Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double

by Harold Robbins

  Cesare put the core of the apple on the table and shrugged his shoulders. “It is the fortunes of war.”

  Matteo answered quickly. “Or the good fortune of your uncle.”

  “That moneylender,” Cesare said contemptuously. “He owns everything now.”

  Matteo looked directly into Cesare’s eyes. “While he lives,” he said.

  “That kind is too stingy to die,” Cesare said.

  Matteo smiled. “In America we have a name for that kind of man. Shylock. After the usurer in the play.”

  Cesare smiled back. “America has a way of expressing things very pithily. Shylock. It is very good.”

  Matteo continued as if there hadn’t been the minor diversion. “Your uncle is alone, he has no family, no other relative but you. And he has a bank with two hundred million lire.”

  Cesare looked at him. He recognized himself in the older man. “I have thought about it many times. The pig does not deserve to live. But if I were to kill him it would do me no good.”

  Matteo shook his head seriously. “True. But if he were to die, say while you are at the fencing match one hundred fifty meters away from here, you would be a rich man again.”

  Cesare looked at him for a moment then got to his feet. “Gio!” he called. “Bring that bottle of Napoleon brandy. We are going into the library.”

  When Gio had closed the door behind him and they were alone in front of the leaping fire, Cesare turned to Matteo. “Why did you come here?” he asked directly.

  Matteo smiled and picked up his brandy. “I had heard about you, Major.”

  “Heard what?”

  “You remember of course that part of the war just before the Allies invaded Italy?” He didn’t wait for Cesare to answer. “An associate of mine, who is at present in Naples, and I gave the American government a list of people to contact in preparation for that invasion. These people were members of an underground that had existed long before the war, before even the first war. The Mafioso.”

  Cesare didn’t speak.

  “I learned that you were one of the Italian officers assigned to cooperate with the O.S.S. by the Italian High Command. You were assigned to contact nine men and secure their cooperation. You murdered five of them.”

  “They would not cooperate,” Cesare said quickly. “That was explained in my report.”

  Matteo smiled. “The official explanation does not concern me. I have made enough of them myself to have no faith in their veracity. But you and I know better. You see, the officials never saw the bodies of the men you killed. My friends did.”

  Matteo put down his glass of brandy and looked across at Cesare. “That’s why I do not understand about your uncle, my friend. When death comes so joyously and easily to your hand, how you could let him live?”

  Cesare looked down at him. “That was different then. It was war.”

  Matteo smiled. “War was only the excuse for you. There were others. The soldier down in the village when you were still a boy, the young Englishman you ran off the road in your car the last year you were in school, the German mistress of your commanding officer in Rome when she threatened to expose you to him.” He looked up into Cesare’s face. “You see, I have much better sources of information than the authorities.”

  Cesare sank into the chair opposite. He took a drink of his brandy and smiled. “So you have the information. It is of no use to you, so what can you do with it?”

  Matteo shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t intend to do anything with it. I have told you just to let you know that I am interested in you. You see, we can be of much mutual help to one another.”

  “So?”

  Matteo nodded. “Circumstances have forced me to return to the land of my birth, but I am an American, not an Italian, in my heart. And also in my business interests. Unfortunately I cannot return to America for some time. Legally, that is. Of course I can go back for short periods but that is very dangerous and I cannot remain too long. Also I foresee a time when I will need an ally there, someone like yourself, someone that no one would connect me with, someone who could be of help when necessary.”

  Cesare stared at him. “What about your associates? Your friends in the Society? Surely you have many allies there?”

  Matteo nodded. “True. But they are all known. To each other and to the police. Sooner or later there are no secrets among them.”

  Matteo got to his feet and walked over to the open hearth. He turned his back on the fire and looked over at Cesare. “You must be bored with the poverty of your existence by now. It is dull and drab and not at all in keeping with your nature. What would you do if you were free of all this?”

  Cesare looked up. “I don’t know. Travel, maybe. I would get some cars and race them. Le Mans, Turino, Sebring. There is much excitement there.”

  Matteo laughed. “I mean how would you make a living? Money does not last forever, you know.”

  Cesare shook his head. “I never thought of that. I never liked business.”

  Matteo took out a cigar and lit it. “Ah, the young, the thoughtless young.” His voice was pleasantly tolerant. “I have an interest in an automobile company recently acquired through some legitimate associates. In several years they plan to go into the American market. If by that time you had a reputation in the racing cars, you could conceivably become the head of the American company. Would you like something like that?”

  “What is there about it not to like?” Cesare answered. “But what am I expected to do in return?”

  Matteo looked at him. “A favor, now and then.”

  “What kind of favor? I want no part of your stupid business, the petty gambling, the dope…”

  Matteo interrupted. “Even if it should bring you undreamed-of wealth?”

  Cesare laughed. “Wealth? Who needs it? All I desire is enough to do what I like to do.”

  Matteo laughed with him. “Good. You are not ambitious then. Another point in your favor. There is no one who need be afraid of you.”

  Cesare picked up his glass again. “You still have not told me what kind of favor you will ask.”

  Matteo stared at him. Their eyes met and locked. “Only to return the favor I will do you when your uncle dies tomorrow night while you are at the fencing match.”

  A long moment passed, then Cesare smiled. “Good. It is done and we are agreed.”

  Matteo’s face was serious. “You will take the oath?”

  “I will swear on it.”

  “Have you a knife?” Matteo asked.

  A stiletto suddenly appeared in Cesare’s hand. Matteo stared at it. Cesare smiled and turned it over in his hand and extended it to him, hilt forward. “This is my brother,” he said. “We are always together.”

  Matteo took it. “Give me your hand,” he said.

  Cesare held out his hand. Matteo placed his left hand flat on Cesare’s palm. With a quick motion he pierced each index finger with the stiletto. The blood from each man’s finger bubbled up and then ran together into their palms.

  Matteo looked at him. “Our blood has mingled and now we are of one family.”

  Cesare nodded.

  “I will die for you,” Matteo said.

  “I will die for you,” Cesare repeated.

  Matteo released his hand and gave him back the stiletto. He looked up into Cesare’s face. He stuck his finger into his mouth and sucked on it to stop the bleeding. “From this time on, my nephew,” he said, “we will not meet except at my wish.”

  Cesare nodded. “Yes, my uncle.”

  “Should you find it necessary to communicate with me, send a message to the postmaster in the village. I will get in touch with you.”

  “I understand, my uncle.”

  That had been almost twelve years ago. True to Matteo’s word, Raimondi had died the next night while Cesare was at the fencing match. The next five years had gone quickly. The races and the motor cars. The gala balls and romances. Then in 1953, just as Emilio had said, the offer came for him to he
ad up the American agency of the automobile company. Much was made of his appointment in the press. His wild living and dangerous driving had made him an international figure of glamour. Twice he had fought duels over women. To America he was a man from another world.

  Only once in all the twelve years had he seen Matteo. Last year, he had gone in response to a telephone message to a room in a boarding house over a bar in Spanish Harlem where they had merely exchanged good wishes and Matteo had told him of his pleasure in Cesare’s success. He did not stay long as a plane was waiting to take Matteo to Cuba from where he would return to Sicily. They had parted and not until a slip of paper telling him to go at once to the castle was thrust into his hand just before the start of the race did he hear from Matteo again.

  The chicken cacciatore had been light and delicious, the lobster fra diavolo had been tangy and spicy and he was just putting down his napkin when a car came into the courtyard.

  He could not help but watch for Gio to return from the door. A moment later Gio was back. He held an envelope in his hand.

  “It was the postmaster from the village. He said he had this special letter to deliver to you.”

  Cesare took it from him and ripped it open. It was two pages of closely typewritten instructions. He read it quickly, then read it again. Slowly he put the letter down on the table and reached for the espresso.

  Twelve years had passed. And Don Emilio had presented his note for payment. With interest.

  6

  Las Vegas is a night town. Outside the hotels are the pools, clear, filtered and aquamarine, but no one sits around them except the tourists and the hustlers who work the hotels and keep their tans as a kind of pancake makeup of their trade. Inside the lobbies it is always night.

  Someone once said never let them see the daylight. There is something about the harsh white light of day that interferes with the gambler’s sense of reality. The reality of the spinning roulette wheel, the dull thumping of dice on hard felt-covered tables, the reality of the fever to win, the reality of the shifting desert sands on which the town was built.

  Here is the prize, the great adventure, the promise of all the tomorrows. Free money. And everything else runs second to it. Sex, business, laughter. Free money. Pull the handle on the slot machines. It may be your turn at the jackpot.

  They came out of the dining-room-theater, still laughing at the comedy of one of the world’s greatest entertainers. They paused, looking down into the lobby of the gambling casino.

  It was ten o’clock at night and the tables at the Maharajah were crowded with the people who had come from the dinner show. Cesare’s eyes searched the room.

  “You didn’t hear what I asked,” Barbara said.

  Cesare turned and looked down at her. His eyes were glowing with a strange excitement. “No, I didn’t, my dear. What was it?”

  Barbara looked up at him. Another man would have apologized or protested that he had heard. He merely said that he hadn’t. “Dice or roulette, I asked.”

  He smiled suddenly. “Roulette. I have given enough to those crazy little cubes of ivory. I will never understand them.”

  They began to walk down toward the roulette tables. “Too bad they don’t play baccarat here. Now there is a game for the civilized human being. For that some skill is needed, merely having luck is not enough.”

  Barbara turned toward a table. He held her arm. “Not this one. It is too crowded. Over here.”

  It was the table opposite the one she had been going to but he had been right: it was less crowded. He pulled out a stool for her and she sat down. She smiled up at him. “Feel lucky tonight?”

  He nodded his head and smiled back at her. “Very lucky,” he said, placing a pile of chips in front of her.

  In New York the telephone on Baker’s desk began to ring. He put down the container of coffee and picked it up.

  “Jordan calling from Las Vegas,” the operator said.

  “Put him on,” he answered.

  Ted Jordan came on the wire. “Hello, George, how we doin’?”

  “No good,” Baker answered wearily. “We’re up the creek. We still can’t figure out how Dinky Adams was killed. How’s your boy holding up?”

  Jordan laughed. “Just great. Right now he’s out at the roulette wheel betting like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Is he covered?” Baker asked anxiously.

  “I got a man on each side of him and one standing right behind him. Nobody can get anywhere near him.”

  “I’m still nervous. We thought we had Adams covered too and look what happened.”

  “If you’re that worried, George,” Jordan said, “why don’t we just lock him up. We can keep him away from everybody in there.”

  “You know the deal,” Baker replied. “If we do that, the defense will know who the witnesses are before we get them into court. And if they know, the witnesses won’t talk and there goes our case.”

  “Matteo must be laughing like hell right this minute,” Jordan said.

  “He won’t when we get back into court,” Baker promised.

  “My boy is giving twenty to one that he never gets into that courtroom,” Jordan said.

  Baker’s voice was incredulous. “You mean to say he really believes that he’ll be killed? And he’s still going out to the casinos?”

  “Yeah,” Jordan answered laconically. “He says there’s nothing anybody can do about it so he might as well live it up while he can.”

  Baker put down the telephone and picked up the container of coffee again. There was the one thing he could never understand about them. They were cowards, pimps and murderers but there was still something in them that gave them a fatalistic approach to life. Or was it death? He just didn’t know.

  The Twister sat at the roulette table, his gaze concentrated on the wheel. It stopped and the ball bounced into the red twenty. He made another note on the small sheet of paper. Quickly he added up the columns. He was right. The wheel was running toward the black tonight. Time for him to make his move. He pushed a small pile of chips onto the black.

  He heard Jordan come up behind him. He didn’t turn around. The bodyguard behind him spoke. “Could you spell me for a few minutes, Ted? I gotta get to the john before I bust.”

  He didn’t hear Jordan’s reply. The ball bounced into the red. He lost. He looked down and pushed another pile of chips on the black.

  Cesare turned around and looked at the Twister while Barbara concentrated on the spinning wheel. Matteo’s note had been very specific. For almost three days now, Cesare had been watching the Twister.

  The bodyguards were there. They were always there. One on each side of him and one standing back to back with him, his eyes constantly alert. Now the last one went away but another took his place. Cesare turned away just as the man’s gaze began to sweep toward him. He had seen enough. With a little bit of luck— He smiled to himself as the phrase jumped through his mind. Everybody used it out here. With a little bit of luck he would complete his business here tonight.

  He tapped Barbara on the shoulder. “I’ll get you a drink,” he said.

  She looked up at him and smiled and then turned back, absorbed in the game. He began to walk toward the lounge. He walked around the Twister’s table and glanced back.

  He could see the Twister’s face now, a look of concentration on it. Opposite the Twister sat a big blond girl. Cesare stared for a moment. The girl leaned forward and he could see her full breasts pull against the two thin straps that held up her dress. Suddenly he began to smile. He knew how he would do it now. It was all because of a joke. A very old joke that was told to everyone who came to Las Vegas.

  Jordan looked around him wearily. He wished the job was over. When he came to the F.B.I. fresh from law school and filled with the propaganda, he envisioned an exciting life filled with chasing criminals and spies. He never thought he would spend three months playing chief nursemaid to a cheap hood.

  He looked at the table opposite him. That co
uple was there again. A good-looking couple. He remembered noticing them the first night. There was something familiar about them. As if he had seen them before. With his usual thoroughness he had checked on them.

  The girl was one of the best-known models in America. Barbara Lang, the “Smoke and Flame” girl whose face he had seen in a thousand cosmetic ads and the man was Cesare Cardinali. Count Cardinali, the society racing-car driver.

  He saw Cesare say something to the girl and begin to walk away. Some of the things he had read about the man came to mind. There was a guy who really lived. Leave it to those rich Europeans. They didn’t give a damn for anybody. They had a ball everywhere they went. Here he was with one of the most beautiful dames in America and just as cool as you could be. He looked at the girl again. All the promise the advertisements held was right there. Some guys had all the luck.

  Cesare waited until the blonde sat up straight on her stool. Petulantly she turned to her escort, a fat little man. He gave her some bills from a big roll and she turned back to the table. Cesare started down from the lounge, holding a drink in his left hand.

  He walked down the aisle behind the blonde and hesitated for a moment. The croupier turned the wheel and dropped the ball. Cesare’s hand moved quickly behind the blonde’s back and he started to walk around the table toward his own.

  He could feel the throbbing begin in his temples and the pain. It was always like this. The pain would start there, and then, step by step, move down into his body. He knew the pain now and had a long time ago ceased to fear it. It was the pain of excitement, of danger, of looking into the abyss of time, the hell of oblivion.

  He was behind the Twister who was resting his chin in his hands, supported by his elbows on the table edge. The bodyguard was just starting to turn toward him when the scream came.