by Hank Janson
He looked from her to the necklace calculatingly. He had a large cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. He spoke through it, choosing his words. ‘What d’you want me to do with it, lady?’
‘What will you advance me on it?’
He took his time about replying. ‘Sorry, lady. We don’t make advances.’
She sounded kinda desperate. ‘But you must. I’ve lost so much money and I must have a chance to get it back. If you’ll only advance me …’
He interrupted her with brutal finality. ‘We don’t advance money on jewellery any time, ma’am.’ He paused, watched the warring emotions reflected in her eyes. He added, just a little too casually: ‘If you wanna sell, lady. That’s different, see!’
‘Sell!’ She’d never considered selling it. She only wanted to hock it. ‘I couldn’t do that!’ she said, horrified at idea.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s all I can do, lady.’
She picked up the necklace, left him slowly and reluctantly. Her head was bowed and her shoulders drooped. I moved up to talk to him. He was watching the dame, that calculating look still in his eyes. And he was right. Because she was coming back.
‘How much ... I mean what would you …?’
‘You wanna sell, lady?’ he asked bluntly.
‘What would I get for it?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That ain’t my department But if you wanna sell, you’ll have to see Mr Frisk. He makes his own valuations, does his own buying.’
‘I wouldn’t want to sell unless I could be sure to get a good price,’ she faltered.
‘Mr Frisk buys cheap,’ he told her frankly.
‘Could I ... I mean … when I win some money, could I buy it back?’
He chuckled grimly. ‘You discuss that with Mr Frisk. Maybe you could buy it back. At a price!’
She looked over her shoulder at the table, feverishly. She said, like she was talking to herself: ‘I’m sure I’m on a winning run. It’s due up any time, now.’
‘You wanna see Mr Frisk, lady?’ he interrupted rudely. ‘Do you?’
She hesitated, torn with indecision. Then it seemed to burst out without her being able to control her voice. ‘Yes please,’ she said quickly. ‘I’d like to see Mr Frisk. Right now, if you please.’
He signalled to a guy in evening dress who was lounging in a chair, smoking a cigarette. Even in evening dress, the guy still managed to look flashy. The cashier jerked his thumb towards the dame. ‘She wants to see the boss.’
The fella flashed her a grin that was too wide, jerked his head: ‘This way, lady.’
I watched him push his way across the room with the dame following behind him. He went across to the far side, pushed through a door marked ‘Private’. A voice interrupted me. A harsh voice.
‘What’s on your mind, bud?’
I looked at the cashier. His eyes were hard and stony. I worked up a grin. ‘What’s a guy do about getting credit!’
‘Nothing,’ he said flatly. ‘You just don’t get it.’
‘I’m betting with the lady,’ I told him. ‘I’m sure we’re on a winning run. I wanna back my hunch, but I’ve run of ready. What d’you suggest?’
‘Go home,’ he said baldly. ‘Money’s the only thing that counts around here. If you ain’t got it, we don’t lend it.’
‘How about a cheque?’
He thought about that. ‘Some cheques are fine,’ he said. ‘Others aren’t so good. They stretch.’
I drew myself up, got an indignant note into my voice.
‘I’m not in the habit of issuing bouncing cheques.’
‘You oughta meet some of the guys I’ve met.’
‘You’re being offensive,’ I told him. ‘Are you willing to cash a cheque or not?’
My indignation amused him. He leaned forward across the desk, clasped his hands and grinned up at me. ‘Sure,’ he said agreeably. ‘We cash cheques. Mr Frisk cashes them. But it’s a lotta trouble. He takes a risk, too. He charges twenty per cent for the facility he gives you.
‘That’s fantastic,’ I burst out. ‘Twenty per cent extra for cashing a cheque! I’ve never heard anything like it before.’
He still smiled at me agreeably. ‘That’s all right, fella. You go home like I told you. You don’t wanna hang around here.’
I swallowed hard. ‘I’m just on a winning run,’ I said. ‘If I can get just a little dough …’
‘Make up your mind, bud,’ he invited. ‘D’you wanna cheque cashed?’
I hesitated, fought a battle with myself and then yielded. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll cash a cheque.’
The agreeable smile was still on his face, but his eyes changed. They became hard and menacing. ‘Just one more thing, bud,’ he said. ‘That cheque had better not bounce. If it does, you’ll bounce even higher! We kinda take a dislike to guys who try pulling a fast one.’
‘My cheques are okay,’ I said weakly.
‘It’s your last chance to back out, bud. If you ain’t got dough in the bank, back out now. It’ll save you a lotta grief.’
‘My cheque’s good,’ I said.
He nodded with satisfaction. ‘You’ll have to wait a few minutes,’ he said. ‘Mr Frisk will be available any moment now.’
I waited about five minutes. At the end of that time, the bony dame was back with that same eager, hopeful look in her eyes. She handed the cashier a slip of paper and his face creased in a wide grin when he saw it. ‘He sure herded you close on that sale,’ he commented.
That was all I had time to hear, because the guy with the flashing smile was steering me across the room to that far door, the one marked ‘Private.’
He opened the door, pushed straight inside without knocking. I followed close on his heels. We were in a long, well-lighted corridor. He led the way, and I followed to the far end. This time he paused, knuckled the next door with respect. It had painted on it in smooth gilt letters the name, ‘Mr J J Frisk.’
A muffled voice sounded through the panels. The flashy-smile guy opened the door, stood on one side and motioned me through.
I took a deep breath. Everything was going fine. It was working just the way I’d planned. Everything was coming to a head now. Because right now I was about to meet the man I’d been waiting to meet for fifteen years.
CHAPTER FOUR
His phone bell rang at the same time I entered. He picked up the receiver, began talking into it, and motioned me to sit opposite him.
As I sat in that comfortable, hide-bound chair, I watched him across his wide, oak desk; studied him with a kinda scientific detachment. At the same time, I tried to suppress the fluttery feeling in my belly.
He was just the same as I’d remembered him; changed in little ways, of course. Then he had been forty. Now he was fifty-five. But he was in excellent condition. His hair was smooth and black, glossy and neatly parted. It receded further back on the temples than when I had last seen him. But he hadn’t one grey hair!
His skin was smooth and unwrinkled. Just think of that! Not one wrinkle in his high forehead. Maybe that was on account he didn’t worry. He never worried about anything. Or, to put it in another way, he never cared a tinker’s cuss about anybody. The only thing that counted in his life was himself.
His eyes were brown and kindly. As he spoke into the telephone, they had a thoughtful, faraway expression in them. If you didn’t know as much as I did, you’d figure right away he’d be a good guy to dress up as Father Christmas and hand out toys to the kiddies.
That would be one Christmas you could bet on the kids being disappointed.
There was still that little cleft in his chin. He still had that habit of fingering it while he talked. He was doing it now.
Yeah, he was just the same as I remembered him, even after all these years. He was handsome, sleek, and well-dressed. He looked kindly and human. But he was a ruthless fiend, a man who would do anything for his only god – money!
That fluttery feeling in my belly was quietening
now. So far, he’d hardly given me a glance. I was scared he’d recognise me. If he did, my careful planning would be wasted. Even if he didn’t recognise me, I had a tough job ahead. From this point onwards, I had no specific plan except to ingratiate myself with him somehow and choose my right moment.
He finished talking, replaced the receiver, and as he did so, his eyes slipped across the table towards me. I knew a moment of fear, dropped my own eyes. I found myself staring at the bony dame’s necklace. Almost at once, his delicately manicured hand reached forward, swept the necklace into his desk drawer. His quiet, modulated voice said, whimsically: ‘A little souvenir.’
I had to look at him. I had to know if he recognised me. I stared levelly into those kindly brown eyes, saw in them only speculation.
‘You’re Mr Frisk?’ I asked.
‘What can I do for you?’
I grinned ruefully. ‘The numbers weren’t running for me on your table.’
He tut-tutted. ‘You didn’t lose too heavily, I hope?’ His eyes and voice suggested it would break his heart if I lost too much.
‘Less than I can afford to lose,’ I said. ‘I wanna lose a little more, give that table a thorough beating.’
He smiled understandingly, nodded his head and made a tent of his fingers. ‘You wish to obtain a little ready money. Is that it?’
‘The cashier said you’d change a cheque.’
Momentarily his eyes hardened. Then once again his eyes were kindly. ‘My cashier explained that we are always willing to be of service – for a consideration?’
‘He told me,’ I grunted. ‘He also threatened what would happen if the cheque bounced.’
If he’d been the nice, kindly guy he looked, such a remark shoulda knocked him off his perch with surprise. But he took it easily, smiled with those kindly eyes and nodded his head approvingly. ‘I prefer my clients to understand fully
the situation,’ he purred.
‘You’ll cash a cheque then?’
‘Just a few details first, Mr …?’ He paused enquiringly.
I hesitated. The question caught me on the hop. I said, ‘My name’s Martin. John Martin. I’m stopping at the Oxbell Hotel.’
He noted it in careful, precise handwriting on a memo pad. My heart was in my mouth. I thought maybe he’d try checking at the hotel. He didn’t. He just said, coolly: ‘How much ready cash do you want?’
‘A grand will cover me, I guess.’
He nodded, opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out another pad. This was printed, used internally between him and the cashier. I watched him pencil in the amount. 1,000 dollars. As he initialled it, he said: ‘Just let me have a cheque for twelve hundred dollars, will you please?’
I had a cheque book ready on a bank in Nebraska. I wrote carefully, twelve hundred dollars to be paid to J J Frisk. I almost went wrong, almost signed my own name on the cheque. I remembered in time, signed John Martin.
He took the cheque, studied it carefully, then placed it in his desk drawer and handed me the memo. ‘The cashier will give you the markers you require.’
Now I was stuck. Somehow I had to get in well with him, manoeuvre him some place where I could get him alone. I could do it only by having his confidence, otherwise I’d be in trouble with the two bodyguards who shadowed him wherever he went.
‘You’re kinda interested in business deals, Mr. Frisk?’ I said bluntly.
His kindly eyes studied me thoughtfully. ‘Who isn’t?’
‘I’ve got some pretty big irons in some very hot fires,’ I told him. ‘Can I get you interested?’
‘Could do,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘It depends on the size of the irons and the heat of the fires.’
I took out a cigarette, lit it slowly and breathed through my nostrils. I took a long time about it. Then I said, slowly: ‘It’s a deal worth a coupla hundred grand.’
Not a muscle of his face moved. ‘That’s big money, Mr Martin.’
‘I’m a big guy,’ I said. ‘I’m interested in big money. Aren’t you?’
He leaned forward across the table; his face was quite close to mine now. ‘What’s your proposition?’
I breathed more smoke through my nostrils, grinned, gestured around the office. ‘Hardly the place to talk about it.’
The skin over his cheekbones tautened. ‘I transact all my business here.’
I grinned at him cheekily. ‘Microphones under the desk? Every conversation recorded? No, Mr Frisk. What I’ve got up here’ – I tapped my forehead – ‘means real money. I tell part of it at the right time to the right person. I’m too smart to have somebody heating my irons for me.’
He studied me thoughtfully. I stared back at him. I wished I knew what he was thinking. One thing was sure. He was interested. If I could play this right, he’d maybe walk into my trap.
Yet all my careful planning for revenge that had been smouldering inside me for fifteen years was suddenly shattered. Interrupted rudely and abruptly by the office door smashing inwards under the impact of two struggling bodies.
I scrambled out of my chair, stared in surprise as they rolled on the floor. One of them was the flashy-smile guy, the other was an older guy, a grey-haired fella about fifty.
‘What the hell …’ roared Frisk. He, too, was on his feet, glaring balefully as they struggled. A third man came running in, a broad-shouldered guy with the face of an ex-pugilist. He didn’t hesitate, launched himself on top of the struggling pair.
His appearance made all the difference. In less than a minute, all three of them were on their feet again. The flashy-smile guy was rumpled, dusty and flushed. The broad-shouldered hood was smiling with satisfaction as he scientifically twisted the older guy’s arm. The older guy vas poised on tip-toe, strained there by the agony of his twisted arm.
Frisk stared at him. ‘How the devil did you get in here, Manton?’ he demanded. At the same time, he motioned urgently to flashy-smile, who obediently closed the door.
The old guy gritted his teeth, moaned piteously. ‘You’re breaking my arm.’
Frisk ordered: ‘Okay, Jenks. Let him go. Watch him, though.’
Jenks released him. But before he did so, he ran his hands over the old man, dug down in his pocket and produced a revolver. With a meaningful gesture, he leaned forward, slid it across the desk towards Frisk.
Frisk picked up the gun, held it pointing at Manton and smiled grimly. ‘Have you got a licence for this?’
I got my first real good look at Manton then. I saw he was grey-haired, haggard and with the red-rimmed eyes of habitual drinker. But there was a kinda pathetic nobility about him as he squared his shoulders, stared straight at Frisk. ‘Where’s my daughter?’ he demanded, and at the same time his hands and face began to work. His voice crackled hysterically. ‘Where’s my daughter, you damned swine?’ he yelled. ‘What have you done with her? What have you done with my daughter!’
Frisk’s eyes narrowed ominously. He took a deep breath. ‘You’d better get this straight for the last time, Manton,’ he said coldly. ‘I don’t know where your daughter is, and I don’t wanna know. Is that understood? Now get outta here. And understand. If I ever find you around here again, you won’t get off so light.’
Manton’s hands and face worked so terribly I was scared he was gonna hurl himself at Frisk. But the broad-shouldered Jenks grasped him firmly by the arm, his hard, cruel fingers digging into flesh. Manton licked his lips nervously. Frisk said, contemptuously: ‘Get him outta here, will ya?’
Jenks dragged at Manton, pulled him away from the desk. Manton’s eyes flamed and his face contorted in anger. ‘You can’t treat me this way,’ he yelled, and he twisted with unexpected strength, tore himself free from Jenks and tried to
launch himself across the desk at Frisk.
Flashy-smile reached him in time, grasped him by the back of the collar. ‘Cut it out, Bud,’ he rasped, and there was an evil tone in his voice that belied the softness of hid features. The hand that wasn’t grasping Manton�
�s collar was jamming a .45 hard into Manton’s backbone.
Just about the most uncomfortable thing you can feel digging in your backbone is the muzzle of a revolver. When that hard iron ring is digging into your spine, it makes you stop dead in your tracks and start thinking. Because in that moment you’re face to face with death, realize your life is dangling on a thread as slender as your spinal cord. And your spinal cord can be shattered in a split second by
the swift tightening of a finger.
Manton kinda froze. He was scared. He sure was a mixed-up guy. Anger, fear, fury and rage were boiling around inside him. It looked like the fear was winning, because when flashy-smile tightened his grip on Manton’s collar, he curled his lips, snarled in a low, menacing voice: ‘I’ll get you for this, Frisk. I’ll get you sometime, somehow!’
‘Come on, Bud,’ snarled flashy-smile. He jerked hard on Manton’s collar, twirled him around, propelled him towards the door. Jenks stood at the door, ready to open it, poised like he was gonna add his boot to Manton’s rear. Frisk watched with hard, thoughtful eyes, still holding the revolver carelessly.
Nobody expected another squawk outta Manton. He was outnumbered three to one, there was a revolver pointing at him and he was no physical match for the two hoods who were escorting him off the premises.
Maybe it was because nobody was expecting it that Manton nearly succeeded. As Jenks opened the door, flashy-smile momentarily released his grip. It was enough for Manton. With another spurt of that unexpected vitality, he spun around, smashed his fist into flashy-smile’s face, and in the same moment, chopped with the edge of his palm on the back of flashy-smile’s gun hand.
It all happened so quickly that, before I’d taken it in, flashy-smile was reeling backwards, his gun was slithering across the floor and Manton was diving after it.
I’d never have thought Manton had so much speed in him. He grasped the gun, scrambled to his feet, pointed it with trembling fingers at Frisk. His eyes were wild, his hands trembling and his face working. ‘Where’s my daughter?’ he gasped. ‘I’ve gotta know. What have you done with my daughter?’
Jenks was poised ready to spring. But he didn’t. The reason was clear. A .45 bullet trembled on the end of Manton’s finger, and it was headed straight for Frisk. And did that finger tremble!