Stiletto

by Harold Robbins

  He still remembered the crickets chirping as they went inside. The place was fairly crowded and the last floor show was on. They stopped in the doorway and looked at the girls dancing a variation of the Black Bottom on the darkened dance floor. “Hey! Look at that one!” he had chortled. “The third from the end. That’s for me. Them boobs bounce around like rubber balls!”

  “We ain’t got the time for that,” Sam had said, pulling him over to the bar. “We’re workin’. Let’s get another drink.”

  “Private stock,” Sam ordered.

  The bartender put the bottle of whisky in front of them. “What brings you guys up from the city?” he asked sourly.

  “We were takin’ a drive,” Big Dutch answered cheerfully. “It was hot in town.”

  “It was plenty hot up here too,” the bartender said.

  “Gettin’ plenty of action, I see,” Sam said, leaning on the bar.

  “Good and bad,” the bartender said noncommittally.

  “Is Vic around?” Sam asked casually.

  “I ain’t seen him tonight,” the bartender replied, equally casual.

  The number was over and the girls picked their way past the bar as they went back to the dressing rooms. He leaned over and jiggled the breast of the girl as she passed him.

  She turned quickly and looked at him. “Fresh!” she said, smiling, and walked on.

  “I can fix that for you,” the bartender said meaningfully.

  “I’ll take you up on that sometime,” he answered, looking after the girl.

  He looked at Sam and nodded. Sam turned and started for the manager’s office. The bartender bent over the button that flashed a signal into the room.

  “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” he said, smiling genially.

  Slowly the bartender straightened up. He came down the bar, polishing the top with his cloth. “It’s none of my business anyway,” he said. “I’m just the barkeep here.”

  “That’s right,” he agreed. “Just leave it like that.” He walked off and joined Sam at the door to the office.

  They went in. Varsity Vic was sitting behind his desk. He looked up. A smile crossed his face. “Come in, fellas,” he said.

  They closed the door behind them. “We got a message from the Boss,” he said. “He wants a meet.”

  “Okay,” Varsity Vic answered. He looked across the room at his bodyguard, who promptly got to his feet. “Just let me know. I’ll come down whenever he wants.”

  “He wants right now,” he said.

  Varsity Vic stared up at him. “Make it tomorrow. I can’t come right now.”

  They turned as if to start out. The bodyguard began to smile and put away his gun. Sam knocked him cold with one punch. They turned back to Varsity Vic.

  “You know the Boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he said.

  Varsity Vic’s face had been white as they walked out of the roadhouse with him between them. The bartender sourly watched them go and kept polishing the same spot over and over with his rag.

  He had gotten into the back seat with Varsity Vic and Sam got into the front to drive. As soon as they had pulled away from the roadhouse, he picked up another bottle of whisky and pulled the cork with his teeth. He held the bottle toward Vic.

  “Have a drink,” he offered. “You look cold.”

  Varsity Vic shook his head.

  “Go ahead,” he urged. “This is good stuff. Not like that crud you sell back there.”

  Still Varsity Vic shook his head. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin and almost cracking. “I’ll give you guys a grand if you’ll let me out of this car.”

  Big Dutch had taken another swill from the bottle. He looked at him silently without answering.

  “I’ll make it two grand,” Vic said quickly. “How much are you guys getting for this job anyway? A hundred? A hundred and fifty? Two grand’s a lot of dough.”

  “You hear him, Sam?” he called.

  “I hear him,” came the reply.

  “Got the dough on ya’?” he asked.

  “Right here in my pocket,” Vic answered, touching his jacket.

  “Okay,” he said. He looked around. They were out in the country now. There were no houses around. “Pull off the road, Sam,” he called.

  The car jounced to a stop on the soft ground. “Gimme the dough,” he said.

  Varsity Vic had taken his wallet out with trembling hands. Quickly he counted out the money on the seat. “Two grand,” he said. “You guys are lucky. That was all the dough I had on me.” He held up the empty wallet.

  “Yeah,” he said, “we’re lucky. Now get out.”

  Varsity Vic opened the door of the car and stepped out. He turned back to the car. “Thanks, fellas,” he said. “I won’t forget this.”

  “I’ll bet you won’t.” Sam laughed, squeezing the trigger of his automatic.

  The heavy 45-caliber slugs threw Varsity Vic about ten feet back into the bushes. They got out of the car and walked over to look at him. The body twitched and then lay still.

  “Siphon some gas out of the tank and douse him with it,” he said.

  “What for?” Sam asked.

  “Lep said, ‘Burn him,’ and when the Boss says something, he means what he says.”

  Then they sat on the running board of the Pierce and drank the remaining bottles of whisky while they watched the fire. When they went to start the car, they found that Sam had taken all the gas from the tank and they had to walk three miles before they could steal another car and get back to the city.

  ***

  Big Dutch leaned forward on the desk and sighed. He poured another drink. The good old days. They were gone all right. Lep and Sam were gone too. Lep had gone to the chair and Sam had caught the knife in the pool.

  He picked up his drink and looked at it. Everything looked like gold through a whisky glass. It was the guineas’ fault. He never believed that Sam really would talk. Not good old Sam. Sam was his pal. But they killed him anyway. They were like leeches: once they got on your back, they never let go. But this time it would be different. This time he would show them.

  He swallowed the drink and reached for the telephone. Might as well call the old lady and let her know he was on his way home. She would be mad enough anyway.

  He was busy dialing and he didn’t see Cesare opening the door.

  ***

  It was just before dawn that she heard his key turn the lock. “Is that you, Cesare?” she asked.

  His voice was flat and tense. “Yes.”

  Then he was at the side of her bed, stripping off his clothes in a violent kind of haste. He came into her bed, his body hard and trembling. He seized her breasts.

  Pain and fear came up together inside her. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Cesare,” she managed to laugh. “One would almost think you’re an American!”

  16

  Cesare was raising his glass of orange juice to his lips when Tonio came bustling in. “Mr. Baker to see you, Excellency,” he announced.

  Cesare nodded. “Show him in,” he said. He drank his orange juice and got to his feet as Baker came into the dining room.

  “Mr. Baker,” he said. “I did not expect to see you so soon again. Do sit down and have some coffee.”

  Baker sat down and studied Cesare while Tonio filled a coffee cup and set it down before him. Cesare returned his gaze evenly. “I see you had a little trouble last night,” Baker said.

  “I did?” Cesare replied politely. “What makes you say that?”

  “The morning papers,” Baker said.

  “I did not see them.”

  Baker looked at the folded newspaper next to Cesare’s cup. “What’s that?” he asked pointedly.

  Cesare looked down at the table. He looked up again at Baker, a faint hint of a smile in his eyes. “The Wall Street Journal. It’s the only paper I read. For business.”

  Baker could feel his face flush. He reached in his overcoat pocket and took out a copy of the Daily News. He sp
read it on the table in front of Cesare silently.

  Cesare looked down at it. The half-page headline seemed to leap up at him:

  STILETTO STRIKES AGAIN!

  BIG DUTCH MURDERED!

  Cesare looked up at Baker. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” he said. “I told you I didn’t know the man.”

  “On page five there’s another story,” Baker said. “A little after midnight a man and a woman were shot at on Park Avenue in front of the Seagram Building. The woman fell into the fountain. They hurried away before they were recognized.”

  Cesare buttered some toast. “So?” he asked.

  “This Baroness you came in with last night. The doorman said her dress was soaking wet.”

  “No one shot at me,” Cesare said, adding some jam to the butter on his toast.

  Baker sipped at his coffee. “That still doesn’t explain how the lady got her dress wet.”

  Ileana appeared in the doorway behind him. “Why don’t you ask the lady?” she said, coming into the room.

  The men got to their feet. Cesare introduced them. “Mr. Baker is with the F.B.I.,” he added.

  Ileana’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. She turned to Cesare. “Are you in trouble?” she asked in a concerned voice.

  Cesare smiled. “I don’t think so. But Mr. Baker thinks some people are trying to kill me.”

  “How perfectly horrible!” she exclaimed. She turned back to Baker. “Is that why you want to know how my dress got wet?”

  Baker nodded.

  “It was very embarrassing,” Ileana explained with just the right amount of dignity. “You see, we had been at El Morocco and I’m afraid I had a little too much champagne. That and the new shoes. I tripped and fell into a puddle. I had hoped no one saw me.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t fall into the fountain at the Seagram building?” Baker asked.

  Ileana looked at him. Her voice became very haughty at the implication that he might doubt her word. “Of that, I am most positive!”

  “What did you do after that?” he asked.

  “Count Cardinali took me to my room. It’s in this hotel,” she said.

  “What time did he leave you?”

  She looked at Cesare. He reached over and patted her hand reassuringly. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to,” he said.

  She turned back to Baker. “Is it important?”

  Baker nodded. “It’s important,” he said seriously.

  She took a deep breath. “About an hour ago. When he left to breakfast here in his own suite,” she said, looking into Baker’s eyes.

  Cesare got to his feet. His voice was still low but it had gone cold. “And now, Mr. Baker, don’t you think you’ve asked enough questions for one morning?”

  Baker rose. He looked down at Ileana. “I am sorry, Baroness, for any embarrassment I may have caused you but it is my job to ask these questions.”

  Ileana kept her gaze down on the tablecloth. She did not look up at him. “I understand, Mr. Baker.”

  He turned to Cesare. “I would still keep my eyes open if I were you, Mr. Cardinali. The rest of those men will be even more dangerous now.”

  “I will, Mr. Baker,” Cesare said, still standing.

  Tonio came bustling in. “Your new luggage will be ready in time, Excellency,” he said to Cesare. “I will have it at the airport at four o’clock.”

  Cesare nodded. “Thank you, Tonio,” he said in an annoyed voice.

  Baker looked at him. “Going somewhere?”

  “I have entered the Gran Mexico Road Race,” Cesare answered. “It begins the day after tomorrow. My Ferrari is already there.”

  “I am going too.” Ileana looked up. She was smiling. “It will be very exciting.”

  Baker looked from one to the other, then he smiled slowly. “Good luck,” he said, starting for the door. “Drive safely.”

  Cesare waited until he heard the door close then turned and spoke angrily. “Why did you tell him you were going with me?”

  Ileana smiled up at him brightly. “I was only trying to help, Cesare.” Tonio appeared again in the doorway. “Just a half a grapefruit, please,” she said to him.

  Cesare waited until the servant had gone. “If I wanted you to go with me, I would have asked you!” he snapped.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh! I did not understand. There is another woman. Forgive me, Cesare.”

  Tonio returned with the grapefruit. He placed it before her and left again.

  “There is not another woman!” Cesare said angrily.

  “In that case I will go with you then,” Ileana said practically. She spooned up some grapefruit and looked up at him. “Besides I cannot afford to work for you. I spoke to your secretary just before I came up here this morning. She told me my salary was recorded at one hundred twenty-five dollars a week.”

  Cesare was seething now. “Just what did you expect to make? You cannot do anything.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” She shrugged her shoulders prettily and looked down at her grapefruit. “But I need at least that much money every day.” She put a spoonful of grapefruit in her mouth. “This is delicious.”

  He stared down at her, beginning to smile in spite of himself. That was what happened when you understood each other. She never said a word about lying to Baker for him. And she never would.

  She looked up at him, smiling in the knowledge that she had made her point. “Besides,” she added, “there are some very rich Texans I know who will be in Mexico City for the race.”

  17

  The desk clerk at El Ciudad Hotel in Mexico City permitted himself a knowing smile. “The Baroness has a lovely suite right next to your own, Count Cardinali.”

  Cesare glanced at him as he finished signing the register. “That will be fine. Thank you.”

  “And we have been holding this telegram for you.” The clerk took an envelope from beneath the counter and held it out to him.

  Cesare took it and opened it as he walked back to Ileana. He scarcely looked at it. It was the expected message. “I have just received word,” he said to her, “my mechanic is ill.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ileana said. “Is it serious?”

  “It means I will have to find a new mechanic,” he answered. “I’d better go right over to the garage and see what I can do.”

  “All right,” Ileana said. “Will you be long?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “Better go upstairs and get settled. I may be a little while. I will join you for dinner.”

  ***

  The garage hummed with activity as Cesare came into it. Men were everywhere, going over the cars in last-minute preparation for the race. He walked through to the small office in the back.

  The little old man came out of the office when he saw him. “Count Cardinali!” he exclaimed, a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Cesare took his hand. “It’s always good to see you, Señor Esteban.”

  “Your car is on the lower ramp, stall twelve,” Esteban said. “I suppose you are anxious to have a look at it.”

  “I am, Señor Esteban, but I have a serious problem,” Cesare answered. “My mechanic was taken ill and I must find a replacement.”

  A sober look replaced the smile on the old man’s face. “That will be difficult, Count Cardinali. All the Ferrari men are spoken for.”

  “I know,” Cesare said. “But we must do something. Otherwise I shall not be able to start in the race.”

  “We must not allow that to happen,” Esteban said quickly. “Let me start looking for one at once. I will call you the moment I have news.”

  “Mil gracias.” Cesare smiled. “In the meantime I will be at the car. I will do as much as possible to get it ready.”

  He had been working on the white Ferrari about an hour when he saw the girl approaching. She was coming directly toward him. He straightened up, admiring the trim figure she made in the white coveral
ls.

  She stopped in front of the car. “Count Cardinali?” she asked. Her voice was low and pleasant.

  He nodded, reaching for a cigarette in his jacket which was hung over the door of the Ferrari. “Yes?”

  “Señor Esteban says you’re looking for a mechanic.” Her eyes were very blue.

  “You know of one? Where can I meet him?” he said eagerly. He was already bored with the work. This was the part of racing that he did not like.

  The girl smiled. “I am one.”

  His surprise showed in his voice. “But a girl? This race is no place for a woman. It is fourteen hundred miles!”

  The smile disappeared from her eyes. She looked right at him. “I’ve driven that far when I’ve had to,” she said quietly. “But we’re not going that far.”

  Cesare stared at her. “No?”

  She shook her head, the blond ringlets around her tanned face caught the light and sparkled. “It will not be necessary.” She bent over the hood of the car and looked in at the engine. “Don Emilio has other plans,” she whispered.

  His eyes widened slightly. He had not expected a girl.

  She straightened up, smiling again. She held out her hand man-fashion. “I’m Luke Nichols,” she said.

  They shook hands. Cesare studied her. “But do you really know Ferraris?”

  Her smile broadened. “I should. I’ve raced them all over the world.” She saw Esteban approaching over Cesare’s shoulder. “Ask him.”

  Cesare turned. Esteban smiled. “I see you two have already met. That is good.”

  “But a girl in the Gran Mexico Race,” Cesare said. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “You are very lucky, Count Cardinali,” Esteban reassured him. “Señorita Nichols had many offers but she had already decided not to enter this race until she heard of your predicament. Last year she drove her own Ferrari.”

  Cesare turned back to her. “Your own car?” he questioned. “What happened to it?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t win. It was hocked to the hubcaps so it’s gone now. I had hoped to pick up something down here, but no luck.”

  “All right,” Cesare said. “You must be good if my friend, Señor Esteban, says so. Standard cut of the purse if we win. Five hundred if we don’t.”