Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  “I’d like to try it. Just to see if I’m comfortable in it.”

  “You put the top down on that sweetie an’ you’ll be more comfortable than you’ve ever been in yer life. You’ll be floatin’ in cunt. That there car is a natural pussy catcher.”

  “That’s great. Right now I want to know if it runs.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” He turned and called to one of the men. “Hey, Chico, go out with this guy.”

  The Mexican dropped the rag on the hood of the car he had been polishing and came over. I got into the car and started the motor. It turned over easily enough. I switched on the radio. Rock music blared out. I reached and unsnapped the catches and pressed the switch. The top went down smoothly. I turned on the wipers and hit the washer button. Water sprayed on the windshield and the wipers took it away. Then I put on the headlights, got out of the car and walked around it. All the lights were on. I went to the front of the car. “Put on the brights,” I called.

  The Mexican touched the floor button. The brights worked.

  “Now the directionals.”

  Right, then left. They worked, too. I got back into the car. Honest John was watching me with a strange expression on his face. “I just like to check,” I said.

  “That’s okay.”

  I took the car out and drove it a few blocks. The brakes were good, all the gears including reverse were solid, and the steering was okay, considering the car weighed nothing. He was waiting for me when we drove back on the lot.

  The Mexican got out and went back to his polishing. I remained seated. Honest John came up and leaned against the door. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Six hundred.”

  He laughed.

  I took out the roll and let him smell the money. “All cash.”

  He looked at the money, then at me. “Seven-fifty.”

  I riffled the bills. “Six and a quarter.”

  “Seven.”

  “Six-seventy-five and we close.”

  “You jes bought yerself a car. Come into the office and we’ll fill out the papers.”

  “Okay.” I switched off the engine. When I turned back to him, he had that strange expression on his face again.

  “You a rock musician?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “They have all kinds of weird getups. I never seen nobody with orange hair before.”

  I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My hair had turned a peculiar orange color. Shit. I wondered what was in that dye Denise used on me.

  “Yer mother have orange hair?”

  “No.”

  “Yer father?”

  I smiled at him. “I don’t know. I never saw him without a hat on.”

  “It’s strange all right.”

  “It sure is,” I agreed. I had the registration made out in Lonergan’s name, using his office address. After we’d taped the registration to the windshield, I drove to the nearest office supply store and bought four quart cans of rubber cement. Then I went to a phone and called Verita at home.

  “Hello.” She sounded nervous. When she heard my voice, she sighed with relief. “Oh, Gary, I was so worried about you. Where are you?”

  “I’m in town.”

  “Two men in a black Buick followed me home from the office. They’re parked across the street from my apartment now.”

  It figured. Sooner or later they would cover everyone they thought I might contact. The big question was who they were. “They look like cops?”

  “I don’t know. The car has Nevada plates.”

  That was a help. They weren’t cops. Whoever they were, it was better than having the whole Los Angeles police force looking for me. “Don’t worry,” I said. “They won’t bother you. They’re looking for me.”

  “I know that. But I want to see you.”

  “You will. Can you contact your cousin Julio Vasquez for me? He might help. We were in Vietnam together.”

  “He is a dangerous man, Gary.”

  “I know that.” Julio Vasquez was the king of the barrio. Nothing went on down there that he didn’t know about. “But the men we are playing with are dangerous, too.”

  “I will call him.”

  “Try to get a meeting for me.” I checked my watch. It was almost six thirty. “Nine o’clock, if you can.”

  “I will try.”

  “Good. I’ll call you back in an hour.” I almost said, “Peace and love.” It was catching. Then I went over to the nearest Norm’s and had steak and fries for dinner.

  “He says he cannot meet with you until ten o’clock.” I could tell from Verita’s voice that she was anxious.

  “That’s fine. Where?”

  “He says that I should bring you to the garage.”

  “Tell me where it is. I can go there myself.”

  “I cannot. He made me promise not to tell anybody, not even you.”

  “Did you tell him about the two men in front of your house?”

  “No.”

  “Call him back and tell him. I’ll call you again in fifteen minutes.”

  I put down the phone and had another cup of coffee, then called her back. “What did he say?”

  “He said not to worry. He’ll take care.”

  “Okay.”

  “He says for you to bring your car to my house and stop around the corner. At nine thirty I leave to meet you. He wants to know what kind of car you drive.”

  “A yellow Corvair convertible with a black top.”

  “You rent it?”

  “I bought it.”

  “Big mistake,” she said. “Ralph Nader says the car is not safe.”

  I laughed. “I’m getting used to living dangerously.”

  There was a tall Chicano in a leather jacket leaning against the lamppost when I pulled the car into the curb around the corner from her house. It was exactly nine-twenty-five. He came toward me. The shiny studs over his breast pocket spelled out J. V. KINGS.

  “Señor Brendan?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Get in the back seat. I will drive.”

  I got into the back seat and he climbed behind the wheel. “Get down on the floor,” he said without turning around.

  With the engine in the rear there was no floorboard hump, but it was still a tight fit. I moved the cans of rubber cement onto the seat.

  A minute later I heard Verita’s voice. “Qué pasa?”

  He said something rapidly in Spanish. The passenger door opened. I felt the pressure against the back of the seat as she sat down. She spoke to him in Spanish. The only word I got was “Buick.”

  “Okay,” he said, starting the engine. He moved away from the curb. We couldn’t have gone more than a quarter of a block when I heard a loud crash behind me. Unthinkingly I raised my head to glance through the rear window.

  A Buick was wrapped around the corner lamppost, held there by a two-ton truck.

  “Get down!” the Chicano snapped.

  I turned and saw Verita staring at me. “Hi, baby.” I grinned, lying back on the floor.

  “Gary!” she exclaimed in a shocked voice. “What have you done to your hair? It’s orange.”

  24

  There was no way I could tell where we were. From the floor all I could see was the streetlights flashing by. About ten minutes later he turned the car onto a ramp and I could tell by the overhead fluorescents that we were in a parking facility. The car kept going up and up and finally came to a stop.

  The Chicano got out of the car. “You can get up now.”

  I pulled myself onto the seat and sat for a moment to ease my cramped muscles; then I got out. Verita threw herself into my arms.

  “I was worried about you,” she said.

  I kissed her cheek. “I’m okay. You okay?”

  “I’m okay. I feel better now that I see you.”

  “Follow me,” the Chicano said.

  He led us to the elevator. The sign next to th
e door read “Park Level 5.” We boarded the elevator and he pressed the SB button. The elevator took us down to the subbasement. We followed him through a dimly lit corridor to a door which opened into a brightly lit room.

  Several Chicanos, all wearing leather jackets like our driver, were watching a color television set with rapt attention. They glanced at us without interest, then turned back to the set.

  Our driver crossed to the other door and opened it. He said something rapidly in Spanish. A voice answered and he stepped back. “Julio says for you to go in.”

  We went through the door and the driver closed it behind us, remaining outside. Julio was sitting behind a desk. On the desk in front of him were some papers and an ugly-looking blue 9mm automatic. He came from behind his desk and held out his hand. He wasn’t a big man, but his grip was strong. “Hello, Lieutenant.”

  “Hello, Sergeant,” I said, returning his grip.

  His teeth were white under his mustache. “You look different.” A note of wonder came into his voice. “Your hair is orange!”

  “Shit,” I said.

  He turned to Verita and embraced her. They exchanged a few rapid words in Spanish; then he sat down behind his desk and waved us to the chairs in front of him.

  “Verita and I are cousins, but I do not see the family very much. It’s a very big family. Sometimes I think we are all cousins down here.”

  I nodded without speaking.

  “We are very proud of her. She has graduated very many colleges and universities.”

  “Julio!” she exclaimed, then spoke in Spanish.

  Julio smiled. “My cousin is modest. She does not like me to brag about her.” The smile disappeared. “You in big trouble, man.”

  “The story of my life. If it isn’t one fuckup, it’s another.”

  “This is a good one.”

  I stared at him. There were no secrets in this town. Everybody knew everything. “Yeah.”

  The telephone rang and he answered it. He listened a few moments, then put it down. “Those two men in the Buick,” he said. “They are both in the prison hospital. The police found two blasters and an automatic rifle in their car. They’re syndicate men from Vegas.” He lit a small cigarro. “They must want you real bad to send in all that heavy artillery.”

  I smiled. “They’re not going to like it very much when they find out it was your truck that took them out.”

  “They have no right to come into my town unless they ask me first.”

  “Would you have given them an okay if they had asked?”

  His eyes met mine. “To get you, yes. With Verita, no.”

  I was silent. He knew what I was thinking. Both of us knew what a blaster could do. We had seen that in Vietnam. If she were within two feet of me, she would have been cut in half along with me.

  “Why do you want to see me?” he asked.

  “I think you know.”

  He was silent for a moment. “It’s not my war.”

  “It wasn’t our war in Nam either. But we were both there.”

  He knew what I was talking about. The Vietcong had had him nailed in a murderous crossfire. His only shelter was under the dead bodies of the other men in his squad. It was simply a matter of time before the bullets chewed them up and found their way to him. I got him out.

  “I owe you one, Lieutenant,” he’d said as I dragged him back to the first-aid station with a bullet in his thigh. They shipped him back to Saigon, where he promoted himself to a job in the supply section at the hospital. By the time I saw him a few months later he had already become the biggest dope dealer in the army.

  He’d heard I was on leave and came looking for me. For the next four days I felt as if I were living in a fantasy world. He moved me out of the dump I was in to a suite in the best hotel in Saigon. From then on it was party time—liquor, champagne, all kinds of dope from grass to angel dust, cocaine to acid, plus unlimited supplies of food and girls. He’d even had papers cut for me to stay in Saigon, but I was still stupid then. I went back.

  I remembered standing on the airstrip just before boarding the plane. “Man, this was too much,” I had said. “How’re you going to get used to it when you go back home?”

  His face had been serious behind his smile. “I’m rich, Lieutenant, and I learned a lot out here. When I go back, I’m going to own that town. It’s about time the Mexicans took it back.”

  I heard later that not only did he come back with money in a Swiss bank but he also weighed about ten kilos more when he got off the plane in Los Angeles than he normally weighed. He had pure, uncut snow in cellophane bags wrapped around his body from his armpits to his hips. Cut twenty times, it had a street value of ten million dollars in the cities back East.

  And someone told me that’s where he’d shipped it. “Let the niggers and the spics have it,” he’d said. “The Mexicans ain’t into it. They sniff, snort, smoke, drink and eat, but when it comes to sticking needles in themselves, they’re all cowards. They can’t stand the sight of their own blood.”

  At least that was one version. Another version was that he used it to make a deal with the syndicate, that he’d given it to them for a dime on the dollar, provided they left him his town.

  I didn’t know which, if either, was true, but one thing was sure: It was his town. Everything had been quieter in the barrio since he’d taken charge. I’d even heard that school attendance had picked up.

  I turned to Verita. “I’m going to talk to your cousin about certain matters. I don’t want you involved.”

  “I am involved. I brought you here.”

  “You’re a lawyer. You know what I mean. You’re not party to anything you don’t know about.”

  She sat there with a stubborn expression on her face.

  Julio spoke rapidly in Spanish. His voice was sharp and commanding. Without a word she got out of her chair and left the room. “Now,” he said.

  “I want you to put a blanket on her.”

  “I already did that. The minute she called and told me about the two men.”

  “Good. I need about six of your boys for the next twelve hours.”

  “Pistoleros?”

  “No. There won’t be any shooting. I just want to be sure they’re bright and tough and know how to handle themselves.”

  He thought for a moment. “Why me? Why don’t you go to Lonergan? He’s your partner.”

  “He’s not my partner, he’s my uncle, and I don’t trust him. He had me on my way to Hawaii while he was busy selling me out. I’d be on the balls of my ass broke again by the time he got through with me.”

  “You’d be alive.”

  “I’ve had enough of that shit. I decided it’s time I got a taste of the good life. I should have learned that from you that weekend in Vietnam, but I was stupid.”

  His eyes were unsmiling. “What do you expect to get out of it? You can’t win. They’re going to take over and you know it.”

  “It’s Vietnam all over again, only this time it’s my war, not theirs. By the time I get through they’ll think six men is an army. I’m looking to negotiate a better peace. I don’t give a damn about the paper. They can have it. All I want to do is come out of it with enough money to start something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “A magazine. Right now Playboy’s got the market all to itself. I can do better. I’ll make so much money it’ll be unbelievable.”

  “Money shouldn’t be any problem. Lonergan would come up with it. So would I. There’s got to be a hundred places you could get it.”

  “I don’t want any partners. It’s got to be all mine.”

  “Everybody has partners.”

  “Do you?”

  He was silent for a moment. “I don’t want my boys to get hurt.”

  “They won’t get hurt.”

  “What if somebody shoots at them?”

  I was silent.

  He picked up the 9mm from the desk and got to his feet. “Come with me,” he said.

>   I followed him through another door and into a corridor. He hit a switch and the lights flooded on. At the end of the corridor was a soundproofed target range. “You used to be pretty good with this,” he said, handing me the gun.

  I hefted the gun, then threw the safety and emptied it into the target. I lowered the gun while he walked down the range and came back with the sheet. The bull’s-eye was completely obliterated, nothing but a gaping hole.

  “All bull’s-eyes,” he said. “You’re still good.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You’re the pistolero. I’ll hold you responsible for my boys.”

  “Okay.”

  We went back to his office, where he gave me a fresh clip of cartridges. After reloading, I checked to make sure the safety was on and stuck the gun in my belt.

  “Now we get down to business,” he said. “What’s in it for me?”

  I smiled at him. “I’ll take you back to Saigon for a four-day weekend and we’ll be even.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then burst into laughter. “That was one crazy weekend,” he said.

  25

  I watched them put the last sandbag in the front trunk of the Corvair. Three of the bags were propped on their sides against the grille and each of them had two more bags behind them for support. I knelt and looked under the car to see if the wheels had clearance. It seemed okay. The heavy-duty shocks we’d put under the front end carried the load. I got behind the wheel and started the engine. I drove the car around the garage. It turned easily and there was no problem with steering. I turned off the engine and got out.

  The Chicano who had driven me to the garage came up to me. “We have the crash helmet and shoulder pads.”

  “Let me try ’em,” I said.

  I put the helmet on, snapped the chin guard in place and pulled down the visor. It fit perfectly. I took it off and threw it in the front seat of the car. Then I took off my shirt and put on the shoulder pads. I kept them on and put my shirt over them. The shirt split the moment I moved.

  “There’s a bigger shirt in the mechanic’s locker,” the Chicano said.