Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double

by Harold Robbins

  I looked out across the floor. Joe was climbing up on a big table he had dragged out in the middle of the floor. He held up his hand. “All right, everybody,” he shouted, “I want all your attention. As you know, we have a guest speaker down here tonight who you all know and have heard before. I don’t have to introduce him. His work in this section and part of the city is known by all of you. His efforts on your behalf and that of the party are widely known. So, I give you Gerro Browning.”

  He jumped down, and to my surprise a tall young, redheaded Negro climbed up on the table. I looked around at the people. They were a pretty mixed bunch. Micks, Italians, Spicks, Polacks, everything. He was the only Negro I saw there but what a reception he got. Everybody began hollering and stamping their feet while he looked around quietly, smiling a little.

  Then he held up his hands and they all fell quiet. “Friends,” he said—his voice was unusually free of accent—“I see a lot of new faces here tonight—faces that I haven’t seen before, but they’re warm faces and they’re human faces and they’re people like us, who want the same thing out of life that we do and I want to thank them for coming here tonight.” Everybody applauded. He waited for the applause to stop and then he continued.

  “I’m not going to talk tonight about the party or its principles. I’m not going to repeat the things you all know so well. I’m going to tell you instead the story of a man who lives down the block.

  “He has never been up here. He has never come to any of our meetings. Though I have asked him and others have asked him, he has not come. He, like many of you, had for a while been on home relief and lately got a job out on Long Island for the power-and-light company. Maybe one of the reasons he never came up was because he was afraid if his bosses heard he belonged to our club, they would fire him or lay him off and then he would have to go back on relief until another job came his way. Anyway, he has said at different times that he had been warned to stay away from us and have nothing to do with us—that we were a radical bunch of bastards and he would lose what little he had gained and had.

  “Last week while working digging a ditch to lay a new cable, his pick bit into the ground and hit a live wire. The shock of the electric current ran through him and flung him about ten feet, injuring him and burning him severely. Tonight he is still in a hospital and we don’t know whether he will live or die.

  “When I heard of the accident I went to his wife and asked her if there was anything we could do to help. She didn’t think there was anything we could do, and told me when and where her husband was injured. That night I reported back to the office. They sent a doctor, who specialized in that type of work out to the hospital, and an investigator to the scene of the accident.

  “The doctor is trying now to save the man’s life.

  “The investigator’s report, which I have here in my hand, clearly shows that this man was not injured in an ordinary work accident, but an accident that was caused by the neglect and carelessness of the company that employed him. I quote from the report: ‘The law requires that power and live current lines are to be laid a certain distance below the level of the street. These lines were not laid at the prescribed level as directed and specifically stated in the law. They were three feet higher than they should have been.’ Mind you, friends, three feet higher than they should be! These three feet may make the difference between life and death for this man. These three feet spell the difference between hunger and food for this man’s family.

  “I have already spoken to our lawyers and they are going to bring suit against his employers and see that justice will be done in this case.”

  The people began to applaud that, but he held up his hands for them to stop. His hands high over his head, he appeared almost like a prophet.

  “Friends,” he said, “this man’s wife is here tonight. The money she will receive from the compensation board will barely give her enough to buy her children food. It will not pay her rent. It will not pay her gas and electric bills. I know that you can ill afford to give even a few pennies to help her from your own meager pockets, but I want you to do just that.

  “The party will assume the legal expenses in connection with this action. But you are big enough, and I know you are, to do with a little less and help this man’s wife and family. You’ve got to remember what has happened to him can happen to you. And what happens to anyone of us hurts all of us.

  “We’ve all got to work together. We’ve all got to fight together.”

  His voice grew more quiet, more determined, more positive. “We are entitled to live and to work and to eat. We will not gain those rights unless we are willing to go out and get them. Remember, the stronger the party is and the more members it has, the more recognition and respect we will get for our fundamental rights. I want you to make every effort to bring in new members. I want you to sell or give away our paper and literature. But more than anything else, I want all of you to put your entire support behind this club so that the club can put all its support behind you.”

  He got down from the table, and a crowd of people gathered around him, all talking.

  I looked at the girl next to me. I never thought very much of her. As a matter of fact I never thought very much about the members of this club. I had heard Harry say many times that most of them wouldn’t work even if they got a chance. Now I didn’t know.

  I looked at her again. Her eyes were shining. Her face was pale, and her rouge and lipstick stood out like splashes of paint. She turned to me. “Come on,” she said. “You’re working. Get it up.” She held out her hand.

  I took out a quarter.

  “You can give more than that,” she said. “I want a dollar.”

  I laughed and gave her a dollar. “I thought you said this was for free, and here I am paying for it the same as I would anywhere.”

  “You dirty bastard!” she said to me coldly. “Would you like that to happen to you?” She took the dollar and walked over and gave it to the man who had just finished speaking. Apparently he asked her where she got it because she pointed to me.

  He detached himself from the crowd around him and came over to me. “Thanks for what you gave,” he said, holding out his hand. “It was more than anyone else gave.”

  “I’m working,” I said, shaking hands with him.

  “So would the other people here if they only had a chance,” he replied quietly.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I said. “I can afford it.”

  “You’re new here. I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I’m Frank Kane,” I said. “I work downstairs.”

  “Glad to know you,” he said, smiling, “I hope I’ll see more of you.”

  “You will,” I said politely.

  He smiled again and walked away.

  The girl came over to me. “I see you were talking to Gerro,” she said in the same tone of voice as if I had spoken to God.

  “Yeah,” I said. “If the speech is over let’s go. Maybe we can catch a late show on Forty-second Street. And by the way, I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Terry,” she said. “I know yours from the store—Frank.”

  “So you know,” I said. “Get going or do you want to hang around here all night?”

  “O.K., O.K.!” she said. “Wait a minute. I’ll put some powder on.” She walked away.

  I watched her walk over to the ladies’ room. Suddenly I wanted to go out with her. I hadn’t been out with a dame for a long time. “It’s not bad,” I thought, looking after her, “and who knows? I might be lucky tonight.”

  46

  I made a date with Terry for the next afternoon. We were going swimming out to the island. She was a cute little thing but strictly no dice. She was a natural-born teaser. She’d say bold things and make bold motions, but it was all a front, part of the act. She’d neck with you till you saw stars, and the minute you’d reach for a little more, she’d slap you down.

  “I don’t know,” she’d say with a cute li
ttle half smile, as if she were laughing at your torment, “but all you fellows are alike. You seem to think if you take a girl out for a good time you’re entitled to everything. Why can’t you just have a good time without it?”

  I’d explain, feeling foolish: “But baby, you can’t do those things. Why, you can drive a man nuts that way! Come on, baby, be a sport! Nothing’ll happen.”

  I was right about that. Nothing did happen. But through her I became one of the crowd upstairs. I began to feel that I wasn’t the only person in the world that had to break his ass in order to get by with a few pennies. Other people had the same problem—all of them, no matter who or what they were. They all had to make those lousy few pennies or go hungry. I saw the funny look on some of their faces. Time and circumstance had imprinted defeat upon their faces. Charity had left its mark in the loss of pride they felt. They all showed it in different ways.

  Some would come into the store with their food voucher, laughing, gay, putting on a big act. “We eat again!” they’d chortle gleefully, and walk around with high abandon buying food, food, and more food, until their voucher was used up. Some would slap the voucher openly down on the counter and say in a half-belligerent tone of voice: “Do you take these?” And others would come in quietly, wait around until you were through with the other customers and the store was empty. Then they would lean over the counter with their voucher in their hand and ask hesitantly, half ashamed: “Do you take these?” And still some others would come in and take their order, and when it would be all wrapped up, they would take out the voucher and say, in a tone of voice that seemed to dare you not to: “Do you take these?”

  One thing though they all had in common. They would never refer to the food voucher by its full name, “Emergency Relief Voucher.” They would always say “these” or “it.” “How much is left on it?” And if they had bought what they thought would last them for the period until the next voucher came, some would buy a piece of cake or some candy for the kiddies. Some would ask for cigarettes or cash for the remainder of the voucher. We weren’t allowed to give cash or cigarettes. But we did. Occasionally some one would come in and offer a $13.50 voucher for five or six dollars in cash. We bought them. So did all the other storekeepers in the neighborhood. There were lots of things being on relief did to people. But most of all it took away their pride.

  Upstairs in the club, however, it was different. The club was fighting for the people to get cash instead of vouchers. It claimed that many stores were charging the reliefers higher prices than the cash customers. I heard some storekeepers justify that by saying they had to wait ninety days for their money. Anyway, there were always complaints on it upstairs. There were other things going on too. The club had heard that the government was going to institute a vast works program to help out the people on relief. Every day new rumors were given voice. But meanwhile the people just stood around and tightened up their belts.

  I dated Terry Wednesday nights. I didn’t want to go out on Sundays with her because it took too much money and there was nothing in it for me. Not that I didn’t like her. She was O.K. But I’d leave her all steamed up, and I’d lie in bed and toss all night, not sleeping, thinking all kinds of thoughts. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the whores to escape those feelings, not after what I’d seen of them. So I’d lay there and toss and swear at the bitch and say I wouldn’t go out with her anymore and think of knocking her off anyway. “I’ll bat her ears off if she tries to stop me,” I’d promise myself, but somehow I never did. I did one thing though. I stopped seeing her weekends and went out with her Wednesday nights. We’d go to a show and then I’d take her home and I’d spend a few minutes in the hall at her house and grab a few kisses and a little feel and then I’d leave. I was tired after a day’s work and at least I’d go to sleep and sleep through the night—sometimes.

  It was Thursday afternoon and I was delivering an order up to a house. I was pretty steamed up that day. The night before I had gotten my hand inside Terry’s dress and felt her warm, soft breast. She let me keep my hand there awhile, and when I tried to slip my other hand up inside her knees, she pushed me off. I kept thinking about how she felt. No matter how hard I’d try, that thought would persist in coming back.

  I rang the bell. A young woman answered. She had faded blondish hair, a narrow face, and wore an old dress. She was a new customer. She had used up her relief ticket and had bought some stuff, asking for it to be sent up later in the day. She expected to get some money.

  “Groceries,” I said, standing in the hallway. “One twenty-five, collect.” I remembered Harry telling me not to leave it if I didn’t get the dough.

  “Bring it in, please, and put it in the kitchen,” she said in a low, quiet voice.

  I went into the apartment, put the package down, and turned toward her.

  She was looking at the box hungrily. “My husband’s coming home in a few minutes,” she said. “He’s getting some money. Can you leave it here and I’ll bring the money down later?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I told her. “I’d like to, but I can’t. It’s marked C.O.D., and the boss would can me if I didn’t do what he said.” I began to pick it up.

  “Wait a minute,” she said nervously. “Can you wait a few minutes? He ought to be right along.” A child about six walked into the room. It was her daughter. She picked the kid up. “You can sit down if you like.”

  I sat down in a chair near the package and lit a cigarette. I offered her one. She refused. I waited until the cigarette was burned down before I got up. “It’s getting pretty late, lady,” I said. “I’ll have to be getting back to the store or the boss will wonder what’s happening to me.”

  “Wait a few minutes more, please,” she said. “He ought to be right along.” She walked over to the window and looked out on the street. “He’ll be right along,” she repeated nervously.

  The hell he would! Even if he did show up, he’d be broke too. I’d have to take the package back anyway. But I waited another five minutes. Then I got up.

  “I’m sorry, lady,” I said, “but I have to get back. If your husband comes in, send him down to the store. We’ll give him the stuff.” I picked up the box and put it on my shoulder.

  “Please,” she said, “don’t take it away. Leave it. When he comes in I’ll send him right down to pay you—honest!”

  “Look, lady,” I said, “I believe you. I’d like to leave the package here but I can’t. If I did the boss’d fire me.” I was getting a little bit sore at her whining. Maybe I was a little sore at myself for not leaving it. But nobody was going to put anything over on me. I heard enough stories about guys getting gypped on their orders.

  “But we didn’t have anything to eat all day,” she said, “only the baby. My husband went downtown to get a job. We’ll pay you.”

  “Lady,” I said, “why tell this to me? Tell it to my boss. If he wants to trust you I’ll leave the package here.”

  “I did,” she said, putting the child on the floor and sitting down.

  I knew his answer from the way she said it. “Well then, what can I do?” I asked, turning toward the door. Then I had an idea. I turned toward her. “Unless?” I spoke only that word but the silence afterward was full of meaning.

  At first she looked up at me with a glimmer of hope in her eyes, but if faded quickly as she looked at my face. Her face grew red and she looked down at her hands nervously gripping each other.

  I looked at them too. They were red and ugly from work. They were the hands of a young woman aged before their time from housework—all the housework.

  “No,” she whispered. She spoke so low she almost might have been talking to herself. “No! No! No!”

  “O.K., lady,” I said cruelly, “If that’s the way you want it. But don’t kid yourself. We both know how much of a chance there is for him to get a job today.” I walked over to the door and put my hand on the knob.

  “Wait a minute,” she called. “Let me think.” She put
her head in her hands while the little girl stared solemnly at the both of us.

  I relaxed. I could practically see the wheels go round inside her head. But I knew what the answer would be. What it had to be.

  At last she looked up at me. Something more had gone out of her face—I didn’t know just what, but she looked different. She spoke to the child: “Laura, run downstairs and wait for Daddy. Call me through the window if he comes.”

  The child solemnly walked through the door I held open for her. She looked back and waved at us and started downstairs. I waited until she was downstairs before I closed the door. Then I put the package down and faced her.

  She looked at me a moment and then led the way into the bedroom. It was a small room with a small window. There was a neatly made three-quarter-size bed and crib in one corner. A small statue of the Virgin and the Child hung opposite the foot of the bed. A picture of her husband and herself was on the dresser. She stood there a moment and then said: “Not in here,” and walked through to the parlor.

  I followed her. She sat down on a couch, took off her shoes and stretched out.

  I sat down on the edge of the couch. I could feel a pulse hammering in my throat and a tightness across my groin. I put my hand on her body near her thighs just under her stomach. Her skin was as cold as ice, and she started as I touched her. Then I made a mistake. Involuntarily I looked at her face.

  It wasn’t a woman I had there, it was an empty shell. I looked at her for a full minute. In that minute she didn’t even move a muscle; she lay the way I shoved her, staring at me.

  I jumped to my feet and straightened my trousers. At first she looked at me as if she didn’t believe what she saw, and then she stood up. “Thanks for the sleigh ride!” I said. “You can keep the groceries.” I started for the kitchen.

  She took a step forward. “Mister,” she said, and suddenly slumped toward me.