by Milton Ozaki
"I'll remember, Rusty." She unlatched the door, then hesitated again. "I'm sorry about all this—about getting you into it, I mean. It'll come out all right, though. I know it will!"
"Sure," I said.
She slipped out of the car and smiled reassuringly at me. Then, squaring her shoulders, she walked briskly down the street toward Ginny Evans' apartment. I sat there, trying to figure the score. Nothing seemed to add, though.
I got the Pontiac rolling.
FOUR. Of Rats and Men
THE FROLICS CLUB, on Ontario Street in the heart of the gin-and-din area, was as unpretentious as a piccolo in a military band. No ornate neon signs blazed across its two-story facade. No murals depicting intimate female anatomy marred its draped windows. No painted canopy marked its sedately gold-lettered entrance. Nor did a gilded doorman loiter on the sidewalk to give come-on spiels to suckers.
Just the same, the Frolics catered to a very special clientele, definitely not penny-ante stuff. Big-time horse-players, for instance, who required a quiet place to discuss the antics of the nags at Hawthorne. Well-heeled gamblers whose ears appreciated a respite from the nervous click of dice. Nice-smelling dolls who needed to rest their slender ankles and replenish their juices between calls. Musicians, actors, dancers, singers, con men and jeweled ladies—in short, guys and dolls of talent—all flocked to the Frolics as regularly as book-lovers to Kroch's.
When I entered, although it was still luncheon time by the clock, the long mahogany bar was sparsely populated. The bartender, a chunky man with the reddish sort of face which denotes high blood-pressure, finished polishing a glass to his artistic satisfaction and shuffled my way. The smile he gave me was as narrow as a mortician's.
"Yes, sir?" With one hand and a damp rag, he made a fine pretense of cleaning the mahogany in front of me.
"Scotch. Make it on the rocks."
"White Horse all right, sir?"
"Fine."
He eased two ice cubes into a shallow glass, poured a generous jigger of scotch, and, with the dedicated air of a priest anointing a baptismal candidate, transferred the liquor over and about the cubes. With a slight bow, he set the glass before me.
"Frankie off duty?" I asked casually.
"Yes, sir."
"When will he be on again?"
"Not until tonight, sir."
"Hell." I laid an engraved portrait of Hamilton on the bar. "Any idea where I can contact him?"
"No, sir." His eyes touched the bill and the tip of a tongue appeared, briefly moistening his thick lips. "Anything I can do?"
"Well... maybe." To tease him a little, I made him wait until I'd rinsed my teeth with the scotch. "I'm trying to get in touch with Arnold Richmond."
"Mr. Richmond?" His interest spiraled like the cost of living.
"Yeah. Know him?"
"Yes, sir." His eyes darted the length of the bar and came back. Hamilton disappeared beneath his fingers. "I'll see what I can do, sir."
He left me alone with my drink while he shuffled to the center of the bar, where an expanse of mirror was broken by the bloated body of a heavily chromed cash register. He pressed various buttons. The register chimed pleasantly and released a drawer. He pushed around in one of the drawer's compartments until he found a slip of paper. From where I sat, the slip seemed to contain much information. He frowned at it for quite a while, then replaced it. On the back of a bar tab, he penciled a line, then closed the drawer and returned to me.
"Hope this will help you, sir." He slid the paper toward me.
"Thanks." The number had a Delaware exchange, which meant that the phone it rang would be somewhere in the near-north area. "Got a phone I can use?"
"There's a booth in back, sir."
I drained my drink and dropped a buck on the bar to pay for it. The phone was where he said it was. I squeezed into the booth, shut the door, and deposited a dime. I listened to the dial tone a while, then spun out the number. The phone at the other end rang six times.
"Yes?" a voice said tentatively. It was a quiet voice, almost sexless and only mildly interested.
"Richmond?" I asked.
"Speaking."
"My name is Forbes. When can I see you?"
"I don't know anyone named Forbes." The statement was as clipped as a two-bit haircut.
"A friend told me about you. I'm anxious to transact some business."
"What kind of business?"
"I'm interested in buying."
The wire hummed between us, long enough for him to file a couple of fingernails or to read his astrological forecast for the day. "Where are you now?"
"At the Frolics."
"I'll meet you there in a few minutes."
The line went dead before I could suggest any other arrangement. Feeling like a commuter who has missed his train, I went back to the bar. Another twosome had joined the congregation, and the bartender was rattling a shaker in four-four rhythm. I tried to signal him for a refill, but his eyes were devoted to the girl, who wore a sweater which bulged in a way which shouldn't happen to pure virgin wool. The fellow with her had the lip of a bugler and the hair of a bowling ball. I sighed.
I had just gotten my third scotch and was raising it to my lips when the door opened and a somber-faced gent in a blue serge suit hurried in. He was a tall, large-boned man, carrying considerable flesh on his frame. Besides being somber, his face featured pale eyes, a nose which jibbed a little, and a chin sharp enough to chop ice with. I figured his age as being in the early fifties; and judging by the sheen on the serge, he was a man of sedentary habits. He nodded to the bartender and came straight down to my end.
"Mr. Forbes?" It was the same soft voice I'd heard on the phone.
"Right," I said.
Without offering to shake hands, he jerked his head toward a rear table. I picked up my glass and followed him to it. He sat down with a grunt, dabbed at his forehead with a huge handkerchief, and stretched his legs. The pale eyes scanned me swiftly.
"You mentioned a friend," he began quietly. "Has he got a name?"
"I was talking to Eddie Sands," I said. I mentioned Sands confidently, knowing he was in no position to deny our friendship. "He said you might be able to do me some good."
His eyes crept toward me. "When were you talking with Eddie?"
"Couple days ago."
"Eddie's okay." It was a flat statement, the kind a man might make when discussing the merits of a cigar. I didn't argue about it, because, if being dead is okay, Sands was indeed that. "What kind of stuff are you interested in?"
"Anything that will move. What have you got?"
"I can get nearly anything. What's your set-up?"
"Another guy and I plan on doing the pushing," I offered, hoping I wasn't making a wrong play.
"Here in Chi?"
"Yeah."
He grunted, somewhat skeptically. "Anything I sell has to be cash."
"Sure."
"How about men's suits?" He sucked on his lower lip and narrowed his eyes, counting the hangers on a distant rack. "I can let you have a hundred immediately. Nice assortment. Mostly Kuppenheimer, Eagle and H.S. & M."
"How much?"
"Two bits a throw. You can double up, or better, on the deal."
"Hell, I'd need a store."
"Get one. That's the smart way to operate."
"What else have you got?"
"Watches. Bulova or Benrus, most of them gift-wrapped."
"How much?"
"Ten bucks a copy. That's special. I've got damned near a truckload of them."
"Sounds like a good item," I said. "What else?"
"Nylons. Lingerie. Neckties. Accessories like cuff-links and—"
"None of that small stuff," I interrupted. "We're interested in the big money."
"Guns?"
"Nix. Too dangerous."
"Office machines?"
I shook my head. "We might be able to move some typewriters, but I don't know.... got any cameras?"
"We do
n't stock them. I can have them picked up, though, for a third of list." He brightened a little. "How about photographic film and paper? If you can move it, you can make a hell of a score."
"How much is there?"
"A whole shipment." He wet his lips. "Worth about four-hundred grand."
I whistled. "Sounds interesting."
"Damned interesting," he agreed, "but kinda tough to handle. That's why you can get a real deal on it." His eyes flickered toward me. "Think you can handle it?"
"I'd have to have details."
"Well, here's the story: A couple guys hijacked an Eastman truck. They thought it Was liquor, but it was this film and stuff. They've got it in a garage and don't know what to do with it. So far, nobody's been able to handle it. Too hot, you know. The shipment was interstate, which makes it a federal rap, and everything's numbered and dated. I've been scratching my head over it for a month."
"How cheap could I get it?"
"The guys are plenty nervous. I think they'd settle for one percent."
"One percent?" I echoed. "Four grand?"
"Maybe less."
I pretended to consider. "Where will you get yours?" I asked.
"Off the top. The boys will cut me in," he licked his lips again. "Think you can handle it?"
"I'd have to see the stuff."
"Natch. I'll fix it."
He got up abruptly, moving with decision, and strode back to the phone booth. By moving my chair sidewise a few inches, I could see him through the glass door of the booth. He dialed a number, talked briefly with someone, nodding emphatically while he talked. He finished, deposited another dime, and dialed a second number. This time the party at the other end did most of the talking, while Richmond nodded his head gravely, like a banker listening to an application for a loan. He ended the conversation suddenly and pronged the receiver.
When he returned to the table, I was sucking water from the remaining ice cube in my glass. He sat down heavily. "It's all set," he informed me. "You can see the stuff right now." He eyed me expectantly, as though waiting for me to break into a Northwestern cheer.
"Okay," I said. "Where is it?"
"Not far. You've got a car, haven't you?"
"Yeah."
"Well, let's go." He stood up. This was not the way I had planned it, but I had no alternative. I got up, followed him out of the joint, and pointed to where the Pontiac was parked. When we were in the car, he began doling out directions. We went north to Diversey, west to Halsted, north to Belmont, west again for a couple blocks, then a block south.
"Here," Richmond said abruptly, motioning me to park.
I braked the car and swerved it to the curb. We were in front of an old frame residence, all the shades of which were drawn. Richmond got out of the car and started down a gravel driveway, toward a large ramshackle building in the rear. I looked up and down the deserted street, then hurried after him. He reached the building, glanced around to see if I was with him, then rapped loudly upon a small side door.
A male voice inside asked: "Yeah?"
"It's me," Richmond growled. "Let us in."
A bolt rasped back and the door opened several inches. Richmond shouldered it impatiently and it swung back, banging heavily against an inner wall. "Come on," he said, holding the door open for me. "Get in quick."
I stepped past him—and immediately realized my mistake. His hand rammed against my shoulder, hurling me into a sprawling fall, like a kid belly-flopping off a low pier into shallow water. I made a five-point landing on rough concrete, rolled over once, and got groggily to my feet, trying to push the skin back onto my nose.
Richmond stood with his back against the closed door.
"You sonuvabitching shamus!" he gritted harshly.
I backed away from him, trying to orientate myself. The building, in spite of its ramshackle outer appearance, was solidly constructed. It looked as if it had been a barn at one time, for its walls and ceiling were sturdily beamed and the far end of it was still divided into what might have been stalls. Lately, it had been used as a machine shop. Along one wall, a machinist's workbench stretched, the wall above it bearing a display of assorted bench tools.
I saw that much—and then my eyes found the owner of the other voice. He was big, muscular, built high and solid as a concrete John. His greasy coveralls stretched taut over thick arms and wide shoulders, making him look like a khaki-skinned giant who'd been wallowing in oil. He grinned at me and made a noise in his throat.
"Get the bastard, Sam," Richmond urged. "Kick some of the crap out of him!"
"You're making a mistake," I said, moving back warily so I could keep both of them within my range of vision.
"Like hell!" Richmond snorted. "Go after him, Sam. By God, if you don't, I will!" He began peeling off the blue serge coat.
Sam made another noise in his throat and approached, swinging his arms, waiting for me to make a break.
Frankly, I'm no hero. But the army forced me to learn some of the tricks of close combat and if I'm pushed I'll fight as dirty as the next guy.
"I kill you!" Sam muttered, proving that he could talk too.
"What are you waiting for?" I jeered. "For me to get dizzy and fall down?"
He lunged, punishing the air with a huge fist. I bent my knees and came up inside his swing. While he was still off-balance, I planted a left and a right below his belt, where I thought they'd do him the least good. They were solid punches, so solid that my elbows seemed to rattle, but it was like tickling a sandbag. He grinned, blew spit at me, and getting an arm about me, he pulled me toward his chest. I socked a knee into his groin and smashed the side of a hand under his nose. He yelped like a dog whose paw has been stepped on—and loosened his grip slightly. I gave him the other knee and stabbed spread fingers at his eyes. He yelped again and backed up, giving me a chance to slip under his arm and away.
Richmond bellowed, "You had the bastard! You let him get away!"
Sam stopped rubbing his vitals and narrowed his eyes with new respect. "Me get!" he promised.
I was short of breath and my heart was pumping like an old one-cylinder gasoline engine, but I had to make a noise like a man and keep anger clouding his one-way brain. "You muscle-bound ape!" I taunted.
With a bellow, he rushed at me, thick arms punching away like pistons. His left grazed my ear and nearly removed it. As his right shot toward my face, I caught his wrist with both hands and jerked it with all my remaining strength. Realizing I'd tricked him into loss of control, he gurgled a hoarse scream and kicked his legs wildly. The momentum of his lunge carried him over my shoulder to smash head-first into the concrete floor. He twitched once and lay still.
Sensing danger behind me, I spun around.
Richmond, with a smile stiffer than a wrought-iron fence on his somber face, was closing in with a knife. The weapon had a long, slender, keen-looking blade, and he held it low in the loose, balanced way of an experienced slasher. His pale eyes, excited by the anticipated kill, had the translucent quality of seedless grapes, yet seemed more shiny, as if oiled by hate.
I leaped sidewise, forcing myself to ignore the knife and to keep my eyes on his. As though we were treading pie crust, we circled cautiously, each trying to guess the other's next move. I started to give ground, hoping to maneuver my way across to the workbench and snatch a wrench or hammer before he closed in. He guessed my intent, and, without changing the tempo of the dance, began forcing me toward the other wall.
"Is this the way you got Eddie Sands?" I said. Richmond was a fellow devoted to his work and allergic to conversation. Without varying the tightness of his smile, he crept closer, holding the blade close against his side. I caught a faint flicker in his eyes a split instant before the blade snaked toward me. I leaped into the air, rolled back, and kicked both legs into his belly.
He bent double, groaning like a man who has lost a dear friend. The knife rattled on the concrete. I came down hard on my shoulders, rolled over, and crawled frantically toward
the knife.
I never reached it. I had forgotten Sam, but Sam had not forgotten me. A beam from the ceiling fell across the back of my neck.
FIVE. The Passion Play
A CLOCK was ticking. Each tick sent a long tentacle of feeling thrusting through my protesting body. I moaned softly. The tentacles reached my arms, then my legs. Something told me that I was prone and that I didn't want to remain that way. With considerable effort, I clicked at the mental switches which should have changed my position to supine. Nothing moved except a few sharp pains, which blazed through my legs toward the emptiness where my stomach usually was. I moaned again, not quite so softly.
"He's coming to," a voice said.
Stupidly, I listened to the voice, trying to understand what it said. The clock kept ticking, louder and more monotonously, and the tentacles kept reaching. Gradually, like scenes from a defective projector, things began flashing through the tired darkness of my mind: Sam. Richmond. Garage. Knife. Fight. Dead. That last was a definite thought which ballooned into a question: dead? It repeated itself several times, then triggered a rapid deductive process: Heaven? No. If so, not as advertised. Hurt too much. Probably Hell. No dancing flames, though. No naked devils. If not Hell, then—?
"So what?" another voice asked. "He isn't going anywhere."
This voice was familiar. The projector started flashing again and gradually steadied on an image. Richmond. The image became clearer. Arnold J. Richmond. Then: trapped. That did it. Consciousness swept back and I knew, once again, the what, where and why of things.
I was lying on a sofa, bound and gagged, with my head only inches away from an ornate, gold-trimmed clock. I was not in the garage. I was in someone's apartment. Richmond was in the room, talking to someone. I forced my head to turn toward the voices. Richmond came into focus. He was sitting stiffly in a Morris chair, gnawing at his lip and glaring disgustedly at me.
"What I've suggested is the only sensible course of action," the first voice said smoothly. "Killing him will remove him from action—that's true. However, it will leave us with another body, another murder—and considerably more heat upon us. Doing as I suggest will solve all our problems, or nearly all of them, and will make it possible for us to continue operating."