by Lionel White
“Can't be done,” he said. “Wil y Hoppe himself couldn't do it.”
Nikki heard him.
“For you,” he said over his shoulder, “I'l give you ten bucks to five it can be done. Ten to five I do it.”
“Take him,” the fat man said.
“Take him hel ,” said the other. “I just said it can't be done—I didn't say Nikki couldn't do it.”
Nikki finished chalking his cue, released the chalk and walked around to the side of the pool table. He leaned over, careful y studied the lay. And then he leveled the stick and sighting along its straight surface, made his shot. The cue bal rol ed straight and true and barely grazed the ten, swerved at an oblique angle to strike the six. The green bal rol ed with infinite slowness and plunked into the side pocket.
Johnny Clay walked into the bil iard parlor as Nikki raised the cue from his fol ow-up position, his face expressionless.
“That boy's got an eye like a bomb sight,” the fat man said.
Johnny didn't approach the table, but stopped at the bar and ordered a beer. Nikki saw him at once.
Johnny waited until Nikki had racked his cue, col ected his bets and reached for his coat. Then he downed the beer and went back outside. Nikki fol owed him out—caught up with him a few yards from the entrance. He fel in step and spoke out of the side of his mouth, his lips barely moving.
“Jesus, Johnny,” he said, “when did they spring you?”
“Tel you later,” Johnny said, looking straight ahead. “Grab off a cab.”
Five minutes later they were in the back of a yel ow taxi, the window closed between themselves and the driver, who had been given the address of a midtown hotel.
Johnny waited until they were in Nikki's room before he spoke.
“You got the letter?”
Nikki stripped off his jacket, tossed it on the bed and shrugged as it slipped off to the floor. He didn't move the gray felt hat, cocked over one eye. He leaned against the dresser.
“I got it, Johnny,” he said. “And you could a knocked me over with a damp feather when the five bil s rol ed out. What's the pitch? I thought you were stil in the house.”
“I've been out for a little while,” Johnny said. “Probation. I was stil in when the letter was sent you.”
Nikki nodded.
“I figured when there was no signature. But I knew where it came from.”
He paused a moment, watching Johnny closely. “You're looking good, boy.”
“Feeling good,” Johnny said. “What's with you?”
“Taking it easy,” Nikki said. “Three up and one to go. So I'm taking it easy. Got a policy job nights. But about the five bil s, Johnny. I suppose...” his voice drifted off.
“Right,” Johnny said. “I want it. The chopper.”
“That's what I figured, Johnny, when the dough dropped out. I got it al ready for you.”
He pul ed a cheap, imitation leather suitcase from under the bed, inserted a key from a ring he carried in his side pocket. A moment later he tossed open the top and took out a long, heavy bundle wrapped up in a Turkish towel. He carried it over to the bed and unwrapped it. It was a broken down Thompson sub-machine gun.
“Pretty baby,” he said.
He began to assemble it.
“These things are hard to come by today,” he went on, working steadily, his lean strong fingers finding the parts automatical y. “Very hard to come by.
Know anything about them?”
Johnny half shook his head.
“I only know what they're for,” he said.
Nikki nodded.
“Wel , they're real y simple enough. This is an old-timer; probably left over from prohibition days. But it speaks with just as much authority as the new ones. It's simple; I'l show you how it's done.” He reached for a clip.
“This thing holds exactly twenty-five shots. You want to remember that. Twenty-five. Most jobs shouldn't take that much. I'm giving you three extra clips, just in case. But remember one thing. The chances are pretty much against your having time to reload, in case baby has to talk.”
Johnny nodded, watching him intently.
“If you do use her, remember to touch her just lightly, very lightly. One burst wil release five or six shots a lot faster than you can count them. Don't throw them away or you're likely to end up holding a piece of dead iron in your mittens while someone is taking potshots at you.
“Also, watch the accuracy. Don't stand too far away; don't try to use this as a sporting rifle. It's designed for close quarters. And don't shoot it at al unless you're ready to kil . You hit 'em once and the chances are you hit 'em half a dozen times. Too much lead to be anything but fatal.”
Johnny reached over and touched the barrel.
“Looks plenty lethal,” he said.
“It is. That's the beauty of it. They only have to see it and they behave right proper. Even the heroes don't give a typewriter an argument.”
For the next few minutes he explained the operation of the gun, showing Johnny the safety catch and the various mechanisms. He then went over breaking the gun down and putting it together. Final y he rewrapped it and put it back in the suitcase. He closed the bag and took the smal key off the ring and handed it to Johnny.
“I'l throw in the keister for free,” he said.
Johnny reached for the bag, put it between his feet and then sat down on the edge of the bed.
“One more little thing,” he said.
Nikki looked up at him sharply.
“Yes?”
“You say you're working policy. Right? Can't be too much in it.”
“There isn't,” Nikki said. “But also there isn't much trouble in it, either.”
“That's right,” Johnny said. “On the other hand, there isn't much trouble in five thousand dol ars.”
For a second Nikki just stared at him. Then he walked slowly over to the exposed sink in the corner of the room, took a half pint flask from the shelf above it, which also held his razor and his toothbrush. He took his time and poured a stiff shot into a plastic toothbrush glass and handed it to Johnny. He lifted the flask to his own lips, wordlessly, his eyes on the other man.
Johnny nodded, grinned, drank.
Nikki took the bottle neck from his mouth, coughed and tossed the empty flask into a half fil ed trash basket; walked across the room and sat in a broken leather chair. He leaned forward, facing Johnny, his slender, long fingered hands clasping each other between his bony knees.
“Who do I have to kil ?”
Johnny looked him straight in the eye, unsmiling.
“A horse,” he said.
Nikki blinked.
“A horse? You mean a horse's...”
“A horse,” Johnny said. “A four-legged horse.”
For a minute Nikki just stared at him. Then he slouched to his feet.
“Al right,” he said, “so you're on the junk. Too bad.”
Johnny didn't get up.
“I'm giving it to you straight, boy,” he said. “I want you to shoot a horse.”
“And for that I get five thousand dol ars?”
“For that and...”
“Yeah, and. I figured there had to be a gimmick.”
“Not a bad gimmick,” Johnny said. “The 'and' isn't as tough as it sounds. You shoot a horse and, if by any chance you get picked up, you don't crack.
Under no conditions do you crack. That's al .”
“You mean,” Nikki said, stil looking baffled, “al I got to do is bump a horse.”
“It's a special horse, Nikki.”
“So-o-o?”
“I better give it to you,” Johnny said. “For certain reasons, including your own protection in case anything happens, I'm not going to tel you the whole story. Just your part.
“Next Saturday, a week from today, the Canarsie Stakes are being run. Seventh race—the big race of the year.”
He was watching the other man closely as he talked and he saw his mouth turn down in a twist
ed smile as he slowly nodded his head.
“There's a horse in that race— Black Lightning— one of the best three-year-olds to come along in the last ten years. A big money winner. He won't pay even money. Just about half of that crowd out there is going to be down on him. Wel , there's a parking lot less than three hundred feet from the northwest end of the track. From a car sitting in the southeast corner of that lot, you get a perfect view of the horses as they come around the far corner and start into the stretch. A man, sitting in a car parked in that spot, using a high caliber rifle with a telescopic sight, should be able to bring down any given horse with a single shot. A man with your eye wouldn't hardly need the telescopic sight.”
For a minute Nikki looked at him, completely aghast.
“Jesus Christ!” he said at last. “Je-zuz Key-rist!”
“Right,” said Johnny.
“Why, that horse is worth a quarter of a mil ion bucks,” Nikki said. “The crowd would go completely nuts. Nuts, I tel you.”
“So what,” Johnny said. “Let 'em go nuts. You could do it—easy. And you shouldn't have too much trouble getting away in the confusion. Black Lightning wil , without doubt, be leading into the stretch. He runs that way, takes an early lead and keeps it. So he goes down, a half dozen others are going to pile up on him. There'l be plenty of damn excitement.”
“For the first time you're making sense,” Nikki said. “There sure as hel would be.”
“That's the point,” Johnny said. “So in the excitement, you make your getaway. For five grand you can afford to leave the rifle behind. And another thing, suppose by accident you do get picked up. What have you done? Wel , you shot a horse. It's not first degree murder. In fact it isn't even murder. I don't know what the hel it would be, but the chances are the best they could get you for would be inciting to a riot or shooting out-of-season or something.”
Nikki sat slowly shaking his head.
“The way you say it, kid,” he said, “you make it sound simple as hel . But Jesus Christ, knocking over the favorite in the Canarsie Stakes! Brother.”
“Five thousand,” Johnny said. “Five thousand bucks for rubbing out a horse.”
Nikki looked up and al at once Johnny knew he was in.
“How do I get it?”
“Twenty-five hundred on Monday afternoon. The rest one day after the race.”
Nikki nodded.
“And what's your angle, Johnny? Why are you wil ing to pay five grand to knock off Black Lightning? Hel , the horse gets kil ed and they probably cal off the race.”
“Maybe,” Johnny said. “But what my angle is, is my business. And, Nikki, that's why I'm paying five grand, so nobody has to know my business.”
Nikki nodded.
“Sure,” he said.
They talked over the details for another half hour and final y Johnny stood up to leave. He reached down for the suitcase.
“So I'l see you Monday, Nikki,” he said. “I'l have the map with me.”
* * *
Maurice Cohen's mother answered the doorbel . A short, dumpy near-sighted woman with gray streaks showing through the henna of her careful y marcel ed hair, she held a dressing gown across her huge breasts with one tightly clutched hand. She was careful to keep the door itself on the safety chain. These days you could never tel who was wandering around the Bronx, as likely as not ready to rob and murder you right in your own living room.
“Mister Cohen?” Johnny said.
“Mister Cohen ain't home. He's at work. Where he should be in the afternoon. At work.”
She started to close the door.
“Mister Maurice Cohen,” Johnny said.
“Ah, Maurice,” she said. “He's in bed. Who shal I say?”
“Mr. Clay,” Johnny said.
She closed the door without another word. Johnny waited in the halfway of the apartment house, leaning against the wal and lighting a cigarette. Five minutes later the door again opened. A tal , deceptively slender, dark boy who didn't look more than twenty-one or —two, slid out. He wore a sports shirt, a thin, wel -creased suit and tan, openwork shoes. He was smoking a cigar.
His eyes lit up with surprise and recognition when he spotted Johnny.
“Johnny,” he said. “Wel for God's sake, Johnny.”
His mother was cal ing something after him as they entered the self-service elevator. He didn't pay any attention as he pushed the button for the main floor.
They went to a bar and gril a half a block away and took a booth at the back. The place was empty except for an aproned bartender and a faded looking blonde who sat at the end of the bar and stared at an empty highbal glass.
The bartender brought them two bottles of beer and two glasses and Johnny got up and went to the juke box. He dropped a quarter in the slot and pushed five buttons at random. The blonde looked up at him, vacant-eyed, as he returned to the booth.
“I got your letter,” Maurice said, above the noise of the machine.
Johnny nodded.
“What you been doing with yourself since you been out, Maurice?”
The slender, almost effeminate youth looked at him and smiled without humor.
“You wrote you had something to tel me, not ask me,” he said.
Johnny laughed.
“Right,” he said. “I was just making talk. I want to tel you how you can make $2500.”
“That's different,” Maurice said. “Al right, I been doing nothing. I'm supposed to be working with my old man; as you know, I'm on pro. But I can't take the hours. So I stay in bed most of the day and then I just wander around nights. I'm watching the corners until I get clear again.”
He watched Johnny closely as he talked and went on after stopping to take a sip of beer.
“I'm thinking about things,” he said. “No more rough stuff for me. One rap was one too many. Twenty-five hundred sounds very interesting according to what I got to do to get it. No guns, though.”
“No guns,” Johnny said. “Maurice, you used to play footbal in high school—that right?”
“Right,” Maurice said. “I was the lightest tackle old Washington Heights ever had. Good, if I say so myself. But what the hel —you ain't running a footbal team, are you, Johnny.”
“No, I am not. But I'm ready to pay you—or some other guy—twenty-five C's to run a little interference.”
“With cops?”
“With cops—private cops.”
“Start al over,” Maurice said, “and tel me about it. Tel me the whole story. For that kind of dough, it must be some interference. But remember one thing, I might go for the deal but as I say, no guns. Also, I want nobody taking potshots at me, either. How tough are those private cops going to be?”
“Here's the story,” Johnny said. “I'm only going to give you your end of it. That's why I'm wil ing to pay big dough—for what you do and for what you don't have to know.
“I want you out at the track during the running of the Canarsie Stakes a week from today. In the clubhouse, near the bar at the center door. I'l give you the details later. It so happens I know that there's going to be quite a little riot going on—say just about at the end of the big race. You are going to be at the bar and during the first part of that little riot, you are to do nothing—nothing except keep your eye on the door leading into the main business office, about thirty feet from the bar where you wil be standing. You are a casual bystander.
“Along about the middle of that little riot, that door is going to open and I'm coming out of it. Fast. I'm slamming the door behind me and I want to melt away into the crowd.”
“What crowd?” Maurice said. “I thought you said this wil be during the big race. The crowd wil al be out in the stands.”
“There wil also be a lot of people between the bar and that door,” Johnny said. “I told you there wil be a smal riot going on. Just take my word for it.
Anyway, I'm coming out of that door. There is every chance no one wil fol ow me, at least for about fifteen seconds. But the
re is also a chance that someone might. You are to stop them. Anyway you can—slug them, give them a bum steer as to the direction I have taken, get in their way—do anything you have to. But be there and be damn sure that I have a chance to mix in with the crowd.”
“What wil you be carrying?” Maurice asked, his eyes wise.
Johnny watched the other man closely for a second, and then continued. “If I carry anything, I wil drop it,” he said, “as soon as I slam that door behind me. It wil be a chopper. That's when you go into action. There is a good chance no one but you wil see me. The minute I drop that gun, you yel .
Something like, 'Look out—he's got a gun!' Bring attention to it, once I'm clear of it. That door is going to fly open and they'l be after me within seconds.
You got to get them going in the wrong direction. If necessary, you got to stop them. Get in their way, do anything, but stop them. I've got to have a chance to get out of the clubhouse.”
Maurice looked at him shrewdly. “You'l never get away with it,” he said.
“Get away with what?”
“Why, Goddamn it, you know...”
“Twenty-five hundred, Maurice,” Johnny said, “is so you won't know. I just told you, I'm dropping that gun at the door and I'm leaving clean. I'm not getting away with anything.”
Maurice again shrugged.
“You got to tel me more,” he said.
“No, I don't, kid. I'm offering you a lotta dough so I don't have to tel you.”
“Yeah, an' suppose I get picked up?”
“So what? What have you done? Nothing. You are at the track, a riot starts. You are as excited as everyone else. You see a guy run. That's no crime.
Maybe you get in the way.
“There's one more thing. I come out of that door with a handkerchief over my face. I take it off the sec I slam the door behind me. I also have on a yel ow checked sports jacket and a soft gray hat, pul ed over my eyes. Wel , when I drop that handkerchief, and I hope it's before anyone but you see me, I also start stripping out of that coat and get rid of the hat. I'l have another hat with me, and I'l have a sports shirt on under the jacket. What they'l look like, you won't have to know. But if and when anyone starts asking questions, just be sure about your description of me. That is, be sure it's al wrong.”