The other certain thing was that nobody found the diamonds. A team of accountants reconstructed Rudy’s financial transactions for some years back and came to an intriguing conclusion. Somewhere along the line, roughly a million dollars was unaccounted for. Rudy’s “missing million,” the papers called the sum.
Jon, of course, knew the million had been in the diamonds Rudy carried in his shoes the night he disappeared. And while Elvira didn’t suspect that the diamonds accounted for the whole million, and didn’t know about the shoes, she most certainly knew about the diamonds.
“Don’t say a word about them,” she’d whisper on those frequent days, shortly after Rudy disappeared, when people came to question Jon—Lieutenant Novak, other policemen, Feds, reporters, and of course Train, always Train, seeking clues to hidden assets to which Venus could lay claim. Adam Lord had been elected president and board chairman of Venus, succeeding Rudy. And while it would be years before the litigation over Rudy’s assets was settled, there was already no doubt that Venus and its shareholders would get the lion’s share of whatever was recoverable.
Train returned again and again, always friendly, patient and understanding, never patronizing. Jon even grew to like Train, who showed him pictures of his own house, a split-level in a suburb, and of his family—a skinny wife and two sturdy boys of high-school age. Jon had to admire Train, too. The papers said he’d won eight commendations before the politicians eased him into assignments so tedious that he’d resigned in disgust. He’d received the scar on his face subduing two drink-crazed stevedores. Once, he and a partner surprised four men holding up a tavern. Train’s partner died in the first volley, but Train killed three bandits and seriously wounded the fourth, even though in the exchange of fire he’d been hit twice himself.
But of course Jon never admitted his growing respect for Train. Correctly, he recognized Train as the most dangerous of his adversaries, the one most likely to gain his confidence, and so outwardly Jon continued to rebuff him. He’d look out a window and say, “I wish you’d go away…
After a while policemen, reporters, and even Train came around less often. Life slipped into routine. Elvira had transferred Jon from the private day school to a public school. And one day after school, when Uncle Howard was out, Elvira poured herself a tumbler of bourbon, grabbed Jon’s arm, and hauled him into the living room. Howard was out often lately, with new-found cronies from his broker’s boardroom, and when he wasn’t around Elvira drank an awful lot, much more than Howard ever drank. Howard, in fact, was drinking much less. His stock-market coup changed his personality, vastly increasing his self-confidence.
“Now look,” Elvira said, shoving Jon into a chair. “I’m beginning to think gangsters did kill your father. They probably slit his throat and buried him in a forest preserve. But the thing is, Jon dear, Train hasn’t found those diamonds and doesn’t even know they exist, but you know what happened to them.” She sipped more bourbon. “Now,” she said, her tone mellowing in a false way, “those diamonds could be valuable to us. To you. If your father’s dead, you’re his heir. I thought even if he was dead his estate would amount to something, but he was so far in debt you’d never get a cent, I see that now. And if they don’t find his body, we’ll have to wait seven years before he’s declared legally dead to collect on the insurance policy. But if the diamonds are still hidden in the house or with Rudy’s stuff in the warehouse, we could go to Train and Lord and make a deal. We’d get a percentage just for telling where the diamonds are. We’d also get one if Rudy sent the diamonds out of the country, and you told us how and where Train might find them. If Rudy gave the diamonds to that bitch Bess, we could go to her and make an even better deal, fifty-fifty, and the government need never know, there’d be no tax. In fact, if they’re where we could get our hands on them without anyone finding out, we could have it all.” She drained the glass. “So there it is. Just tell me. I’ll protect your interests. Where in hell did Rudy keep those diamonds?”
“I don’t know,” Jon said.
“You do know.” Elvira slapped him hard. “So tell me, or I’ll knock your little block off…”
* * * *
Thereafter it was open warfare between them. Elvira forbade Jon any allowance and ripped his comic books to shreds when she found them, telling Howard she was punishing Jon because he’d been naughty while Howard was at the broker’s. Howard slipped Jon money now and then, but Jon didn’t need it. He hid most of his comic books in a friend’s basement in exchange for unlimited reading privileges. Jon’s plan was to save enough to buy a bus ticket to New Orleans, and to maintain himself there while studying how to stow away aboard a ship bound for those warm places where his father might be found.
His efforts to earn more money meant he had to devote less time to another secret project, one he’d begun the very day Elvira had taken him from the brownstone. In a composition book, the first page headed “My Father’s Betrayal,” Jon was putting down all he’d learned about the terrible things his father’s enemies had done. The way Adam Lord had fought his father from the start, never allowing him to make money for the Venus stockholders. The connections in Washington, who failed Rudy. Molloy’s treachery. The study mike and the wiretap plant. Train, Novak, and all the other snoopers. Even Howard was in there, for selling Venus short. And Elvira, who hoped Rudy’s body would be found for the insurance money.
Jon wanted it all down on paper, so he’d never forget who his father’s enemies were. At first he’d worked very hard on the book but lately, for reasons he didn’t understand, he’d added to it less and less. He really hadn’t meant the things he’d written about Howard. And Train—rereading the passages about Train, Jon experienced a vague, disquieting sense of guilt. Lieutenant Novak wasn’t such a bad fellow either.
Actually, Jon decided, he’d be glad to give up working on the book for a while.
* * * *
“I,” Howard said, “have had it.”
Loud and clear, Howard’s voice drifted to Jon’s room. It was a Saturday morning. This argument had been going on since breakfast, beginning as so many others had over a trivial matter already forgotten, and expanding into all areas of his relationship with Elvira. Somehow, though, this argument seemed more intense, more destructive than the others.
“You bastard,” Elvira said. “You’re dying to walk out, aren’t you? After I’d given you the best years of my life, trying to help you. Now that you’ve got some money, through a lucky fluke, I suppose you want to dump me for a younger woman, some little tramp who’ll give it to you every night.”
“There’s no other woman. Not yet.” Howard walked to their bedroom, and Elvira followed. “And don’t worry. You’ll be taken care of. You can have the house. The car.
The bank account, and half the dough in the broker’s account. I’ll pay a reasonable alimony. Any damn thing, just so I can get out of this squirrel cage.”
He banged things around.
“You’ll leave me alone? With just a small boy to protect me?”
“He’s the one who needs protection. I can see what you’re doing to him, that’s another thing. I’ll tell that social worker the kind of life that poor kid lives here.”
“You monster! Anyhow, they won’t listen to you. What nerve! Why, I’m his aunt, his only relative, they can’t take him away.”
“Maybe not. But I’ll tell ’em anyhow.” A suitcase slammed shut. “Temporarily, I’ll be at the Hilton. Get a lawyer. Have him call my lawyer Monday morning. Claim any grounds you like, I won’t contest. And as for being alone—don’t worry, no prowler in his right mind would tackle you. But if one does, there’s a loaded revolver in the top drawer. Just point it, cock it, and pull the trigger. In fact, when you’re getting stoned in front of the television set tonight, why don’t you do the world a favor and turn it on yourself?”
Screaming, Elvira ran to the living room.
H
oward came to Jon’s room. Awkwardly, he hovered in the doorway, a suitcase in one hand. “Sorry, kid. I—well, whatever happens, I’ll keep in touch. I’ll buy those season tickets to the Bear games and—oh, hell.”
Howard walked away. In the living room, Elvira yelled at him some more. “You’ll be back. You can’t do this. I know you’ll be back.”
The front door closed.
For a moment, there was no sound. Then glass clinked against glass.
Elvira said, “Jon? Come here, Jon, this minute.”
Jon, though, was already on his way out the back door. He ran down the alley, then cut to the next block and headed for Clark Street to board a streetcar. Apparently Uncle Howard, trudging along with his suitcase, hadn’t seen Jon.
Someone else saw him, however. Behind Jon, a black sedan crept after him in low gear…
* * * *
The browns tone was vacant. The windows were undraped, the rooms empty. Technically, Rudy still owned it, but like his other possessions it had been tied up in the courts. Ultimately, it would be sold.
Jon often went there when troubled, and now he was very troubled indeed. Howard had been his protector in Elvira’s house. By nightfall, Jon would have to return and be alone with Elvira, who’d probably ask about the diamonds again. Only this time, with no chance of Howard walking in, there was no telling how far she’d go.
Moodily, Jon walked to the back yard and around the porch to the gangway on the other side. The gangway dead-ended, cut off by a high fence. The adjoining building was vacant too. Here, in the shadows, nobody could see Jon, and that was just fine. From here, he knew a way into the brownstone, a way he’d discovered years ago, playing hide-and-seek with Bess.
It was easy. He crawled through a hole in the wood meshing at the base of the porch and removed a loose screen from a small basement window. The window lock was broken. Jon pushed the window up, swung over and dropped to the basement floor. He groped through the blackness and up the stairs to the kitchen. Careful to avoid being seen through the windows facing the street, he went down the hall and up the staircase to his old room.
There, Jon gazed out the window at the scene he’d viewed so often when he lived in the brownstone—the adjoining yard, the alley, and the backs of the buildings on the other side. He tried to imagine he still lived there; that behind him, the room was furnished; that Bess was downstairs with the cook and the maid; that any minute now, Rudy would come home to take Jon and Bess for a drive to the Retreat…
He remained at the window for some time, but the illusion failed as it always did. Irrevocably, this was the here and now. He didn’t live in this house any more. How had his father put it? That in life, one phase follows another, and always the next one is different…
Jon turned.
A man stood in the doorway, watching him. He wore dungarees, a work shirt and a cap; dark glasses covered his eyes. He could have been a caretaker, someone paid to look in on the place to discourage vandals.
But he wasn’t a caretaker. Jon recognized him instantly, by the bumpy nose and the irregular contours of his face. It was the man who had taken his father away.
* * * *
“Hi, kid.”
He moved toward Jon.
Unaccountably, Jon was afraid, more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. But he stood his ground and tried not to show it.
The man kneeled, his face close to Jon’s. “You know me?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie. If you lie, I’ll see it in your eyes.”
“You came to our house,” Jon admitted, “on Christmas Eve.”
“That’s right. I helped your father get away. He’s safe now. Your father’s all right. You’re glad to hear that, aren’t you?”
“Yessir.”
“The last thing he told me was he’d send for you, only it’ll take longer than he thought. He can’t do it yet because it’s too dangerous, his enemies might follow you.” The man paused. “There’s just one thing. You tell anyone about me? The cops? Train? Your uncle? Your aunt?”
“Nobody.”
“Why not?”
“I promised my father. I said I wouldn’t tell anyone anything I saw here.”
“Good boy. Your father’ll be proud of you. You’re going to go on keeping that promise, aren’t you?”
“Yessir.”
“Fine. You better keep it. That’s why I came back.” There was a click. A knife blade glittered, as the man held a switchblade before Jon’s eyes. “You know what this is?”
Jon began to perspire. There was a thickness in his mouth, a sickening emptiness in his stomach.
“A—a knife.”
“That’s right. I use it on squealers. I’d use it on you, if you squealed. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Y-yessir.”
“It wouldn’t do no good to squeal on me. I don’t even know where your father is now, I just helped him along. The cops would never find me anyway, but I wouldn’t like to think of ’em looking for me, so here’s the deal. You say one word about me and I’ll hunt you down, wherever you are, and kill you with this.”
“I won’t say anything. I—I told you. I promised my father…”
“Promise me.”
“What?”
“I said, swear it to me.” Behind Jon’s back, his hand closed on one of Jon’s wrists, holding him fast. “This is just between us. I don’t want to hurt you, but unless you swear it, I will. Swear you’ll never tell as long as you live. Your most solemn oath, and if you break it, I’ll know. Even if you tell twenty years from now, I’ll know. You won’t see me, but I’ll always be around, just like I know your aunt and uncle had a fight today, and your uncle walked out. And you bought more comic books yesterday. And skinned your knee playing ball the day before that…” The grip on Jon’s wrist tightened. Gently, the man caressed Jon’s throat once with the blade’s dull side. “Keep your mouth shut, and I’ll never bother you again. But if you talk…”
“I swear it!” Trembling, Jon closed his eyes. “Honest, Mister, I’ll never tell. I swear it, I swear it…”
* * * *
Alone, Jon huddled in the corner. He’d been alone for some time. Before leaving, the man had made him swear again and again, reminding him that if he told, there’d be no place to hide…
Jon shut his eyes again. He had to drive it from his mind. If he didn’t, he’d never survive another day. He wouldn’t have told anyhow, and he sure wouldn’t now. If he didn’t tell, nothing would happen. The man wouldn’t come back, and Jon would be all right.
So forget it. Don’t think about it. And so long as you live, never tell…
Downstairs, the front door opened.
* * * *
There was nothing stealthy about this intruder. He strode heavily through the rooms on the first floor. Jon didn’t move. A sound might give him away. His only hope was that the man wouldn’t come upstairs.
He did, though. And at the door to Jon’s room, the man stopped.
“What the heck,” he asked, peering down at Jon, “are you doing?”
He was short, not much taller than Rudy, but older and with a big belly. He wore a blue pin-striped suit, shiny black shoes and a stylish gray fedora. A diamond stickpin held his tie in place. His face was flabby, his receding jaw blue with beard. He had thick lips, an immense nose and alert black eyes.
He came closer. “How’d you get in? You got no business—say, are you all right? You sick or something? What’s wrong?”
“I—I’m okay.”
“The heck you are. You’re shaking like a leaf.” He placed a palm on Jon’s brow. “You don’t have a fever. Did someone try to hurt you?”
“No, sir. Nobody.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jon Chakorian.”
“Chakori
an?” Understanding dawned in the man’s eyes. “You related to the guy who used to live here?”
“He was my father.”
“I see. Yeah. Well, I—where you live now, Jon?”
“Rogers Park. With my aunt and uncle.”
“How’d you get here?”
“Streetcar.”
“Tell you what.” His mouth curved in an infectious smile, and he chucked Jon under the chin, much as Rudy used to do. He even winked. “My name’s Bonella. Mike Bonella. I’m in real estate. I heard this place was on the block, so I got the keys and came to look it over. But how’d you like a ride home? I bet your aunt and uncle are getting anxious.”
“Oh, no,” Jon said quickly. “I don’t wanna go back. Not yet. They had a fight. My uncle left for good, and my aunt’s a drunk who hurts me.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. She pinches. And slaps.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. She’s just a bitch, I guess.” Bonella blinked. “And anyway,” Jon lied, “she won’t be home until six, and I lost the key. That’s why I’m scared. She’ll be real mad, because of the key.”
Bonella rose and tipped his hat back. “Had lunch yet?”
“No.”
“It’s nearly one. A kid gotta eat. Look, I got four kids of my own, all older than you, but there’s always food in my kitchen. My wife will fix you a pizza pie. Then at six, I’ll drive you home. You like pizza?”
“Thanks, but…” Jon reconsidered. Having someone around until he got home might be a good idea. “Yessir. I like it a lot.”
“Swell.” Bonella helped Jon up. “But,” he added, “lemme warn you. In my house, if you use a bad word like bitch, you won’t eat pizza. You’ll eat soap.”
* * * *
If it hadn’t been for what had happened in the brown-stone, it would have been a good afternoon. Bonella lived in a big old house on the West Side. Jon liked his wife, a short, plump woman who talked a lot. At first Jon was reticent, the memory of the man with the knife still fresh, but as he munched into his fourth slice of pizza he relaxed a little and began to tell the Bonellas about Aunt Elvira, Uncle Howard, the Wolves, his comic book business, and Aunt Elvira. Especially about Aunt Elvira.
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 43