The Handle

by Donald E. Westlake

  And then there was more. The Irishman said, “They're supposed to take you back to shore with them, turn you over to the Feds. If they do, the cops'll leave them alone.”

  “What's this? Are you sure of that?”

  “They told me so,” the Irishman said.

  “Mr. Heenan, I believe you.”

  “‘Cause it's the truth.”

  “Of course. And your manner is so open and aboveboard.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. When is this robbery to take place?

  “I don't know exactly. Some time soon.”

  Baron got to his feet. “Very well. I am grateful, Mr. Heenan, and once this robbery has come to pass, you can be sure I will express my gratitude in cash. In the meantime, I'll be happy to have you as my houseguest.”

  “Not me,” said the Irishman, getting abruptly to his feet. “I want to be off this island when they get here.”

  “No.” Baron said to Steuber, “Find Mr. Heenan a quiet room in the other building.”

  “You can't do this,” said the Irishman.

  3

  The island glowed like a stage-set in the Hollywood Bowl, surrounded by the darkness of the sea. Grofield sat in the boat slowly turning toward the piers, and as he stared at the island the background music around his head was harsh, strident, violent. This was the eighth day. Tonight it was going to happen.

  Salsa was seated to his right, silent, calm, imperturbable, smoking a little cigar. They were both in black suits and ties, the suits tailored not to show the guns stowed beneath them.

  It was a Saturday night, with the island at its most crowded. Boats choked the approach to the piers, bobbing at anchor, many containing private parties, spreading out over the black sea yellow lights and the sounds of laughter. People called from boat to boat, waving, laughing, not fully able to understand one another. Dinghies pulled in toward shore or back toward the boats, dark-suited men at the oars and bright-eyed bright-gowned women sitting facing them. Many of them laughed and waved at Grofield and the others in the new boatload threading through the earlier arrivals toward the pier.

  Ashore, groups and couples clustered throughout the rock garden or strolled out onto the piers arm in arm. A dance band had been set up — Friday and Saturday nights only — in a cleared space on the right side of the main building, with a grassy open area under the sky for a dance floor. The waltz music, very schmaltzy, floated out over everything else, uniting all the sights and sounds, combining them into a cohesive whole. Beneath the music the people moved, on the boats and on the piers, amid the rock garden, slowly in the dancing space, in and out of the doors of the main casino, and to and from the cockpit at the back. Above, the sky was black, dead black, pinholed with stars. It was the night of the new moon, and the sky looked wrong, out of kilter, with no moon in it.

  Grofield said, “The last days of Pompeii.”

  Salsa turned his head. “What was that?”

  “Nothing. I expect the ground to open up, flames come shooting out.”

  What he didn't expect was for Salsa to understand him. But Salsa grinned and said, “It reminds me very much of places the ladies used to take me.”

  It always surprised Grofield that Salsa was unembarrassed about having been once a gigolo. Grofield couldn't imagine what that must be like; some time, he'd like to talk to Salsa about it.

  The boat bumped against the pier, bumped again, and stopped. Grofield and Salsa joined the others going up the steps. They moved slowly through the people, along the path toward the casino. Along the way they picked up their usual tails.

  There were four of them, and Grofield had named them. The meek-looking one in the blue-gray suit and the steel-rimmed spectacles was Walter Mitty. The short one with the crewcut and the military bearing and the severe expression with Giggles. The lanky red-haired one with the freckles, his tie askew, was Casey, Crime Photographer. And the stocky balding one in the brown suit was Friar Tuck.

  They were on the island every night, already in place when Grofield and Salsa got there. Grofield knew they were Feds because at one time or another they'd all been on his tail ashore. Usually, Walter Mitty and Giggles followed Salsa around the island while Casey and Friar Tuck hung around Grofield, but now and again they switched it around, probably to relieve the boredom.

  Tonight they stuck to the regular dispersement. When Salsa went off around the casino toward the cockpit — Salsa really dug cockfighting and Grofield couldn't figure out why — Walter Mitty and Giggles went right along with him. Grofield, followed by Casey and Friar Tuck, went into the main building and stopped first in the dining room. One thing he could say about this place, they had good food.

  After dinner — Casey and Friar Tuck at a table between him and the door — he spent a while, as usual, in the casino, dropping most of his losings at the roulette table but giving some of the other games a play as well. Around nine-thirty Baron came out of his secret door and went over to talk to the cashier about something and then went back through his secret door again, and both times he created the stir among the newcomer customers these entrances and exits always inspired. Grofield had been baffled by the door at first — what kind of secret was that? — but finally decided it was just a public relations gimmick. Too bad Baron didn't look more like George Raft and less like Sly Sam the Used Car Man.

  At ten o'clock Grofield went into the men's room, turned around, and was going back out just as Casey was coming in. They bumped into one another, accidentally, and Grofield's elbow pumped, his rigid hand drove fingers-first twice into the pit of Casey's stomach. In the press around the door, men constantly on the move in both directions, the action couldn't be seen. Grofield moved on as behind him Casey doubled over and began to retch.

  He had a minimum of two minutes before Casey would have his wind, his balance, and his stomach back. He moved fast now, going by Friar Tuck, who was waiting in the main hallway outside, just as he had every other time in the past. Grofield gave Friar Tuck a guilty sidelong glance as he hurried by, and then gave him a second one because Friar Tuck hadn't noticed the first. But he got the second, looked around, didn't see Casey, and took off after Grofield, who was leaving the building.

  Grofield went around toward the cockpit at almost a run, brushing by the other people on the path. When he got to the cockpit he kept going, and around behind it there was less light and no people. Grofield stopped, leaning in the semi-darkness against the building, and waited.

  Friar Tuck came hurrying around the curve, breathing hard, and walked straight into a pistol butt between the eyes. He made a small sound in his throat and fell over sideways off the path.

  Grofield put the pistol away again, dragged Friar Tuck farther from the light, and hurried back to do a better job on Casey.

  He found Casey out in front of the main building, looking pale and staring this way and that. Grofield hurried up to him, his hand in the side pocket of his coat, and leaned close enough to say, “If I killed you you wouldn't like it. Let's go for a walk with no static.”

  Casey said, “What's the point? What do you get out of it? We won't bother you, so what the hell?”

  “I hate people who read over my shoulder. Let's just move forward. Toward the dormitory, pal.”

  Casey went, reluctantly, and all the way he kept trying to explain to Grofield that Grofield didn't have to do any of this. Grofield took him around into the darkness beside the dormitory and hit him with the pistol butt and Casey lay down on the ground and stopped explaining things.

  He looked at his watch: five after ten. Parker and Ross would be on their way in, would be landing in five minutes. Plenty of time.

  Grofield moved on around behind the dormitory heading for the boathouses. Now he'd take out anybody on guard there, so Parker and Ross could land unseen.

  But he went around the back of the building and there were two guys there with T-shirts on their backs and automatics in their hands, and one of them said, “That's far enough, Grofield.
Now you come with us.”

  Grofield recognized them, and knew they were not Feds, they were Baron's men. And they knew his name. They talked and acted as though they knew everything. They talked and acted as though the operation was suddenly as sour as a brand new lemon.

  The one that talked said, “Put your hands on top of your head Grofield, while we frisk you. Then we all go talk to Mr. Baron.”

  Grofield took his pistol out and started shooting. So did they.

  He emptied the pistol into them, felt the stinging here and there on his body, threw the empty pistol at their heads as they went down, and went running off into the jungle.

  4

  Baron paced back and forth, back and forth. He was smoking, the cigarette stuck into a long black holder with innards guaranteed to remove all harmful elements from the smoke. Cigarettes tasted bland, lousy, awful, smoked through this holder, and usually he managed to forget to use it, but tonight he felt danger around his head, and feeling danger around his head made him remember to use the health-protecting holder.

  Steuber was in the room with him, sitting stolid and patient in his regular chair. Heenan was there, too, and complaining about it. “I don't want them to see me,” he kept saying, “I got troubles enough with those guys.”

  “You will have no more trouble with them after tonight,” Baron told him. “No one will.” But he was distracted even while he was saying it.

  It had to be tonight. Every night since Heenan had pointed the two of them out, the ones called Grofield and Salsa, the anticipation and alarm and apprehension had been building in Baron, until now it was almost a relief to know it was over, that tonight had to be the night.

  He'd been sure of it at quarter to ten, when the word was passed to him that the man called Salsa was in the process of getting rid of the two policemen who had been following him around the island every night. “Let him do it,” Baron had said, the nerves tingling in his stomach. “Let him do it to both of them, and then watch him to see what he plans next. Stop him from doing any harm to anyone or anything else, just wait till you see what he intends to do, and then disarm him and bring him up here to me. And keep watching the other one, Grofield.”

  That was at quarter to ten. By ten of ten Salsa had divested himself of his police followers, and a minute later he had disappeared. Everyone was apologies, excuses, bafflement. “We don't know how he could have done it! Into a shadow, and through it, and gone!”

  “Find him!” Baron screamed. “He's on the island, find him, find him, find him!” And took out his long black cigarette holder with fingers that trembled.

  Heenan began to whine, and Baron told him to shut up, but it took Steuber's hand to convince Heenan to be quiet. Then Heenan sat and sulked, like a stubborn child forced to sit in a corner.

  At two minutes to ten Salsa was found, on the dancing field, moving in the arms of an ugly fat fifty-year-old matron to the strains of a Viennese waltz. Two staff members fidgeted at the edge of the field till the waltz was finished, then collared Salsa and brought him upstairs.

  Salsa's eyes went first to Heenan. “Now,” he said. “Now I understand. You work for everybody, Heenan.”

  “Don't believe a word he says,” Heenan shouted, telling Baron there was something to learn about Heenan if Baron was interested.

  Baron was not interested. Other matters concerned him. “Where have you been? What were you doing?”

  “I have been dancing.”

  “Steuber. Quickly, quickly, we don't have much time.”

  Salsa said, “What time is it?”

  “Ten o'clock.”

  “Then it no longer matters,” Salsa said, and the phone rang.

  Baron picked it up, his hand shaking. “Yes? What is it?”

  It was Rudi, downstairs, telling him Grofield had started, just as Salsa had started. “Watch him,” Baron said. “Keep him in sight.” He hung up and turned back to Salsa. “Where were you? What were you doing?”

  “I set three fire bombs,” Salsa told him. “They will go off in a very few minutes.”

  “Where? Where are they?”

  “The exact locations are hard to describe. It might take half an hour to give you the precise idea.”

  Baron said, “Steuber. Find out.”

  While the two who had brought Salsa up held him, Steuber and his hands began to ask the questions. Salsa closed his eyes at once, went limp, and said no more, no matter how strenuously Steuber asked him.

  Five after ten. Eight minutes after; the phone rang. It was Rudi again, and he was excited, too excited to talk. But two things came through clearly; Grofield had killed Bud and Arnold and had disappeared, and the casino was on fire.

  “Get it out,” Baron said. “Find Grofield. Get the fire out, and find Grofield.”

  “But the people,” Rudi kept saying. “But the people.”

  It took Baron a minute to understand what Rudi meant, but then he got it. The fire wasn't really bad, not yet, was only in a back corner of the casino, but the casino had been full of people, all of whom were panicking, milling about, trying to get out of the building all at once, making it impossible for Rudi and the other staff men to get through and do something about the fire.

  Then Rudi said, “The cockpit! The cockpit, too! Fire, on fire!”

  Baron threw the phone across the room. “The third one,” he said. He spun around and grabbed Heenan by the shirt-front and dragged him to his feet. “The third one!” he shouted. “Parker! Where is this bastard Parker?”

  “I don't know, I don't know, how should I know?”

  Baron threw him away as he'd thrown the phone and ran across the room to where Salsa still hung limp in the arms of the two staff men, with Steuber waiting patiently to one side.

  Baron grabbed Salsa by the hair, held his head up. “Where's Parker?” he shouted. “Where's your other man?”

  Salsa didn't open his eyes, but he smiled.

  Baron raged around the room, furious with doubt and fear. There was an onyx desk set on his desk and he yanked it up, spilling out the pens, He rushed back to Salsa and slashed at his head with the desk set, hitting him till blood streamed down over Salsa's face and the staff men finally dropped him and stepped back, looking whitefaced and confused.

  “Guns!” shouted Baron. “Guns, guns, where are the guns?”

  It was minutes after ten. Steuber moved stolidly across the room, pulling his keys from his pocket, on his way to unlock the guns.

  5

  For the first time in his life, there was no background music.

  Grofield sat against a treetrunk in pitch darkness, examining himself as best he could with half-numb fingers. So far as he could tell, he had been shot four times, but none of them serious; he didn't seem to be carrying any of the bullets with him. One had sliced through the fleshy inner part of his upper arm, a few inches above the elbow, leaving a strong ache like a Charley horse in its wake. Another had drawn a line across the top of his left shoulder, barely breaking the skin and leaving behind it a faint stinging feeling. The third had gone in his right side at the waist, through the spare tire he kept meaning to exercise off, and out again, with a burning sensation where it had gone in and a dull ache where it had come out. And the fourth had gone through the fatty part of his left leg, a couple of inches below the groin, causing more bleeding than all the other three wounds combined, but with practically no pain at all.

  These were the first four times in his life he'd been shot. The experience took some getting used to.

  But slowly he was getting his equilibrium back. He touched himself all over, stretching his arms and legs and found that everything was working all right, and then grinned in the darkness. “If that's the best they can do,” he whispered, “then, what the hell.”

  The background music started again as he climbed up the tree to a standing position. Somber music, portentous. Would he get through? Would he get to the cavalry in time to save the settlers from the Indians?

  His left a
rm was stiff and his left leg was slightly numb, but he could still navigate. He moved through the tangled growth back the way he had come, and for the first time he noticed the new flickering quality of the light ahead of himself.

  The place was on fire! Salsa had done his part, the fires were started.

  What the hell time was it? If Parker and Ross tried to land, and Baron's men were in control at the boathouses…

  Grofield hurried the rest of the way back to where he'd left the two guys who'd shot him — they'd come out worse than him, they were still lying there on their faces — and went past them toward the boathouses; up ahead of him he could hear the sounds of gunshots.

  No good. He didn't have a weapon on him.

  He went back to the two guys he'd killed, and found their guns, both Colt automatics. There were three rounds left in the clip of one of them, and five in the other. Carrying them both, Grofield headed toward the boathouses again.

  A cabin boat was in toward shore, bobbing in the waves as though there were neither a man at the controls nor an anchor out. Three guys on shore, protected behind the wall of the boathouses, were firing at it, and occasionally there was a flash of a gunshot from the boat.

  Grofield picked his spot, steadied his right hand with his left, and picked them off one two three, doing it so fast the third one didn't even have time to turn all the way around. Then he hurried on down to the water's edge and called, “Parker! Come on in!”

  The boat limped in to shore, bumping against the dock beside the boathouses. Grofield came out on the dock and Parker tossed him a line and Grofield made the line fast.

  Parked climbed out of the boat, tossing two light plastic suitcases ahead of him, and said, “What's gone wrong?”

  Grofield waved his hands, with the guns in them. “They know about it, don't ask me how. I got rid of the Feds on my back, and then two of Baron's men put the arm on me. They knew my name, they acted as though they knew everything. I shot my way out of it, but I got hit a few times.” He was proud of the offhand way he had said that, and at the same time knew that with Parker there was no other way he could have said it. In fact, it would have been better to say nothing at all, but that cool he couldn't be.