Knock Knock Whos There
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“So what do we do?”
“That’s right . . . so what do we do?” He thought, staring across
the lake. “When I planned this steal, baby, I told myself I would have
to be patient. I told myself it wouldn’t be safe spending that money
for a couple of years.”
She stiffened.
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“Two years?”
“As long as the money stays in the locker, it’s safe. Try and move
it and you and me are dead and the money goes back to Massino.
Sooner or later, he’ll get tired of watching the lockers. It might take a
month . . . even six months, but I have my contact in East City. He’ll
tell me when the heat’s off and until it’s off, we have to wait.”
“You’re not planning to stay here six months, are you?”
“No . . . I’ve got to find myself a job. I’m handy with boats. I’ll go
to Tampa . . . I’ll find something there.”
“And what about me?” The hard note in her voice made him look
at her. She was staring at him, her eyes glittering.
“I’ve some money. It’ll be rough like this, but if you want to
come, I’d like to have you with me.”
“How much money did you take from this man, Johnny? You
haven’t told me.”
And he wasn’t going to tell her.
“Around fifty thousand,” he said.
“You’re risking your life for fifty thousand?”
“That’s it. I want to own a boat. I can get one for that money.”
She stared at him and he saw she didn’t believe him.
“It’s more than that, isn’t it? You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know. I never got around to counting it. My guess is fifty,
but it could be more . . . could be less.
She sat still, thinking.
He watched her, then said quietly. “You’re wondering if ten
thousand in the hand is better than fifty thousand in the bush, aren’t
you?”
She stiffened, then shook her head.
“No. I’m trying to imagine myself on a boat,” but he knew she
was lying.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he said. “Look, suppose when
you go over for the mail you call these attorneys. Let me tell you
what will happen. Five or six men will arrive. They’ll try to take me
alive, because dead, they will never find the money. One thing I’m
sure about: no one takes me alive. I’ve seen what happens to men
who have tried to doublecross Massino. He has them tied to chairs
and beats them with a baseball bat: careful not to kill them, breaking
their bones and then he finally sticks a butcher’s hook in their throats
and hangs them in the chair until they die: so no one is taking me
alive. So there will be a gun battle and during the gun battle you’ll
stop a bullet. Believe me, baby, no one will live to collect that ten
thousand dollar reward: that’s just bait. So don’t do anything you’ll
regret.”
She shivered, then put her hand on his.
“I wouldn’t betray you, Johnny, I swear I wouldn’t, but what
about Ed?”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about him. Here’s what you tell him.
You tried to get into my suitcase while I was fishing, but it was
locked. So when I got back, you went over to collect the mail and the
newspaper. You telephoned these attorneys and said you thought
the man they were looking for was in Little Creek. And what do you
imagine they said?” Johnny looked at her. “They said the man had
been found in Miami and they thanked you for calling them and they
were sorry you had been troubled. How will Ed react to that?” She
relaxed.
“That’s smart. He won’t want to spend more money on a long
distance. Yes, he’ll drop it.”
“That’s the way I figured it. I can stay here until the end of the
week, then I’ll tell him I’m moving on. We’ll hire that car you talked
about and we’ll go to Tampa.”
“Why wait? Why not go tomorrow?”
“That’s not the way to play it. During the next five days, you’re
going to fall in love with me and you’ll leave him a letter telling him
so and that you and me are going off together. Rush it and he’ll get
suspicious. He might even phone these attorneys. He might ask at
the village and find out what car we’ve hired. Then we wouldn’t get
far, baby. Believe me, this is a game of patience.”
“Wait! That’s all I do! Wait!” Freda got to her feet. “God! I’m sick
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of this life!”
“It’s better to be sick of life than not have a life.” Johnny stood
up. “I’ll go get some supper.”
He left her and went to his room. Closing the door, he slid the
bolt. Then taking out a spare khaki shirt, he felt in the breast pocket.
From it he took the key to the left-luggage locker. He looked at it for
a brief moment. Engraved on it was the number of the locker: 176:
the key to $186,000!
Sitting on the bed, he untied his shoe lace, put the key into his
shoe and then tightened the lace. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was
safe!
A few minutes later he returned to the deck.
Freda was in the living-room, using the vacuum cleaner.
“I’ll be back,” he called, then went to the boat, started the
engine and headed out to the middle of the lake.
The telephone bell rang just as Massino was about to leave his
office for home.
“Get it!” he barked to Lu Berilli who scooped up the receiver.
“It’s Mr. Tanza,” he said and offered the receiver.
Cursing, Massino snatched the receiver from him, sat on the
corner of his desk and said, “What is it, Carlo? I’m just going home.”
“Just had a hot tip come in,” Carlo said. “Could be nothing, but
could be something. A man, answering to Bianda’s description is
living in a houseboat near Little Creek: that’s five miles from New
Symara. He’s been there about two days and living with a man and
his wife. The woman has hot pants. The husband is a trucker and
away all day. She’s Swedish and says this guy is her half-brother. He’s
as Italian as we are. This is a straight tip and the source is reliable.”
“So why bother me?” Massino demanded. “You’re looking for
him, aren’t you? Well, check this punk out.”
“We want one of your boys to identify him. No point in starting
anything without being sure. Can you send someone?”
“Okay. I’ll send Toni.”
“Fine. Tell him to fly to New Symara and then take a taxi to the
Waterfront Bar. All the taxidrivers know it. He’s to ask for Luigi. He’s
our contact man. He’ll fix it Toni has three or four men who’ll take
him to Little Creek. Okay?”
Massino scribbled on a pad.
“Yeah,” he said and hung up.
He turned to Berilli.
“Find Toni. Give him this. He’s to fly on the first flight out. Tell
him his job is to identify some guy Tanza thinks is Bianda. Get going!”
Berilli found Toni drinking beer with Ernie in a bar all Massino’s
men frequented. Toni and Ernie had just come off a long, boring stint
of watching the left-luggage lockers and Toni was griping.
Ernie, who never minded a job where he could sit and do
nothing, was listening with a bored expression on his fat face.
“Look who’s here,” he said when he saw Berilli come
“That creep!” Toni sneered. “What’s he good for?”
Berilli came over and sat at their table.
“You have yourself a job.” He hated Toni and it pleased him to be
the conveyor of bad news. “The boss says you’re to fly right away to
New Symara . . . wherever the hell that is. Here . . . it’s all written
down.”
Toni took the scrap of paper, read it and then looked blankly at
Berilli.
“What the hell’s this all about?” he demanded.
“This guy Luigi says they think they’ve spotted Johnny. They want
someone to go down there and identify him before they move in.”
“Johnny?”
Toni lost colour.
“Yeah. The boss says for you to take off right away.”
“That’ll be the time,” Ernie said and chortled. “When you face
Johnny. Man! Would I like to be a long distant witness!”
Toni cursed him.
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“You’re sure the boss picked me?”
Berilli sneered at him.
“You call him. Don’t you want the job?”
Toni licked his lips, aware the two men were watching him and
grinning. He got to his feet and left the bar.
Johnny got back to the houseboat around midday with three fair-
sized Black Crappie. He had been uncomfortable wearing his bush
jacket but he had to wear it to hide his gun and holster. From now
on, he told himself, he wouldn’t move without his gun. His instinct
for danger was alert. While fishing, he had thought of Salvadore. The
fat man had been friendly, but that didn’t mean a thing. Everywhere
there was a Mafia contact. He remembered Salvadore saying: You
Italianlikeme?On the face of it a harmless remark, but it could also
point to trouble.
All the same the peace of the lake, the quietness, the fact no one
came near, although he could see distant boats, gave him a feeling of
security, but he would carry his gun.
He dumped the fish into the kitchen sink. There was no sign of
Freda. He went into his room, then kneeling, he looked under the
bed and he smiled.
He had placed the suitcase at a slight angle and now it was
straight. That could only mean Freda had touched it. He pulled it out
and examined the locks. They were flimsy enough and it was possible
she had a key that could open them. He unlocked the case and
counted the ten dollar bills. Of Sammy’s money, he had left $2,857.
He relocked the case and pushed it under the bed, then he went up
on deck.
He sat in the sun for more than an hour, then he heard Freda
crossing the creaky jetty.
“Hi! Where have you been?” he asked as she came around the
deck and joined him.
“A walk. Did you get any fish?”
“Three Black Crappie.”
“God! Crappie again!”
“The bass were shy.”
She went to the rail and stood against it, her hands on the rail,
her body slightly bent forward. Johnny eyed the soft, sweep of her
buttocks. He came up behind her, his hands cupping her breasts, his
body against her softness.
She slid away from him.
“Skip it!” she said, her voice hard. “We can’t spend all the week .
. .” She used the ugly four letter word and it shocked Johnny.
“Take it easy,” he said. “This is a game of patience.”
“I’ll fix the fish.” He had a definite feeling that she was now
hostile. “Eggs and bacon for lunch.”
“Fine.”
He watched her walk into the kitchen. This woman could be
tricky. He thought of Melanie: no trickiness there. He sat for a long
moment, his mind active. Freda must learn he was the boss. If she
didn’t recognize this fact, he could be in danger.
Getting to his feet, he walked into the kitchen. Freda was
washing the fish and she glanced over her shoulder.
“What do you want?”
“Dry your hands.”
“I’m busy . . . go sit in the sun.”
He jerked her around and slapped her face. He was careful not to
hit her too hard, but the slap was hard enough to jerk her head back.
Her blue eyes blazed and her hand dropped on a kitchen knife by the
fish.
He caught her wrist, squeezed and the knife dropped to the
floor, then he caught hold of her, pinning her arms to her sides and
shoving her out of the kitchen, he forced her along the passage to his
room.
“Let me go!” she exclaimed.
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She was strong and hard to hold but he handled her. He got her
into his room, kicked the door shut, then released her.
“Get them off or I’ll rip them off!” he said.
“Who do you imagine you are?” Her eyes were blazing with fury.
“You’ll have me when I want you and not before! Now get out!”
To Johnny who in the past had been in many brawls, she was
pathetically easy. He weaved as she struck at him, her clawed fingers
hopelessly out of range. Then he had her on her back on the bed. Her
wrists now gripped in his hand.
“Going to behave, baby, or do I really get rough?” She stared up
at him, then relaxed.
“I’ll behave.”
He released her wrists, undid her belt and pulled the stretch
pants off her.
Later, she said, “I’m starving.” She ran her fingers down his hard
back. “I love you. You’re all man. Whatever you say, whatever you do
is all right with me.”
She slid off the bed and went away.
While he dressed, he heard the sizzling sound of bacon cooking.
He went into the kitchen. Freda, naked, was cracking eggs into the
pan.
He came up behind her and stroked her buttocks. “Stop it,
Johnny, or we don’t eat.”
While they were eating, Johnny said, “In five days from now, you
and me will be on the road together . . . starting a new life.” Freda
smiled at him.
“I want it! Johnny . . . you don’t know how much I want it!”
They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the deck, soaking
up the sun. Around 18.30, Freda said, “I’ll start supper. You take a
walk. Don’t get back for an hour. I must convince Ed.”
“I’ll take the boat, maybe I’ll catch a bass.”
“If it’s Black Crappie, put it back.”
Well away from the houseboat, Johnny sat in the boat and
thought of her. He wondered too what Melanie was doing. If she had
found someone to replace him. He wondered what Massino was
doing. Probably taking his fat, spoilt wife on some shindig. During the
hour, he caught four Black Crappie and put them back, then he
turned the boat and headed back to the houseboat.
As he got on deck, he saw Scott hosing down his IF truck. He
waved and Scott waved back. He went into the kitchen.
Freda nodded.
“It’s all right. There’s nothing for us to worry about. He�
��s
dropped it.”
Johnny drew in a slow deep breath.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
A little after 11.15 an air-taxi landed at the New Symara airport
and from it came Toni Cappelo.
Ten minutes later a taxi dropped him outside the Waterfront Bar.
He regarded the outside of the building and was surprised. This joint,
he decided, had a lot of style. Situated opposite the yacht basin, the
swank district of New Symara, the Waterfront Bar was the haunt of
the rich. Tables, shaded by gaily coloured umbrellas, stood before
the building which was painted white with sky-blue wooden shutters.
There was a red carpet leading into the bar over which was a blue-
and-white, barrel-shaped canopy. The tables were crowded with fat,
rich-looking people off their yachts.
Toni felt a little shabby as he walked into the bar, carrying his
suitcase. He was aware people were staring at him and he now
wished his clothes matched theirs.
An Italian in a white jacket and blood-red trousers, intercepted
him.
“You want something?” The contempt in the man’s voice gave
Toni a rush of blood to his head.
“Luigi, you punk,” he snarled, “and hurry it up!”
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The waiter’s eyes bulged.
“Signore Moro is busy.”
“Tell him Massino,” Toni said. “He’s expecting me!”
The waiter’s contempt went away. He pointed.
“Excuse me. Please go ahead. First door behind the bar.”
Toni found Luigi Moro behind a desk as big as a billiard table. He
was scribbling figures on a scratch pad and as Toni walked in, he
leaned back in his chair and nodded.
Luigi Moro was around sixty-five years of age, enormously fat, his
nose slightly flattened—a gift from a tough cop when he had been
young—his dark, shifty eyes as animated as the eyes of a dead fish.
“Sit down . . . have a cigar.” He waved to a chair and pushed a
silver box containing Havanas in Toni’s direction.
Toni wasn’t a cigar smoker. He sat down on the edge of the chair.
He had heard about Luigi Moro, one of the Mafia’s favourites: a man
people had to respect or there was trouble.
Moro lit a cigar, taking his time, looking thoughtfully at Toni.
“I’ve heard about you: you’re good with a gun.” Toni nodded.
“How’s Joe?”
“He’s okay.”
“A big steal.” Moro laughed. “I bet he’s flipping his lid.”