Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double

by Harold Robbins

  He dragged deeply at his cigarette and listened to what they were saying. The others were still talking about Francis. He felt a little annoyed at the turn the conversation had taken. Then he smiled inwardly. He felt he was acting the fool. One wasn’t annoyed by ghosts. Ghosts belong to the past. And Frankie was part of the past.

  Marty leaned forward in his chair. His face was earnest and serious. “It’s funny, Jerry, but you never told me how you happened to meet Frankie. You’ve been rather quiet all evening.”

  Jerry saw they were expecting an answer. He turned the question over in his mind carefully. Then he began to speak with that charmingly simple candor that he had learned to use so well.

  “I met him simply enough—about the same as you did: in a fight. We couldn’t lick one another, so we shook and called it quits.

  “It happened a long time ago. I was attending the Lawrence Academy in Connecticut when one weekend Dad came up there to talk to me. I sat on the edge of my bed in my room and watched him pace up and down before me as he spoke. My dad was a wonderful guy. Even when I was very young he treated me as an equal, asked my opinion on varying things.

  “This was one of those things. ‘You see, son,’ he said. ‘In another two years they’re going to put me up for mayor. And the boys seemed to think—’

  “‘I should go to school in New York,’ I finished for him. I could understand that. I had been brought up in politics. I had watched my father ever since I was a child, and I had learned a great deal from him.

  “‘That’s it, son,’ he said. ‘It would mean a lot to me if you’d like to have a try at it. If the people saw you mixing with the other kids, you know how they would feel about it.’ He sat down at the edge of the bed and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘I know how you feel about this place, son, and I know what it would mean to you if you left it just when you were in so good here and had all your friends around you. But you’re growing up. You’re almost a man now and you have a right to make up your mind as to what you want.’

  “I wanted to be like my father. He was the greatest man in the world to me. He was a leader of men and that’s what I wanted to be—a leader of men, a man people would look up to and respect and admire.

  “I knew what I wanted and I knew what had to be done. I didn’t want to leave Lawrence but there were other important things in life. So I went to St. Therese.

  “I went to St. Therese but I never liked the place. It was filthy and dirty, and most of the kids were stupid and poor and lacked manners and understanding. I never held it against them, but I never got to feel that I was part of the place, the way I had at Lawrence.”

  He laughed a little. “I suppose I was a bit of a snob. But I tried to get over it. I honestly tried, and I think I did because most of the other kids seemed to accept me. They accepted me and liked me, but I never became the head of the gang because there was another guy. He was Francis Kane.

  “They knew him. He was rough and hard and he made the rules and they did what he told them. At first we steered clear of one another, sizing each other up. Then we had a fight. Though neither of us could win physically, I knew inside that he had won. I knew inside that he would have won even if I had bested him.

  “You see, at that school I was from the wrong side of the tracks—funny in a way but perfectly true. He was of them, from them, with them, and part of them. That was something I never could be, coming from where I came. He was the first kid I ever envied.

  “Well, as the old saying goes, ‘If you can’t lick ’em, jine ’em.’ That’s what I did. And as I grew to know him I began to like him. In spite of the way he spoke, the clothes he wore, or the dirt on his hands and face. He and I were a lot alike. But one thing made the difference, he was the leader. It was that in him that I tried to find and see—that tiny spark that made the difference. I never did find it but I knew it was there all the time. Even if I couldn’t put my fingers on it.

  “Even my father saw it. One day I had him to dinner at the house, and that night Dad asked me who he was. I told him. ‘The boy is dangerous,’ Dad told me. ‘He’s smart and tough and he’s a scrapper. Don’t let the way he talks fool you.’

  “I smiled at Dad and told him I knew it. But Frankie was never dangerous for me. He was my friend. He liked me.”

  A maid came into the room then and placed the electric coffeemaker on the table. Next to it she placed three tiny demitasse cups and saucers and little spoons. Jerry fell silent as he watched her.

  “I’ll serve the coffee, Mary,” Janet said, taking the napkins from her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the maid said, and retired from the room.

  Balancing the small cup and saucer on his knee, Jerry continued. “Remember that time he was running for class president in high school? He was going to make that speech we wrote for him. Remember how bad he was when we practiced it, how afraid you were that he’d muff it? Well, I thought he’d muff it too, maybe even hoped a little that he would so there could be something I could say I was better at.

  “Remember what he did when he came to the center of the platform—how he stood there a moment and then started to speak in a voice that was a little bit high? I remember sitting there thinking: ‘Here it comes. He’s going to blow.’ But he didn’t. He spoke as naturally as he spoke to anyone—simply, quietly, friendly. It was then I realized fully what Dad had meant when he said Frankie was a scrapper. We all knew he was scared to death at going up there to speak, and there he was wrapping the meeting up in his hands. He was a showman too, the way he turned and brought Janet out with him. It was right—instinctively right. He did the things by instinct that I had to plan. He was the politician I had studied to be since I was a little kid. He was my father and myself rolled up into one, with my father’s magnetism and instinct for people and my plans.

  “At that moment I think I grew up—watching the two of them on the platform taking bows hand in hand. ‘You won’t meet many like him’, I told myself. ‘Watch him and learn from him.’ I watched and I learned. And I learned to like him.

  “There was nothing complicated about Frankie to me. To me he was the essence of direct simplicity and tact combined with a trigger-quick intelligence. He knew what he wanted and went for it. He told you what he thought, did what he wanted to, no matter what happened.”

  He raised the demitasse to his lips. The coffee was cold. With an almost imperceptible pursing of his lips, he placed it back on the table.

  “So you see,” he said, “Frankie wasn’t the mystery to me that he was to you. I grew to know him too well. I knew what he would do almost before he did it.”

  “But,” Marty interjected, “you didn’t know he was going to run away.”

  Jerry conceded the point by nodding his head. “That’s true. But you must remember I wasn’t with him the day he went to the station with his people. If I had seen him but once that day I would have known.” But through his mind was running another theme.

  “Could I have known? Did I really know him as I say? Or was he as much of a challenge or threat to me as I imagined him to be? The things that happened after could have been predicted by no man. No man could read the future. But he always had had the things I wanted most. He was top man at school, first with Janet. And even though I got the things I wanted after he left them, how do I know I would ever have had them if he hadn’t gone away?”

  The thing that Janet wanted to do now—was it right or would it be Frank to come back to haunt him? He had no basic objections to Janet’s idea and he wondered where it came from. But after all, there had been Frank and though he now belonged to the past, there still was a way open for him to return.

  Part IV

  34

  I stood on the steps of the administration building and looked across the naval station. It was December 30th, 1931, and the breeze was chilly as it blew across the San Diego Bay. I turned up the collar of my pea jacket and lit a cigarette. My discharge papers were stuffed into my pocket; the duffel bag with
my few belongings lay at my feet.

  I was glad to be out. It wasn’t that I thought the Navy was bad, but as far as I was concerned it was a better place to bide my time before I rejoined my folks than the orphanage. Maybe I was just swapping one sort of a jail for another, but it was over now and I was glad of it.

  Life in the Navy was generally a dull one. The restrictions, the routine, the very detailed planning of every minute of your day led to a certain deterioration of your ability to do and plan things for yourself. It probably did me some good. I read a great deal and was taught many things. I took mathematics for the gunnery classes, bookkeeping for storekeeper’s duties in addition to English, history and a certain amount of geography.

  Now, as far as I was concerned, it was over. I took a last puff at my cigarette, threw it away, and slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and proceeded to the main gate.

  At the gate I handed my discharge papers to the chief petty officer on duty there. He took them, flipped them open, glanced at them, and gave them back to me.

  “O.K., sailor,” he said, grinning, “so long.”

  “So long, hell!” I said. “This is good-bye. I’m out.”

  “That’s what they all say,” he said, still grinning. “You’ll be back. They all come back.”

  “Not this baby!” I retorted, “I’m going home.” I walked out the gate to the bus stop. A bus came up and I got in and sat down.

  I turned for a last look at the station as the bus pulled out, and then settled back in my seat.

  The folks would be glad to hear from me. I remembered the last time I had written them. It was from New York. I had a twenty-four liberty from my ship and had wandered around town all morning not knowing what to do with myself. Suddenly I found myself in front of Jerry’s house. Without thinking, I ran up the steps and rang the bell.

  A butler opened the door.

  “Is Jerry in?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered, “Master Jerry is away at college. Any message?”

  I hesitated a moment. “No,” I said, “No message,” and turned back down the steps as the door closed behind me.

  It was then I really got homesick. Here I was in a town I had lived in all my life and not a familiar face around to talk to. I was miserable. I walked around until I came to a hotel and then went in and sat down in the writing room and began to write a letter.

  Dear Uncle Morris, Aunt Bertha, Irene and Essie,

  I just wanted to drop you a line to let you know I am well and hope you are the same. I especially hope that Uncle Morris is getting better. I am sorry if I have caused you any worry because I ran away, but I couldn’t stay in that place anymore, not after living with you. I have been in good health all the time and have been working. I hope someday soon, when I am old enough not to have to go back to the orphanage, to be able to again live with you. Until then I do not want you to worry as I have enough of everything, including money.

  All my love to you and I hope you are all well.

  Frankie

  Looking down at the letter, I got a bright idea. I took the letter and went up to the bank and got a check for the whole balance in my account. I put it in the letter and mailed it to them. Then I turned and went back to my ship feeling better. There was nothing more I wanted from New York.

  But all that had happened almost two years before. Now I was out, and I was going to Arizona to join them. I left the bus in downtown San Diego, went directly to the hotel, and registered. Then, even before I went up to my room, I went over to the telegraph desk.

  The girl came over with a blank telegraph form and a pencil. I leaned over the counter and began to write, smiling to myself. Things certainly were going to be O.K. from now on. I was going home and I had two hundred bucks in my pocket.

  Mr. Morris Cain, 221 Lincoln Drive, Tucson, Arizona.

  Received my discharge from the Navy today. Would like to join you immediately. Expect to leave here at end of week. Will let you know what day to expect me. Am eager to see all of you.

  Love,

  Frank

  I went upstairs with the boy who showed me my room. Quickly I emptied my duffel bag into the dresser and went downstairs. I went over to the desk clerk and asked him a good place to buy some clothes. He sent me to a chain-store clothier over on Grand Avenue. I picked up three good suits at nineteen dollars each. He promised to have them for me in a few days. I told him to rush them through, and he said he would have them for me Saturday, the day after New Year’s. Then I went next door to a haberdasher and bought about six shirts at a dollar and a quarter a piece. Some underwear, socks and ties rounded out my wardrobe. I bought a small valise for six bucks and went back to the hotel. Now, I thought to myself, I was ready to go as soon as the clothes would get here.

  The few days dragged by. I spent New Year’s Eve and almost the whole day in my room. The hotel had several parties going on the whole of the night, and I could hear them through the closed doors of the room. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel out of things. I had too many things to think about. I could imagine how happy they all were when they received my telegram, how eagerly they awaited my coming. I bet I wouldn’t know the kids anymore. They must be young ladies by now.

  The next day I went down and picked up my suits. I took off my uniform and donned the brown tweed. I didn’t know myself in the mirror. It had been so long since I had worn civies, I felt pretty good with them on. I decided to go out and buy my ticket. I got the ticket for Tucson on a train leaving the next morning. Then I went back to the hotel to check out. While I stood there near the desk, feeling very self-conscious in my new clothes, I saw the clerk put something in my mailbox. I stepped up and asked him for it.

  It was a telegram from Tucson. I didn’t open it there; I was too excited. They had answered me, I thought. I was so nervous that I hurried up to my room to read it. As soon as I was inside the door I opened it.

  A copy of my wire had been enclosed; attached to it was a note. It read: “Your telegram of December 30th, 1931, attached has not been delivered for the following reason.” Then there was a list of reasons. Next to one, a pencil check had been inserted. “Moved from this address, forwarding address not known.”

  For a moment I didn’t understand it, I sank into a chair, my hopes gone up in smoke. For a minute or two I just sat there too upset to feel anything. I didn’t know what to do next. I never thought they would have left without notifying me. But I realized they couldn’t. They never knew where I was. Again that feeling of being alone came over me—a feeling of being lost, abandoned without hope. The street noises came in through the closed window. I heard a woman’s laugh in the hall. The room seemed to close in on me. I lit cigarette after cigarette. The air became filled with smoke. I don’t know how long I sat there in the armchair, but when I looked up it was dark outside. Slowly I got up and looked out the window. The lights were on all over the city. I walked around the room aimlessly. I couldn’t seem to fix my mind on anything.

  I went downstairs into the dining room. I ordered something to eat—and didn’t eat it. I left the dining room after paying my check, and went out into the lounge. I sat there for awhile just looking at the people, not seeing them. I wasn’t thinking, just in a sort of stupid vacuum. I saw the telegraph desk. I got up and walked over to it. The girl sitting there looked up.

  I took the telegram out of my pocket. “Do you know anything about this?” I asked her.

  She looked at it. “No, Mr. Kane. As soon as I received it I sent it over to the desk.”

  “Do you think they could be wrong?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “They check these things very carefully.”

  “Thanks,” I said, walking away leaving the girl looking after me thoughtfully.

  Next to the Western Union desk was a flight of steps leading up to the telephone lounge. It was less crowded there than in the lobby, so I went up there. I didn’t want to be entirely alone, yet I didn’t want to be down there in the midst of all tho
se people. I couldn’t explain it. I sat down on the chair next to one of the phone booths. I had been sitting there about a half an hour when the girl from the telegraph desk came up. I watched her go into the booth next to me. The door closed. I didn’t hear a coin drop into the machine, or hear any conversation. A few minutes later she came out. She stopped in the doorway and acted surprised to see me sitting there. She smiled at me. I nodded back politely; I didn’t feel much like smiling.

  She took a cigarette from her purse. “How about a light, Mr. Kane?” she said, smiling.

  Pretty obvious! I didn’t care. I took a match from my pocket, lit it, and held it toward her. She sat down next to me. I moved over to make room for her on the seat. “Thanks,” she said.

  “It’s O.K.,” I told her.

  “New clothes?” she asked me.

  “What?” I asked. For a moment I didn’t know what she meant. Then I nodded. “Just got them today.”

  “How do you like being out of the Navy?” she asked.

  “It’s all right, I guess,” I answered.

  “Kind of at loose ends, I suppose.” She looked interested.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’ll have to get used to it.”

  “Too bad, about the telegram, I mean,” she said sympathetically.

  “I should have expected it,” I said. I was beginning to feel better. She was the first person in this damn place to seem interested in me. I looked at her. She was a nice-looking girl: black hair, blue eyes, a trim neat figure. I smiled at her. “I don’t want to burden you with my woes,” I said. “It’s nice enough of you to be interested as it is.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind really,” she said. “I’ve got a close relative in the Navy, and I often wonder how he would feel if he were out.”