white silk blouse that showed off her full figure, and a tweed jacket.

She snapped a greeting to the butler and went upstairs. Old Matthew Bowman was sitting up in bed, his face a wrinkled parchment the colour of faded straw. His eyes were faded too, and grey wisps of hair sprouted from his nearly bald head. His forehead was high and broad, all there was left to denote the proud manner in which he had once carried his lean frame. His gnarled hands shook as he held his daughter.

“Hi, Pop,” Clara said brightly, kissing him with genuine affection. “How’re you feeling today?”

“I’d feel a lot better if you were living here, where I can keep an eye on you,” Matthew Bowman grumbled.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Pop,” Carla said quickly. “I haven’t made newspaper headlines since I turned over a new leaf.”

“I guess that’s right,” her father sighed. “A lively young girl like you doesn’t want to be tied down. I don’t mind you gadding about—so long as you keep out of trouble.”

Carla fussed around, making him comfortable. She had lunch in his room and talked about the good time she was having with a purely fictitious society family. It was a good story and brought a twinkle to Old Matthew’s dim eyes.

Around four o’clock, Carla kissed him goodbye.

“Promised to meet someone this evening,” she said. “See you next week, Pop.”

She went downstairs, out to the Chev, and drove back to Brooklyn and King Logan. If King was gunning for Shapirro’s mob, she didn’t want to miss any of the fun. And her father need never know.…

After Carla had left him, Matthew Bowman sat up. His gnarled hand pressed a bell-push and a man came into the room. The man wasn’t handsome and his clothes were greasy. He licked his lips all the time. His face was shiny, his manner sly, and his eyes never focused long in one place.

“Well,” demanded Matthew Bowman, “did you see her, Piggot?”

Piggot nodded.

“Nice-looking girl,” he said, and waited.

Bowman looked steadily at Piggot.

“Carla isn’t to know I’ve set you to watch her,” he said in a strained voice. “She’s got hot blood in her veins, and she’d flare up right away if she ever learnt that her father had put a private detective on her heels. But I must know what she’s up to.”

He brooded a while before continuing:

“Carla’s been too quiet lately. It isn’t like her at all—I’m afraid she may have got herself into serious trouble and doesn’t want to worry me with it. I want you to watch her, see where she goes, who she meets. Don’t take any action yourself—report back to me. I’ll decide what to do.”

Matthew Bowman smiled a little.

“Carla’s growing up. She’s a pretty girl—and I don’t want her making a bad match. But she mustn’t know I’m having her watched—you understand that? Carla’s got the real Bowman temper—she’d flare up like a Fourth of July rocket. You’re a detective—though you don’t look like one! It’s up to you to tail her without being found out. That’s all.”

Piggot licked his lips.

“I’ll keep on her tail, Mr. Bowman—that’s an old job for me. I’ll find out what you want and report straight back.”

Old Matthew Bowman lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. He didn’t say any more, so Piggot walked out of the room. He went down the stairs and out of the house.

A cinch, this job, he thought; just keep an eye on some dizzy dame. His face wore a greasy smile as he got in his car and drove after Carla, along the main highway to New York.

Maybe, if he played his cards right, there would be more money to be made out of Carla than her father. If she had a secret and wanted it kept quiet…well, Piggot wasn’t the man to turn down an offer. If it was big enough. He licked his lips as he thought about that.