Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double

by Harold Robbins

  “O.K.!” I hollered back.

  “Frankie, you can’t do that. You can’t turn him over to them like that,” Terry whispered.

  “Shut up!” I whispered. “They won’t get him. When you get out, call the cops. Then go home and stay there until I get in touch with you.” I spoke loud now. “You people will get out of here, so don’t worry. Go out single file. Keep your hats off so they can see you’re white. Go home and stay there until morning. And don’t open your mouth to talk to anyone. Just get out and beat it!”

  One of the men protested. “We can’t leave Gerro here.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Now get out, you don’t want any of the women to get hurt, do you?”

  They began to move toward the door.

  A voice from the street shouted up: “Bring the nigger to the window so we can see he ain’t getting away.”

  That put a monkey in my plans. I had planned to tell Gerro to hotfoot it up to the roof and over to the other buildings. Now they wanted to see him and that would slow us up. Gerro started over.

  I stopped him. I saw Joey. I called Joey over and told him to go up to the roof and open the trap so we could get right out, and then to come down and go out with the rest. He nodded and left.

  “Now,” I told the others, “go out single file and slowly. We need all the time we can get.”

  They began to move out of the room slowly. There was no confusion. Quietly, stolidly, they went downstairs and out. I looked out the window and saw the first of the group emerge from the building. They hurried along the fringe of the crowd and went to the corner and disappeared from sight.

  Someone in the crowd hollered: “Where’s the nigger?”

  I motioned to Gerro with my hand. He came to the window. His face was set and hard, his lips drawn together firmly. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. I saw Terry walk down to the corner. She stopped there and looked back at us and lifted her hand in a half wave and went out of sight. A rock came hurtling to the window. I instinctively ducked it, and it hit Gerro on the side of the face just under the cheekbone. He didn’t move under the impact.

  I looked at him without speaking. His cheek had been cut by the rock and it was bleeding. He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t show any signs that it had hit him. The blood ran down his cheek and neck, and stained the clean white collar of his shirt a dull, soggy red. I gave him my handkerchief, which he pressed to the side of his face with as little emotion as a barber applying a hot towel. He stood there at the window looking out at the crowd.

  “You know any of them?” I whispered.

  “Yes,” he said simply, his voice trembling a little, “I know most of them.”

  Some of the bastards were probably members here at one time or another, I thought. I didn’t say anything. I hoped Joey would get back quickly before the last of the crowd filed out.

  “Frank!” Joey’s voice came from the doorway.

  I didn’t turn my head from the window. “O.K.?” I asked.

  “O.K.!” he whispered back.

  “Beat it!” I said, still looking out. “Don’t forget to go out last.”

  I heard him move toward the stairway. “Get ready to run for it,” I told Gerro. “Follow me when you see Joey come out.”

  He didn’t answer.

  A few more rocks came flying in. I dodged them but Gerro just stood there motionlessly. I saw Joey come out of the building.

  “We’re coming out!” I hollered. I stepped back into the room. From the corner of my eye I could see some of the crowd surge toward the entrance. Gerro still stood at the window. I grabbed him by the hand and yanked him toward me. “C’mon, goddamit!”

  I started to run toward the doorway, half dragging Gerro with me. We got to the hall. I could hear footsteps on the lower staircase. I turned the other way and ran up the steps to the top floor. There was a ladder leading to the roof. I saw the square boxlike cover of the exit had been removed, and I could see the stars in the sky above. “Good boy, Joey!” I thought.

  I pushed Gerro up the ladder ahead of me and saw him disappear through the vent; then I started up. There was hollering on the flight below us in the clubroom. I could hear furniture being smashed. There was more noise on the stairway coming up to us. I was almost at the opening when I felt a hand clutching at my feet. I looked down. A man was partly up the ladder grabbing at me. I kicked viciously at him. My foot landed in his face. He fell off the ladder to the floor, and I went up and out of the vent.

  I looked around. The roofs were covered with the remains of the last snowfall. I saw the cover lying near the vent, and next to it an old rotting mattress that some tenant had probably left there after sleeping on the roof some summer night. “Gimme a hand with this,” I snapped at Gerro.

  His face was still bleeding, but he bent and helped me replace the cover. Then I threw the mattress over it, hoping it would delay them a little more. I straightened up and looked around. Some of the roofs had regular entrances to them. I started over the buildings toward them. The first one was about two houses away. I ran up to it and tried to open it, but it was locked.

  I looked back over my shoulder to the building we had come from. The cover was still on the vent, but I could see it move as they tried to open it. The mattress was moving up and down and sliding off a little. We ran to the next building.

  We were luckier there: the door was open. We ran inside the building. I turned and locked the door behind me. There was a little hook that fastened into the door and held it closed from the inside. We ran downstairs and out of the building. We came out on Sixty-eighth Street and ran up toward the park.

  I looked down the street. There weren’t any signs of pursuit. We picked up a cruising cab on Central Park West and piled in. “Keep rolling!” I told the driver. “I’ll tell you where to go in a minute.”

  Gerro sank back into the seat and covered his face with his hands. The handkerchief he held in his hands was covered with blood by now. I turned to him and pulled his hands away from his face and looked at the cut.

  “That’s a bad one,” I said. “We’d better get you to a doctor.” I leaned forward and told the drive to take us to the Roosevelt Hospital.

  At the hospital we got out and I paid the driver. We went into the emergency ward. I got one of the interns to look at it. It needed several stitches. While the doctor attended to Gerro, I answered the questionnaire the nurse had to fill out. The doctor finished and put a bandage over the cut. He told Gerro he had better go home and lie down for a while. He gave him some pills to take, and we left the hospital.

  A clock in a store window across the street showed it was eleven o’clock. I looked over at Gerro. “You’d better go home now. You look a bit wobbly to me.”

  He tried to smile. “Yes, I’d better. I guess I can make it home all right by myself. Thanks for everything, Frank. You were swell!”

  “Forget it!” I said. “Do you think you can make it all right?”

  “Sure!” he told me. “Sure I can.” He seemed to sway a little.

  I put out my hand to steady him. “I think I’ll go along. We might as well finish the night together. We started that way.”

  He didn’t protest.

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  He appeared to be trying to think. “Maybe I shouldn’t go home. My folks will be too upset if they see me. I’d better go down to a friend’s house.”

  “Anywhere you say,” I told him. “Only let’s get going. You need a little rest.”

  We climbed into a cab. He gave the hackman an address in Greenwich Village. The cab started off. He leaned back against the cushions. For a while as the hack went downtown we didn’t speak; he just sat there looking out the window. I looked at him from the corner of my eye every few minutes.

  At last he leaned his head forward and put it in his hands. He began to cry. I know it wasn’t the pain. It was the hurt, the humiliation he felt that was expressed in his hard, choked-back sort of sobs. “The fools,”
he said, “the poor misguided fools! When will they learn?”

  49

  The taxi stopped in front of a small renovated apartment house. There was a sign over the doorway, “Studio Apartments.” I got out and paid the driver. I turned to Gerro and we went into the building. We stopped at a door about two flights up. He rang the bell. The cut was beginning to pain him now. I could see the way he stood there that he was very uncomfortable.

  I rang again. We waited about a minute but there wasn’t any answer. “Maybe your friend’s not in,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I have a key,” he told me, and taking it from his pocket, he opened the door.

  I followed him into the apartment. He put on a light. In one corner of the room there were a typewriter and some torn sheets of paper lying near it. On the other side of the room there was an easel with a half-completed portrait of a man on it. There were a table and several chairs scattered about the room. Off in one corner near the window was a small kitchenette, containing a small stove and refrigerator and pantry. There was a door on the opposite side of the room. Gerro went over to the door and looked into the room. I could see a set of twin beds and a small vanity table over his shoulder. He closed the door and came back into the room.

  “It looks like they aren’t at home,” he said. He stood there uncertainly a moment as if he didn’t know what to say next. “Well,” he continued, “I guess I’ll be all right now. You might as well go home. It’s pretty late and you must be exhausted.”

  “I’ll go,” I told him, “after I see you in bed, and after you take a hot drink and those tablets the doctor gave you.”

  “I can make it all right,” he protested.

  I got the feeling he wanted me out of here. “Nix!” I said. “Go inside and get into bed. I’ll put some water on to heat. You got any tea here?”

  He nodded. “There’s some teabags in the pantry.”

  I went over to the small range, filled a pot with water, and put it on the stove. I turned and saw him standing there watching me. “Go on in and undress and get into bed,” I said.

  He turned and went into the other room and closed the door behind him.

  I waited a few minutes until the water began to boil. Then I looked through the pantry until I found some cups and the teabags. I put a bag into one of the cups and poured the hot water on it and started for the bedroom. I stopped outside the door. “The tea is ready,” I called through the closed door.

  “Come in,” I heard him answer.

  I went into the room. He was in a bed at the far end of the room near the window. He had put on a pair of blue pajamas. His dark face shone against the pillow, the white bandage adding an incongruous look to the scene. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “A little better,” he said, “but I’m getting a terrible headache.”

  “Drink this and you’ll feel better,” I told him. “You got those tablets the doctor gave you?”

  He held out his hand; they were in his palm.

  “Take them,” I commanded, “then drink this.”

  He swallowed the pills and held out his hand for the cup of tea. I gave it to him, but when he took it I could see his hand was trembling so much he could hardly hold it. I took the cup back and fed it to him by the spoonful. At last he finished and laid his head back on the pillow.

  I sat there watching him for a while. He looked back at me. “Anything else I can do for you?” I asked.

  “No, thanks,” he said, “you’ve done enough.”

  We were silent for a little while. I could see him drowsing off. Suddenly he opened his eyes and asked: “Frank, were you afraid back there in the club?”

  I smiled at him. “I was scared green.”

  “You weren’t,” he said. “I was watching you. You never turned a hair. You almost seemed to enjoy it.”

  “You weren’t so bad yourself,” I said. I imitated his voice, “I’d better go down and talk to them.”

  “I was,” he said seriously, “afraid, I mean. I was really afraid. Deep inside of me I knew I was afraid and I was ashamed of it. I was ashamed because I thought I had mastered that fear a long time ago. It’s a peculiar Negroid fear in character—fear of a mob of white people. It goes back a long time, I guess.”

  “Well, you didn’t show it,” I said. “You’d better forget it and try to sleep. In the morning everything will seem different.”

  “Will tomorrow be different?” he asked speculatively. “Will it ever be any different than today? People don’t change overnight. When something goes wrong it’s natural for them to look for a scapegoat. They forget anything a person has ever done for them in their foolish stupid search for vengeance.”

  I got to my feet. A note of determination crept into my voice. “Put it out of your mind and go to sleep. A little rest is what you need right now.” I walked toward the door and opened it. “I’ll be out here if you want me. Just call.”

  He nodded. “You’re a funny guy, Frank.” He smiled a little. “I told you that before, didn’t I?”

  “You can tell me again tomorrow,” I said, “when you’ve had a good night’s rest. Good night.”

  “Good night,” he said.

  I closed the door softly behind me. I rinsed out the cup and put it back in the pantry. Then I sat down and lit a cigarette. About halfway through with it, I thought I heard him call me. I got up and peeked into the room. He was asleep. I went back inside and sat down.

  There was a small portrait of Gerro on the table near the easel. I went over and picked it up. It was a good portrait. I didn’t notice it before, but Gerro was a good-looking guy. He had a firm, sensitive cast to his face, high cheek bones, large, intelligent eyes, and a long, clean line to his jaw. I put the painting back on the table and returned to my seat. I remember looking at the clock and noting that it was after one o’clock, and then I must have fallen asleep in the chair.

  I awoke when I heard a key turning in the lock. A quick glance at the clock told me it was three thirty. I waited for the door to open. I heard the tumblers click, and then a girl stepped into the room. She stopped short in the doorway when she saw me.

  She was a beauty—small, dark-red hair, deep-brown eyes, a small, beautifully curved mouth. Her coat was open and I could see she had a terrific figure—sexy. The right things in the right places—nice legs, a soft, creamy-white skin. I blinked my eyes. This was why Gerro had tried to shake me. I stood up.

  “Who are you?” she asked. Her voice matched her figure. It was a soft, deep voice.

  “Frank Kane,” I said. “I’m a friend of Gerro’s.”

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  I gestured to the bedroom. “He’s in there asleep. He had a bit of an accident and I came along with him.”

  She closed the door and came into the room, taking off her coat. She looked at me a moment, and then went to the bedroom and opened the door and looked in. I could see he was still asleep. She went into the room and stood over the bed looking down at him. Then she quietly came back into the room I was in, and closed the door softly behind her.

  I saw she was a little pale. “Don’t be upset,” I said. “He’ll be all right.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  I took out a cigarette and offered her one. She took it and we lighted up. Then I told her. When I had finished she sank into a chair.

  “It must have been terrible,” she said.

  “It could have been worse,” I said.

  “I mean for him,” she said. “You don’t know how much of himself he put into that club. How proud he was of it! How proud he was of the way he was accepted there! He always said that it was only the beginning—a forerunner of a better tomorrow. When everyone, no matter what their color or creed would be, would get along with each other. He must have taken a terrible beating.”

  I looked at her. “It wasn’t a bad cut.”

  “The physical side of it, he will forget soon enough,” she said. “It’s the other side that real
ly was hurt—his pride and spirit—and it won’t heal as well as the cut on his face.”

  I picked up my coat. “I’d better be going now,” I said. “I only waited for someone to come so I could tell them not to disturb him.”

  “No,” she said quickly, “Don’t go. It’s late. I don’t know how far away you live but why don’t you stay here tonight. You can sleep inside with Gerro. I’ll sleep out here on the couch. You look terribly tired.”

  “No,” I said slowly. “Thanks just the same but I think I’d better go.” I walked toward the door.

  She came to the door with me. “Why don’t you stay?” she asked. “I don’t mind sleeping out here—honestly. I’ll have to do it anyway.”

  I just looked at her questioningly.

  She blushed, the hot, red color running up her neck and across her face. She looked down at the floor. “Wait a minute. You don’t understand. I’m his wife.”

  I almost smiled. “Look, lady, I don’t want to seem rude or small-minded. It’s your business, not mine. It doesn’t make any difference to me who or what you are. Gerro is a great guy. He may even be a great man. I’m just one of the people who are lucky enough to know him, that’s all.”

  She sat down on a chair. She seemed to be furious with herself. “I’m sorry I said that,” she told me. “I lied. I’m not his wife.” She picked her head up and looked at me proudly. “I wish I were, though. I wish I had the nerve to make him marry me.”

  I looked right back at her, staring into her eyes until she began to color up again, but she didn’t look away. I threw my coat across the room. “This is a hell of a way to treat a guest!” I said. “Haven’t you anything to eat in this place? I’m starved, Miss—?”

  “Marianne Renoir,” she said.

  “How about something to eat, Marianne?” I asked, smiling.

  “Eggs?” She smiled back. “You’ll have to take that. It’s all there is.” She turned toward the kitchenette. “Fried or scrambled?”

  Ten minutes later we were sitting at the table eating—that is, I was eating, she was talking.