Never Say No To A Killer

by Clifton Adams

  She dropped as though she had been shot.

  “That's better. Now drink your Martini and calm down a little.”

  She glared at me, then downed the drink angrily. The well-trained waiter was right at my elbow, ready to pick up the empty glass. “Another of the same,” I said, “for the lady.”

  We sat in absolute silence until the drink arrived. I hadn't meant for it to be like this at all, I had meant for it to be a nice, smooth operation carried off in a civilized manner. But, goddamnit, people simply would not allow me to be civilized.

  Jesus, I thought, I don't enjoy this sort of thing; I'm no goddamn sadist. A certain amount of violence, sure; like a good fighter, I needed a certain amount of violence to keep my reflexes in condition.

  The waiter came and went away again, and still we sat there in silence. But she didn't look quite as angry now. I could almost see her taking control of her emotions, and some of the fire went out of her eyes, and she sat there for a long while, studying me coldly, calmly.

  “Well,” I said at last, “what do you see?”

  “... I'm not sure.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “I didn't enjoy that little scene. I hadn't meant for it to be that way at all. Now, have you calmed down a little?”

  “... Yes.”

  “Fine. Finish your martini, then if you still want to walk out, I won't try to stop you. Is that fair enough?”

  “Mr. O'Connor,” she said coldly, “I want to ask you once more. What do you want from me?”

  I sighed. “I don't know what's wrong here, I honestly don't. We speak the same language, don't we, the American language? I've told you three times, it's a universal plot: boy meets girl, the oldest plot in the world. My methods were unorthodox, I admit it, and perhaps they were all wrong, I admit that too, but believe me, that's all there is to it. To put it bluntly, I saw you, I wanted you, I went after you. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Things you want... Do you always go after them like this?”

  “That depends on the situation and the value of the object desired.”

  “I see.” Her hand was perfectly steady as she lifted the martini to her Ups. “Do your methods work?” she asked, her gaze lowered.

  “Yes,” I said, “my methods usually work. Not always, of course; nothing is perfect. But ninety per cent of the time, yes, they work.”

  “See something you want, take it,” she said.

  “You amaze me,” I said. “Yes, that sums up my philosophy pretty well. It is simple, direct, completely honest.”

  She lifted her gaze to stare at me. “Honest?”

  She was interested now; at least, she was curious, and this pleased me. I said, “Of course. The strong take from the weak. They always have and always shall. That is the first law of Nature, and what could be more honest than Nature?

  “That sounds pretty pat for a philosophy.”

  “Of course it's pat, because it is simple, and honesty is a straight line between the question and the answer.”

  “It sounds like a negative philosophy, at the very least.”

  “Negative? That depends on one's definition of good and evil. But first philosophy itself must be defined. 'Philosophy,' said a certain Frenchman, 'is the pursuit of pleasure.' What could be more sensible? Now, how do you achieve this philosophic pleasure? Pleasure is brought about through the fulfillment of personal ambition, the acquisition of wealth or power, or the titillation of our senses and appetites.”

  She sat there for a moment, still staring very soberly at my face. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't mean to bore you.”

  “... I'm not exactly bored,” she said, after a moment. “I have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Who is the Frenchman you admire so much and love to quote?”

  I laughed. “I was afraid you would ask that—please don't allow his reputation to obscure his logic. His name was the Marquis de Sade.”

  “Where did he die, this hero of yours, this Marquis de Sade?”

  “... In a madhouse, I believe.”

  She smiled thinly. “That's some philosophy you've adopted, Mr. O'Connor!”

  I could have carried my argument forward and perhaps made a point or two, but I was no longer interested in abstract criminal theory. It had served its purpose for the present, it had got Pat Kelso curious as to just what the hell kind of guy I was, anyway.

  Then she jarred me. “I met a man once,” she said, “who had ideas much the same as yours. His name was Venci. John Venci, I believe.”

  “Venci?”

  How much did she know? How much was she guessing?

  I said, “I don't believe I know the name. Who is he?”

  “He is dead,” she said flatly. “He was a gangster and very powerful, but now he is dead.”

  “... I see.” Then I said, “I find this interesting—you and a gangster, I mean. You don't seem to go together. How did you meet?”

  “Through a... friend.”

  “Alex Burton?”

  That was the sensitive nerve. Something happened to her, especially to her eyes, when his name was mentioned. I said, “All right, it isn't important, we'll forget it.” I noticed that her glass was empty again, and I remembered that I had made a promise and would have to keep it. Pat Kelso was no person to be held by chains alone; there had to be something stronger than that: curiosity, hate, fear. But some attraction had to be there, and it had to be a good deal stronger than mere intimidation. There came a time, after the first show of force, when a trainer had to take a dog off a leash and see if he would heel of his own accord.

  The waiter was there again, ready to pick up the glass. I said, “It's up to you. Do you still want to go home?”

  For a moment I thought she was going to say yes. She glanced at me, surprised at first, then suddenly she amazed me by laughing. “I don't think I ever saw a man so sure of himself!”

  “Does that mean you'll have dinner with me?”

  “... Yes. I believe it does.”

  I felt like a million dollars. I was beginning to live, actually beginning to enjoy myself for the first time since I crashed off that prison work gang. We left the Lake Hotel and went to a place called Moranis, an old Colonial mansion—rather, what looked like an old Colonial mansion. The owner himself hustled forward when he saw who we were, looking mildly shocked and grieved, and I guessed that this was one of the places that Burton and Pat had favored while Burton had still been alive. This suited me fine; it amused me to walk in and take over where the late ex-governor had left off, right down to his girl and favorite restaurant.

  “Miss Kelso,” the owner said gravely, “I can not tell you how very pleased to...”

  “To see me back again?” Pat laughed and patted his hand. “Angelo, you know I could not live in Lake City and not visit the famous Morani! Angelo, this is Mr. O'Connor, an old friend, and we are starved. Do be a dear, will you, and tell Mario we are here.”

  Angelo Morani shook my hand, but his heart wasn't in it. After we were seated I said, “Who's Mario?”

  “The chef, of course.”

  “Oh, I see. The minute we come in the chef drops everything and takes our order personally. Who are we supposed to be, anyway, visiting royalty?”

  She smiled. “They remember me as Alex Burton's... friend. I'm not kidding myself; the reflected glory won't last long, but as long as it does last I can't see why I shouldn't take advantage of it, do you?”

  For just a moment I reached across the table and took her hand. “You're quite a riddle,” I said. “A few minutes ago you turned pale every time I mentioned Burton, now you're taking it in stride.”

  “Maybe I've come, at last, to join the Living, as you advised.”

  “You won't be sorry. Burton had his day in this town, but, believe me, I'll have mine too. And soon. Pat I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I'm going to turn this town upside down and shake it till its teeth rattle—so help me, within a few months nobody'll remember Alex Bu
rton ever lived!”

  She looked at me, steadily. “When you say it like that, I can almost believe you will do it.”

  “I'll do it, all right. I'll...”

  I looked up and the chef, a great, red-faced man with bristling mustaches and lively eyes, stood beaming down on Pat.

  “Miss Kelso!”

  “Mario, it's wonderful to see you again!”

  “Thank you!” he said, obviously not annoyed at being called from his kitchen. “Now!” he beamed. “For dinner, what shall it be? But wait, let Mario do it! A great surprise, what do you say to that?”

  “I think it's wonderful. You do that, Mario, a surprise for two.”

  I said, “Tell me something.” And she looked straight through me, waiting. “Tell me,” I said, “why you decided not to walk out on me.”

  “Credit it to momentary insanity.”

  I laughed. “All right, now tell me something else, about you, Pat Kelso.”

  A full minute went by before she said a thing. Then, at last, when she did speak, her voice was surprisingly calm and pleasant. “There isn't much to tell; my family was poor but proud, as they say. My father sent me to the best schools, although it plunged him into bankruptcy, and I failed to live up to his expectations by marrying well-to-do, so... I began looking for a job.”

  “That's how you met Burton?”

  “... Yes.”

  “One thing I would like to know. Were you in love with him?”

  I thought she wasn't going to answer at all this time. But finally she looked at me with a forthrightness that was stunning. “I'll say this one time, just one time, and then well never speak of Alex Burton again.”

  “That's fair enough.”

  “No, I don't think I loved him,” she said flatly. “But I adored him. He was the kindest, gentlest, most generous man I have ever known. When I was with him he made me feel that I belonged to another world. The world my family had once belonged to, long ago.”

  That stopped me for a moment. I had only to look in her eyes to know that she actually believed it, what she had said about Burton.

  Great God! I thought, what a politician he must have been! That thieving bastard, that robber of the poor, that murderer who could look a girl like Pat in the eye and convince her that he was kind, gentle, generous—a saint, practically! I felt the laughter bubbling in my throat but didn't dare let it come out. What a joke this was!

  But she would never know. Not from me. I had the good sense to see that nothing I could say would change it—it would only make her hate me—so I said nothing. I accepted it.

  After all, what difference did it make now? Alex Burton was dead.

  Then I began getting a hunch about Pat Kelso. I began to wonder if it had been Burton's gentleness, kindness, that had really drawn her to him. I wondered if it couldn't have been his “generosity” that had really hooked her...

  I saw the wine waiter headed in our direction and I said quickly, “I told you once I was going to shake this town till its teeth rattled. And I will. A lot of loose change is going to fall from a lot of pockets—how'd you like to be standing in just the right place to catch some of it?”

  She smiled, mostly with her eyes.

  “You amaze me, Mr. O'Connor. I'd like very much to be standing there when the money starts to fall.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT WAS CALLED the Marlow Building, a relatively new and modern building in downtown Lake City. I walked in and studied the building directory for a moment, then headed for the elevator. The elevator starter, a uniformed girl of about twenty-four, held the car when she saw me coming.

  “Going up, sir?”

  “I sure am!”

  Yes sir, there was no doubt about it. I was on my way and the sky was the limit. The elevator doors came together with a whisper, shutting out the marble-floored lobby, the small exclusive shops. It's quite a building, all right, I thought, and it must cost Parker King a pretty penny to keep a suite of office in it. A man with a very tall stack of blue chips. That was Mr. King, Senator Parker Everest King.

  I felt nine feet tall when I stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor. This was one of those buildings that had no thirteenth floor—ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen. But it was still the thirteenth floor, no matter what they called it, and Parker King was going to find it plenty unlucky; you could bet your life on that.

  I walked left from the elevator and there were eight doors, all in a line, all with frosted glass panels, all with the lettering on them: THE P. E. KING COMPANY CONTRACTORS. I opened the first door and went in.

  The receptionist, an attractive, businesslike woman of about forty-two or three, said, “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I'd like to see Mr. King.”

  “I see. Mr. King has a very full morning, sir, I'm afraid I couldn't possibly disturb him just now. May I have your name, sir, and the nature of your business?”

  “William O'Connor, which won't mean anything to him. The business is... confidential.”

  “I see,” she said, writing it down: William O'Connor, no appointment, confidential business. She took the note and went into another office.

  She returned. “I'm sorry, Mr. O'Connor, but Mr. King's morning schedule is completely filled. Perhaps if you could come again tomorrow, or call...”

  “I'm afraid that will be impossible,” I said.

  I took an envelope from my inside coat pocket, selected one of several photostats that had been in it, and put the other photostats back in my pocket. I borrowed the receptionist's fountain pen and wrote across the face of the photostat: This will give you an idea how confidential my business is. O'Connor.

  I said, “Will you please give this to Mr. King?”

  She didn't like the, idea of disturbing the Great Man again, but that hocus-pocus with the photostat had looked pretty important and she didn't want to miss any bets. The receptionist gave the envelope to the other girl, and the girl took it into the other office, and after a moment she came back, spoke to the receptionist, both of them looking at me.

  “Mr. King will see you, Mr. O'Connor,” the receptionist said.

  “Thank you.”

  “This way, sir,” the other girl, the secretary, said.

  I followed her out of the front office, through the other office, and through the doors of the sanctum sanctorum itself.

  Parker King was waiting, and he was angry. He stuck the opened envelope under my nose and said, “What the hell's the meaning of this!”

  “I thought it was perfectly obvious.” I said. “It's blackmail.”

  That stopped him. He was a good looking guy about forty, well tanned, well dressed, well fed, and no doubt well satisfied, until I had stepped in with that photostat and knocked the wind out of him. There is some sort of perversity in most humans that makes it impossible for them to call a spade a spade, no matter how obvious it is.

  “Blackmail,” I said. “There's no use chasing out tails and wasting time. You have in your hand a photostatic copy of some very important and confidential documents, made from originals which are in my possession, though not on my person, naturally. To get down to cases, you will notice that there is a cancelled check, made out to cash and signed by you, in the amount of thirty-five hundred dollars. And here is a photostat of the county commissioner's bank statement —please note the deposit date of May Third, the day after you wrote the check; the entry is a deposit of thirty-five hundred dollars. Strangely enough, here is a photostat from the commissioner's office records which shows that your firm was awarded a large turnpike construction contract on the very day the check was written, despite the fact that there were seven bids lower than the one your firm submitted.

  “How am I doing, Mr. King? Is the picture beginning to form? Well, I'm not through yet, there's still the clincher, there's the photostat of a memo you made dated May First —can you read it, Mr. King? You're damn right you can. It says, 'See Anderson 11 A.M. 5-3 re turnpike deal'. It's a note made in your o
wn hand, on the memo pad that's on your desk right now. Well, King, how does it look? Have I got you or haven't I?”

  He looked gutshot and sick, but there was still some fight in him. “You punk,” he said hoarsely, “Do you know who you're talking to! Do you know what the penalty for blackmail is in this state!”

  I knew who I was talking to, all right. I took a step forward and pushed him against his desk. “Do I know who I'm talking to?” I said. “Now there's an idiotic question— I know more about you than your own mother could ever guess. I know you for the thieving sonofabitch you really are, King, and that's not just guessing; I've got the proof. Sure, you're a state senator, which bothers me not at all. You're a state senator who has a pretty good chance of becoming Governor someday, if you keep your nose clean, and that's exactly the reason you're going to do as I say, because you want to be Governor, and because you haven't got the guts to do anything else. Oh, I know who I'm talking to, all right. You think I'd be damn fool enough to approach someone with a deal like this unless I knew him?”

  I let him go and he almost fell.

  “What... what do you want!”

  “Money, of course.”

  “And what... do I get for it?”

  “I am not an unreasonable man, Mr. King. Get in and get out, that's my motto. I'm here to sell you the originals of those photostatic copies you have in your hand—my price is twenty thousand dollars.”

  “What!”

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” I said. “Think of it, that's not so expensive for complete protection. You'll be buying the original documents, remember that, not the copies. You won't have to worry about my milking you year after year. One price buys everything, a clean bill of health. Anyway, what are you hollering about? You made more than twenty thousand out of that contract deal with Commissioner Anderson.”

  His face was gray. “I won't pay it!”

  This was just reflex. His morale had taken a beating and he had to make a show of resistance for his own benefit.