Hour of the Assassins

by Andrew Kaplan

  Caine briefly studied the license photograph in the car, then drove to an all-night drugstore, where he bought hair dye, a curling set, and a pair of Polaroid light-sensitive wire-rimmed glasses of the same type as in the photograph. Back in his motel room, he dyed his hair blond, set it in the style in the photograph, and practiced the signature on the license. He destroyed everything he had bought and put the shirt and the other things that couldn’t be destroyed into the motel garbage can near the manager’s office. Then he called and made a reservation for the morning flight to Vegas under his own name. He also called an all-night accommodation number and reserved a room at Caesars Palace under Hillary’s name. Everything had gone perfectly, except for the tail he had spotted at LAX in the morning.

  Caine stubbed out his cigarette in a large marble ashtray that stood on a coffee table modeled in the massive Roman style. He decided he would take care of the tail later that night. Meanwhile he had things to do that were innocent enough, so it didn’t matter whether he was tailed or not. He found a telephone directory in a desk drawer and noted the address of the public library, a hardware store, a luggage shop, and several gun stores. Then he went down to the lobby, casually checking for the tail. He saw the arm of the brown jacket almost hidden behind a copy of the L.A. Herald-Examiner, then turned away and walked around until he found the Rent-a-Car booth, where he rented a Chevy Vega. He picked up a map of the city from the Rent-a-Car agency and followed it to the public library.

  The librarian was a pretty young woman in jeans who proved very helpful. She directed him to the microfilm viewer, where he ran through back issues of the Las Vegas Sun. He was looking for the by-line of a reporter: someone who knew everything going on in town, but who was discreet enough not to mention names. After about an hour he decided on a reporter named Cassidy. He went outside the library to a pay booth and called the newspaper, asking for the reporter.

  A twangy western voice answered and Caine suggested that they meet in Cleopatra’s Barge that evening about eight thirty. He promised Cassidy the inside story on a hell of a scoop. Cassidy guardedly accepted his invitation, the cynicism and doubt heavy in his voice.

  “How will I find you?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find you,” Caine replied and abruptly hung up.

  Caine then bought hair color rinse and a large roll of plastic sheeting at a nearby supermarket. His next stop was the hardware store, where he picked up a hacksaw, a small vise, a trench shovel, flashlight, and a Smith & Wesson stainless steel folding knife. At the luggage shop he bought a large leather suitcase and a small vinyl airline-style shoulder bag. As he came out of the hardware store, he noted that the tail was in a gray Ford parked down the street. He placed the shovel and the plastic roll in the large suitcase and everything else into the airline bag. Then he drove downtown to the Greyhound bus station and put the large suitcase into a locker. Caine relaxed in the station for a few minutes till he made Brown Jacket again, then drove to the elaborate Boulevard Mall shopping center.

  A large sign spread across the Sears window proclaimed, “Joy to the world, on earth peace and goodwill to men,” and loudspeakers electronically carolled. For the first time, he was reminded that it was almost Christmas. The mall thronged with the bustle of holiday shoppers and he felt a sudden stab of loneliness. But wasn’t it that same Christ who had said, “Foxes have dens, and birds of the air their nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head,” perhaps one of the loneliest sentences ever uttered? And Caine had no family or place to call his own, either. More than ever, he felt an alien in the crowd. He ambled along the bricked walk, peering at the shop windows stylishly dressed for Christmas and attractively enclosed with wrought-iron gates. After a while he went into the Broadway and purchased a pair of jeans and a cowboy shirt. Lastly, he stopped at a camera shop and purchased a Hasselblad, a cheap Polaroid camera, a Film Shield lead-coated pouch, and several rolls of film for both cameras. That was about all he could do with the tail on him, so he drove to the Desert Inn Country Club and played a challenging nine holes.

  He completely forgot about the tail and concentrated totally on the game. In fact it was Caine’s ability to dispassionately concentrate on something that made him so formidable. Just before making a chip shot on the seventh hole, he remembered that the psychologist at Langley had once asked him, “What is the most important thing in the world to you?”

  With some surprise he had replied, “Whatever I happen to be doing at the time.”

  By the time Caine got back to the hotel, showered, and changed into his three-piece suit, it was almost six o’clock.

  Caine began the evening with a steak dinner downstairs at the Bacchanale. While he was eating, Brown Jacket peered briefly into the restaurant. He was a burly man, about Caine’s size, with deep-set eyes and unruly dark hair. Jesus, Caine thought, the dumb prick could use a few classes from Koenig, the Company’s shadow and unarmed combat instructor. He explicitly ignored Brown Jacket and inwardly sighed. He would have to take him out right after dinner. The guy looked strong enough to be trouble, so he would have to do it quickly, he decided as he paid the pretty miniskirted waitress. Her eyes widened slightly as he peeled off one of the hundred-dollar bills from his roll. She smiled brightly, trying to expose her molars as she bent over to hand him his change, giving him the benefit of her cleavage all the way to the nipples. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a twenty-dollar tip. Maybe later, he told himself, and gave her saucy rump an affectionate pat as he got up to leave.

  A spectacular rose-and-violet sunset splashed across the sky, like a giant reflection of the glittering neon that was lighting up all over the Strip, as he drove through the swarming evening traffic to the Pussy Cat A-Go-Go.

  Catty-corner from the Pussy Cat, a white stucco chalet blazed with the neon invitation:

  Wedding Chapel

  Marriage License Information

  Parking In Rear.

  Next to the chapel was a storefront lawyer’s office, with a large sign advertising, “Divorce. Uncontested Only $25.” Caine grinned and headed into the Pussy Cat.

  The large dark bar was relatively empty, since the band didn’t come on till 10:00 P.M. It took a minute for Caine’s eyes to become accustomed to the dim red light. He ordered a Coors from a red-cheeked bartender with a yellow bow tie and left the change on the bar.

  Why is it bars are always dark? Caine wondered. Maybe people feel safer that way. Maybe it’s so they can observe other people while they think that their own faces are safely hidden. While he waited, certain that Brown Jacket would have to come in to see if he was meeting anybody, he checked out the location of the men’s room and the emergency exit.

  At the other end of the bar two businessmen, the only other customers, were talking about how somebody named Roger didn’t know a goddamned thing about the business. There was some discussion of Roger’s connections. It couldn’t be his brains, they agreed sagely, and argued over which of them should pay for the next round. Just then Brown Jacket came in, blinking blindly for a few seconds while his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  Brown Jacket sat at the other end of the bar, near the two businessmen, and ordered a bourbon and branch. When Caine was certain that Brown Jacket had made him, he glanced nervously at his watch a few times, as though he were waiting for someone, and headed for the men’s room.

  He stood waiting in front of the urinal, his hands in front of him. At last Brown Jacket stumbled in anxiously and, seeing Caine alone, quickly made for the urinal next to him.

  “That beer just goes right through you,” Caine drawled amiably. He noted the tail’s shoulders relax a bit as he flushed the urinal.

  “Yeah, I know what you—”

  Brown Jacket never finished the sentence, for Caine, stepping quickly behind him, had thrown his right arm around the man’s throat. As he leaned his weight against the back of Brown Jacket’s knees, forcing him down, Caine shoved his left hand against the back of the head, smashing th
e startled face into the urinal. The sound of flushing water covered the man’s gasp. Caine grabbed a fistful of hair and hauled the dazed man into one of the cubicles and slammed him onto the seat. He locked the door and unfolded the pocketknife. Brown Jacket sat there stunned, his nose broken and mouth bleeding. Caine grabbed the hair to keep the man’s head still and pricked one of the half-closed eyelids with the knife point. Catching his breath, he said softly:

  “I’m only going to ask you three times. If I don’t get the answer I want the first time, I’m going to cut out your left eye. The second time I take the other eye. The third time I cut the carotid artery and you’ll be unconscious in less than a minute and dead in less than five. And even if somebody somehow manages to save you, you’ll be blind for life. Nod if you understand.”

  He felt a shudder run through the man and then the weak, desperate nod. Brown Jacket’s agonized gaze was desperately fixed on Caine’s cold green eyes. Cat’s eyes, Lim had called them once, Caine thought irrelevantly.

  “Who are you?” he demanded quietly.

  “Name’s DePalma. Private investigator,” Brown Jacket managed to gasp through his bloody mouth.

  “Who sent you?”

  “I don’t know. Said his name was Smith.”

  “Say good-bye to your left eye,” Caine said and began to press on the point.

  “Wait, please!” he gasped desperately. “Jesus! Oh, God, that’s what he told me. I just do what I’m paid for. He pointed you out at LAX and told me to stick. That’s all I know, I swear.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was a big guy. Hairy. You couldn’t miss him. Oh, wait, he wore a gold earring,” DePalma added eagerly.

  Freddie, Caine thought ominously. What was that asshole Wasserman trying to do? Of course, he hadn’t really expected Wasserman to trust him, but didn’t Wasserman realize that a tail destroyed his anonymity and made him vulnerable? He frisked DePalma and removed a .38 revolver from a shoulder holster. Then he cracked open the cylinder and dropped the bullets into his jacket pocket and put the gun back in the holster.

  “Listen to me very carefully,” Caine said quietly. “If I ever see you again, that’s the day you die. You catch the next plane to L.A. and tell the goon that hired you that I don’t like company. Oh, yeah, and don’t stop on your way to the airport.”

  Caine thought he saw a sudden hand movement and, grabbing DePalma’s throat so he couldn’t scream, smashed his fist into the broken nose. DePalma started to slide to the floor, but Caine propped him against the side of the cubicle and left the bar by the emergency exit. He glanced at his watch as he got into the car. He just had time to get back to the hotel to meet Cassidy.

  Cleopatra’s Barge was a gaudy cocktail lounge, complete with oars, sails, waving ostrich feathers, and mini-togaed Nubian slave girls. The barge floated on a five-foot-deep Nile set beside a wide corridor just off the casino. At one end stood a lushly draped royal box, where the queen presumably entertained Antony. At the other end a baritone with capped teeth and an expensive toupee, fighting the battle of the bulge against his cumberbund, was standing on a small stage. He was holding a microphone in one hand, a cocktail in the other, and singing, “I Gotta Be Me.”

  Caine lurched aboard across a gangplank, feeling slightly seasick from the hydraulic mechanism that rocked the barge. He caught the eye of one of the older bartenders and asked for Cassidy. The bartender pointed out a thin, ruddy-cheeked man with short graying hair, wearing a rumpled green suit. Caine sat down at Cassidy’s table and ordered “whatever my friend is having” from a busty blond waitress, her thigh-length toga swirling to show a flash of yellow panties.

  “What’s the story?” Cassidy asked, briefly glancing at Caine with indifferent eyes and then looking back to contemplate the bubbles in his drink.

  “Money,” Caine replied.

  “That’s what makes the world go round,” Cassidy said and finished his drink, wondering what Caine’s hustle was.

  “You sound like a cynic.”

  “So what?” Cassidy replied cynically.

  “The trouble with a cynic is that he’s just a disillusioned idealist.”

  “What’s wrong with idealists, come to that?”

  “They make mistakes,” Caine said quietly, his voice almost obscured by the baritone crooning that he had done it his way. For the first time Cassidy looked directly at Caine, stirred by curiosity. The baggy folds under his eyes gave Cassidy the appearance of an intelligent cocker spaniel.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “An idealist reasons that because roses smell better than onions, they must make better soup.” The two men grinned at each other and for an instant they were almost friends.

  “Okay, Mr.…” Cassidy hesitated.

  “Hillary,” Caine put in.

  “Okay, Mr. Hillary. Are you buying or selling?”

  “Buying. I want a name.”

  “What’s in a name, speaking of roses,” Cassidy remarked and signaled to the blonde for another drink.

  “One thousand dollars,” Caine replied. “Five hundred dollars now, five hundred dollars when I meet the name.”

  “That’s a nice name. What are you looking for?”

  “Suppose somebody wanted to buy a hundred-percent Grade A phony ID: passport, driver’s license, the works. Top quality and satisfaction guaranteed not to be used in this town. Would you happen to know somebody who might have that kind of merchandise for sale?”

  “Maybe,” Cassidy said, sucking his teeth. Then he winked at the waitress bringing his drink. He took a quick gulp and when he put the glass down, he saw that it was resting on a five hundred-dollar bill that Caine had laid on the table.

  “Merry Christmas,” Caine said, but Cassidy made no move to touch the money.

  “Are you with an organization, by any chance?”

  “Relax. If I were with an organization, would I have to come to you for help?”

  “No, I guess not,” Cassidy said, rubbing his chin speculatively. After a moment he lifted the glass and took the money.

  “The name,” Caine prompted.

  “There’s this guy,” Cassidy began. “Name is Hanratty. Pete Hanratty. He did a stretch at Folsom for counterfeiting. I hear he does some quality paperwork for a certain organization, which shall be nameless. He might be interested in a little private enterprise. It’s okay to use my name. I’ve done him a few favors.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “He works nights as a dealer at Billion’s Horseshoe in Glitter Gulch,” using the term the locals have given to the central casino area on downtown Fremont.

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Short fat guy. Mostly bald. Wears glasses too.”

  “Good enough,” Caine said. “You wouldn’t happen to know his address?”

  “It’s in the book,” Cassidy said, finishing his drink. A burst of applause signaled the end of the baritone’s lounge performance. As people started to get up, Caine touched Cassidy’s arm.

  “Just one more thing,” Caine said. “Forget you ever saw me. Remembering won’t do either of us any good.”

  “What about the other five hundred dollars?” Cassidy asked.

  “If Hanratty works out, you get the other five hundred dollars in the mail. If he doesn’t,” Caine added softly, “I’m coming back for my five hundred dollars.”

  “You’re not threatening me, are you? Because I’ve been threatened before, by experts,” Cassidy replied, suddenly straightening up.

  “You seem like a nice guy, Cassidy. I’m not threatening you. I’m giving you the best advice you ever got. Believe me, you never want to see me again,” Caine said, his cat’s eyes glinting green and cold. Cassidy felt a shiver of uneasiness pass up his spine, and nodded. Caine put a ten-dollar bill down on the table. “For the drinks,” he said, and left.

  Caine went to a lobby phone and placed a call to Wasserman’s number in Hollywood. An answering machine answered the phone
and beeped. Caine spoke quickly to the machine.

  “Your last associate botched the job. Send any more and the deal is off and I keep the down payment.”

  That should keep Wasserman off my back for a while, he thought as he hung up the phone. He checked his watch and decided that he had enough time to launder some of the money before he looked up Hanratty.

  It was with a sense of wonder that Caine descended into the maelstrom of the hotel’s sunken casino. The walls of the casino area were lined with plaster bas-reliefs of Roman gladiators, and the entire area was brilliantly lit by what was easily the largest crystal chandelier he had ever seen. The casino hummed with the noises of chips and machines and the exclamations of players begging whatever god they believed in to “Come on, baby.” Perhaps the noisiest section was where the long banks of slot machines were situated-phalanxes of middle-aged women mechanically cranked coins into the machines with all the spontaneity of clockwork figures in an automated assembly line. This was the real essence of Vegas, Caine thought, its raison d’être: the money machine. He felt himself caught by the excitement and sternly reminded himself that he was there to launder the money and not to gamble.