by Al Fray
“I want to make formal application for that union card,” I said, reaching for my wallet.
“Oh? Got the dough together, eh?”
“That’s right.” I began to thumb bills onto his desk, “Initiation and the first quarter’s dues. What does it come to?”
“Fill out the blank, McCarthy.” Vehon opened a drawer and slid a mimeographed sheet across to me. I glanced at the amount listed for dues, added in the fee for joining, and finished counting the cash.
“I’ll take a receipt,” I said. He nodded, his finger already whipping short arcs over the telephone dial, and I divided my attention between his phone and the entries on the application blank.
When someone answered on the other end, Vehon said, “It’s Friday night.”
Which was hardly enlightening, because Vehon grunted once and then hung up the receiver.
I went through the mimeographed sheet and jotted down answers to several things, borrowing heavily from the late W. McCarthy for such things as birthplace and the rest. When I slid it back to him he glanced through it and nodded his head.
“I’ll take some of the dough back,” I said. “It’s payday. Remember?”
“Comes out of another account,” Vehon said shortly, and scooped my cash into a drawer. He filled in a receipt and handed it to me. “Stick around.”
I cooled my heels and Vehon went back to his paper work. We were waiting for Sam Ward, that much was obvious; but why hadn’t he simply left the cash with Vehon as arranged? Or would Sam bring reinforcements? Had something torn a little? I sweated out twenty minutes and then the back door opened and Sam barged in. He was alone and I drew a long breath, then hit him for my money.
“No dough this week, McCarthy.”
“I could use a little more than that by way of an explanation,” I said. “We had a deal—let’s keep the payments up.”
“You haven’t earned anything, McCarthy.” Sam rubbed a fat hand along his heavy jaw and looked at me through narrowed eyes.
“The hell you say! My work was to keep an open ear and do what I could about getting the Tyler babe to forget that Walchek’s accident might have had a helping hand. Has she been going off on any more forages for information?”
“No, but—”
“Then open the vault. It isn’t much but it’s money and mine and I want it.”
Vehon looked at Sam and then glanced quickly toward the wall clock, and I wondered if a goon squad was due to arrive any minute.
“I don’t know about you, McCarthy,” Sam said. “You’re tough and you sound good but every time we start to work in close things go sour. I’m beginning to wonder why.”
“So far you’ve made one deal with me. I carried out my side—nobody at Tyler Trucking is hounding the cops to reopen the Walchek wreck.”
“Forget about Walchek; let’s get back to last Monday. You were supposed to keep your eyes open, McCarthy. If you had you’d have recognized Fradkin at the wheel of the Lincoln. And maybe you did; maybe you did. We have to keep that in mind too.”
“I’m rolling a truck at sixty and a car pulls alongside with a small arsenal aboard—you expect me to start looking around for friendly faces? If you read the papers you’ll remember—”
“I know what the papers said,” Sam cut in. “Just give it to us from McCarthy’s viewpoint.”
“All right, I’ve given it to you. When I saw the sawed-off shotgun sticking out of the rear window I reacted away from danger. I ducked and pulled the wheel over.
“Toward the car.”
“Hell, yes, toward the car. Do you think I figured I could outrun a Lincoln Capri with my eight-ton semi? It was box him and force a drop-back or else!” The two of them were watching me closely and I began to feel the pressure. “Why? Why keep me guessing? I told you before that if something good came along you could count on me, but do I have to run in the dark?”
“All you had to do was open an eye. You were told to be alert, McCarthy,” Ward said.
“You should have given me a crystal ball. Or was I supposed to read your minds?”
Vehon looked at Sam Ward and Sam said, “Yours was to be a minor role, McCarthy. The syndicate isn’t handing out a blueprint of its projects to a drifter off the road. All you had to do was pull over to the—”
“Syndicate?”
“Get it straight, McCarthy, this outfit is big. Times change. The corner grocery stores still stand here and there but they’re rapidly fading out as big supermarkets take over the business. Same thing in the fast money league. Sure there’s a small-time grifter or two still around and occasionally you find a one-man bank artist, but they’re few and far between and they make out about as well as the hole-in-the-wall grocer. No good!” Ward fixed me with an apprehensive look and went on.
“I’m the front man for the syndicate, McCarthy. They decided it wasn’t important for you to know every move in advance—just a hint was all you were to have in this operation and it damn well should have been enough. Understand?”
“So it’s a syndicate. While we’re shedding tears over the dough you didn’t make let’s not lose sight of one important fact. Nobody paid me. If you’d wanted those fur coats sidetracked all you’d have had to do was pay in advance.”
“You would have gotten your dough, McCarthy.”
“Crap! I’d have been over the barrel; you’d have kissed me off with a bag of peanuts. What were you doing, saving money?”
The phone rang then and Vehon scooped it up, said hello, listened and then barked, “Who you calling?” He listened again and then said, “You misdialed.” He dropped the receiver on the cradle and shook his head.
“Some jerk wanting to know what’s playing at the Paradise tonight. Now where were we?”
“We weren’t very far,” Sam answered. “It’s as I say, this McCarthy makes noises like he wants to play ball but every time we get close to him we lose our ass.”
“There’s a simple solution. Money,” I said. “I’ve earned fifty bucks on our first agreement and I want it. If you have anything you need done and it runs into real dough, you can count on me—provided I get the cash.”
“You ever see a guy so money hungry?” Sam asked. Vehon shook his head and pulled an envelope out of the drawer. He opened it, slid two twenties and a ten across the desk, and tucked the envelope away. I pocketed the cash with what I hoped was a greedy look and grinned at them.
“Next time get me in a little deeper. I can use the lettuce,” I said, and turned away.
“We’ll try once more. There’s one in the mixer now and we can use a good man at the wheel. We might risk you in that spot,” Ward said.
I stopped and turned back. “Now we’re talking. When?”
“It’s in the formative stage. These things take time.”
“Time I’ve got,” I said. “What is the dough?”
“Substantial, and in advance or on a percentage basis, whichever the syndicate thinks best.”
“Advance is a word I like to hear but substantial is a little vague. How much does substantial mean in dollars?”
“We’ll talk it over when the plans have jelled awhile longer,” Ward said. It was a bid toward good-by so I nodded, told them to pass the word, and went out.
Half a block up the street I stopped short, then slowly drew a cigarette from the pack and struck a match. Vehon had phoned to tell Ward that I was there. Vehon claimed my fifty bucks would be out of another budget and indicated Sam would bring it. But when the time came to hand over the cash, it was Ed Vehon who parted with the green, and from an envelope which had been in his desk all the time.
Walking along, I went carefully through the evening’s performance in the office of the Teamster’s Local and two things began to seem out of line. Not entirely wrong, perhaps, but worth a second thought. It was pretty obvious I’d been detained—both Vehon and Sam had glanced anxiously at the clock from time to time. And there had been the phone call.
I thought about that a few minute
s, then stepped into a drugstore, went back to the phone booth, and picked up the book. First I checked the Teamster’s Local, MA-3461, and then I looked up the Paradise Theater. Their number was ST-1477.
If someone had intended to phone the Paradise he’d sure missed hell out of it—the only similarity was in the second digit.
There was only one place that anyone could be interested in keeping me away from and that was Tyler Trucking. I started in that direction now. On the way I had to pass Marty Bruno’s stand so when I saw his head lift at the sound of footsteps I called the greeting. “How ya, Marty? What’s news?”
“None, Mac,” he said, and leaned across the counter with his elbows on the glass. “And you?”
“The same. How are the smokes holding out?”
Marty slid the Luckies across to me and I handed over a bill. “A one,” I said. Marty made change and put his weight on his elbows once more.
“Feet tired?” I asked, grinning.
“Cramped quarters. A guy gets a little stiff.”
We shot it back and forth a few minutes longer and then I said good night and went toward the truck yard.
A light showed in the living room so I slipped quietly around the side of the house and back to the rolling stock. Standing between my semi and a six-yard dump job, I listened for several seconds but heard no sound. There was a flashlight in the cab of my truck and I put a hand on the door handle, then froze and remembered once more the bitter morning when Paul Hunt had opened my car door and a bomb had blown his insides half away. Very slowly I took my hand from the door handle. I rolled an empty oil barrel over beside the truck cab, stood it on end, climbed up, and was able to see down into the cab. I struck a match, and when it flared up I could see that there was no wire or pipe connected to the door. I stepped down, went around to the safe side, and opened the cab door. A careful check showed that nothing was amiss in the cab of my truck so I went around it several times to check on the van and the underside. Satisfied, I put the empty barrel back in place, walked softly around to the front and down the street.
A few minutes later I let myself into the small bachelor apartment I called home, and even before I touched the light switch I caught the smell of cigarette smoke—fresh smoke, and I’d been gone all day. For several seconds I stood near the door, then padded across in the darkness and put a hand on the table lamp that provided the only light in my tiny living room. The metal socket was still warm to the touch.
There wasn’t any doubt now why McCarthy was put on ice for a while this evening. I’d had callers and they were making damn sure I wasn’t there to form a reception committee.
Chapter 9
I snapped on the light, glanced quickly around, and went back to the open door. A hasty check of the brass fittings showed no marks or other signs of jimmying around the keyhole. Closing the door, I went through to the kitchen and repeated my examination, and this time I found fine scratches on the beveled edge of the lock bolt. A simple matter, this business of slipping into a house, and it’s all but impossible to keep someone out if he is determined to get in. A flat piece of metal on the order of a cake spatula slipped behind the batten and worked against the slanted surface of the bolt will do. A little pressure and some patience—no particular skill is needed.
I pushed the door shut and lit a smoke while I went rapidly through possibilities.
The next stop was the bedroom. My loose change on top of the bureau was still there; my socks in the top drawer had been shoved around but they were all present and accounted for. Strictly not a heist job, this little caper, purely a forage for information. Since I’d already turned on the overhead light I couldn’t be sure it hadn’t been used but I felt the sun-ray bulb I’d screwed into the bed lamp and it wasn’t even warm. I breathed a little easier and went on to make the rounds.
The two letters I’d prepared weren’t missing; I could only hope that someone had gotten around to reading them. After all, I’d gone to plenty of trouble setting them up. Going back to the kitchen once more I opened the cupboard under the sink, made a careful survey, and decided that no one had bothered my Purex bottle with the henna. I mixed a highball and weighed the relative merits of phoning the law and making like an irate citizen as against the wisdom of a still tongue.
Silence won. I could hardly go running to the cops with my troubles and Ward’s men couldn’t have found anything connecting me with the past. I could relax now; all I had to do was hold still and let the soil firm in around me.
Sunday and a picnic at the lake. It was still too cold for swimming so I rented a small sailboat.
“Aye aye, Captain McCarthy,” Gail laughed as we pulled away from the dock, “let’s put to sea.” She raised one hand in mock salute, then sat on the foredeck and dipped one foot tentatively into the water. Her outfit was a two-piece job, shorts and halter that needed plenty of sunlight to keep its owner from feeling the chill and she kept shifting to stay out of the shade of the sail. Bub was obviously having the time of his life.
“All right, sailor,” I said after a while, “come on back here and I’ll show you all I know about small boats. It should take about thirty-seven seconds.”
“You mean I can steer her?”
“And handle the sail too. I’m no ancient mariner but I can show you how to bring this thing around without spilling us in the drink.”
Gail smiled as I went through the simple mechanics of showing Bub how to make turns with the bow heading into the wind and then I let him have the tiller and the lines and went to sit on the foredeck with Gail.
“Nice to get away from the truck yard for a while,” she said. “I haven’t heard anything new from Captain Domms on Arno’s wreck. Domms is still working on it, of course, but—” Sure, I thought, he’s working, but don’t put off eating until Domms solves your troubles, “—and there’s still enough business to keep the three trucks running but unless the insurance company pays off on the wreck we—”
“Look,” I said, “between now and Monday there’s nothing you can do. Nothing. So let’s put it out of mind. Deal?”
“All right, Mac.” She caught my hand and we lay back and watched the tip of the mast write lazy figure eights against the blue sky.
An hour later on the strip of beach near where we’d parked the car, Gail laid out the usual trimmings and the first bite was enough to convince me that she was a girl who took a little time and made things right. Later she and I sat on a blanket and watched Bub sail the boat by himself.
When the day was over and I let myself into the apartment there was a small note on the carpet, a folded square of paper that had been slipped under the door. I opened it and saw two short lines of typing.
Mr. McCarthy, please call Mr. Doberman
at ST-6133 at your earliest convenience.
I pushed the door shut and then read the note a second time. Doberman. Doberman Trucking. The words tumbled back to me—Doberman is too big for Ward to crush and there are only three outfits: Ward’s, Doberman’s, and Tyler. And now this note from the middle man on the totem pole.
A feeler put out by Sam Ward to see what I would do? Could be, and it wouldn’t hurt to check with Ward to show good faith. I slipped the paper into my pocket, went down to the corner drugstore, got a dollar’s worth of change, and dialed Sam’s number.
“McCarthy speaking,” I said, when Sam answered the phone.
“Something interesting over at Tyler’s?” he asked quickly.
“Not at Tyler’s,” I said, and told him about the note. “So what do you want me to do?”
“What have you done so far?”
“Called you. You’re paying me to do that.”
“Good you phoned, McCarthy,” Sam said. “You’ve got the right attitude. Now let’s see, Doberman wants to chat with you, eh? I wonder could that be coincidence? Well, maybe something can be worked out. Now you call Doberman, see, and find out what the hell he wants. I can’t figure his angle but whatever it is, listen with interest, yes
him a few times, and don’t make any commitments. You follow me? If he’s got a proposition, get all the dope you can and then tell him you’ll have to think it over.”
“Right.”
“And McCarthy, call me right back. I’ll be waiting to hear.”
When he hung up I dialed the number on the note, and the voice that said hello was heavy and forceful.
“My name is McCarthy,” I said, “and I’m returning a call from a Mr. Doberman.”
“Oh yes, McCarthy. This is Doberman. I’d like to talk to you. I think I could use another driver, if you’re interested.”
“I’m already employed, I guess you know that,” I said.
“Well, there are jobs and then there are jobs. This one is something you should consider, McCarthy. You ought to come down and talk it over.”
“I’m willing. When does the conference take place?”
“Why wait? I can be at the office in—say twenty minutes.”
“All right. And where is that?”
“At 204 West Third Street. I’ll see you there.”
“Sure,” I said, and hung the phone.
I lit a smoke in front of Doberman’s office and waited for him to show. By the time I’d taken a dozen puffs I heard a car crunch into the parking area behind the office and shortly the curtain raised and he swung the door open. I’d seen Doberman around town and he’d been into the bank a few times when I was a teller. He was a big man—real big—one of those fellows who can carry close to three hundred pounds without looking like a barrel of blubber. Brown hair. Thick tan fingers when we shook hands, and a grip that was as firm as a wrestler’s grab.
“Nice to know you, McCarthy.” Doberman sat down in a well constructed oak chair and tilted back, his over-sized shoes stacked up on a corner of the desk and his hamlike hands clasped behind his head. I sat down and waited.