Killer Take All

by Philip Race

  "By the door, boss?"

  The banker came out of his reverie at the small man's over-the-shoulder query.

  "Yes, Marc. That will do. Mr. Berlin can get out here."

  I said, "It's been nice. Just remember what I've told you. I'd like to have somebody believe I wasn't imported muscle for Marino Donetti."

  "Yes. Well, there'd be no doubt of that in my mind, of course. Mr. Donetti asked for no aid. He was confident he could deliver the area himself."

  "If you run into a cop named French, tell him that, will you?"

  Marc laughed. The kid just sat there. My well-dressed friend smiled in the darkness of the back seat as the heavy car swooped to a stop in front of the Cherbourg. He spread his coat, slipped a card case into his hand. He handed me a square of cardboard; my thumb felt engraving on it.

  "You were wise to be cooperative, Mr. Berlin," he said. "I don't know if you had anything to do with Donetti's untimely death. But I shall find out. What did you say that name was again?"

  I pushed open the door. "Johnny Ronns. Or Blounce. Or something like that, and that's the best I can do. The guy had a hole in his neck."

  "Quite." He cleared his throat, leaned across the, back seat as I stepped to the roadway. "Don't do anything silly, Berlin. I'm inclined to believe you at the moment. But consider this—I intend to find out. There isn't the slightest doubt that I shall."

  The knobby-muscled kid moved up beside me, stood there. A car swept up, blew its horn and whizzed past. I nodded at the banker.

  "Okay. Thanks for the lift."

  "Not at all. At the moment I am in your debt." His lemon-drop eyes gleamed in the early dark. "Keep it that way, Berlin. I rather like you."

  A car horn blared behind us, lights stabbing forward. I stepped back and fingered my card. The kid jumped in and the big car gunned suddenly, roared away, heaving at the corner. I stood there for a moment. The night was cool enough, but a fine dew of sweat had misted my forehead. These people were bad. I knew it. It wasn't the first time my line of work had put me in contact with the octopus organization known variously as the Syndicate, the Combination, the Big Net, and other names less complimentary.

  I looked at the card. The flashing club sign provided plenty of light to read the print: Horace Atkinson Gilbertson—Gilbertson Enterprises, Incorporated. There was a Portland address, phone number, but I'd seen plenty.

  These were the big leagues. I never could hit a good curve. I wiped my forehead, walked to the door of the club. Gilbertson, huh? Somebody really was going to get hurt.

  Dan met me just inside the door.

  "Johnny. Where the hell have you been?" He came toward me, light glinting off his glasses, catching streaks on his face where sweat stood forth. "Christ, I'm swamped. I've had to do everything. Look at this crowd. Look at it."

  "I'm looking." I grabbed his arm, pushed through the mob. The trio was working smoothly on the stand and the dance floor was full. "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

  Dan stopped me near the Game Room entrance. He rubbed the silk lapels of his dinner jacket. "Well?"

  "Real good job, Dan. All you needed was the idea."

  He beamed. Then he told me about my part of the action.

  He'd hired a kid from Welles to deal the twenty-one snap; put Fran and Bev on the crap table. Action was slow, would be till the people got used to our good music—and Laddy Layton.

  The trio managed a fanfare that shook the chandelier, announcing the first show. Layton, immaculate and very vital out under that probing spot, spread his arms wide. The applause was tremendous. The mike dropped down and he began to sing. He was good, the bastard. Real good. He took over that crowd like a chorus cutie at a smoker.

  Dan was grinning so hard his face looked strained. I punched him lightly, walked into the crowd.

  Everyone seemed to be having a ball but me. But then maybe I cared about who killed Donetti more than anyone else. For at least two excellent reasons—my health and Gina.

  Fran watched me furtively, peeking sideways when she figured I wasn't looking. She ran the table real well. Tonight she wore an icy-lime thing that clung to her firm body like skin, hugging the solid curves, dipping where it ought to. The blonde hair was feathered and combed forward, framing her features like a cap of creamy lather in a half-finished shampoo. Everything was fine except the tiny line between her eyes, the suggestion of a frown. I'd never seen her without it.

  "How is it, Fran?" I moved behind the two girls, spoke over her shoulder.

  She nodded, saying nothing. Her neck was bare quite a ways down and as I watched a dull red began where the dress ended and swept upward to meet her hairline. She rapped the stick hard on the layout.

  "Ten," she said, her voice much harsher than I remembered it. "Mark ten, easy. Line and money ten. Field roll..."

  I grinned at Bev who turned to nod at me. She winked, turned back to the game. I tapped her shoulder.

  "Go powder your nose. I'll take it a while."

  "All right, boss," she said, handing me the stack of chips in her hand. "Can I have a raise? I'm working like a good little dog."

  "The comes go, Mr. Berlin," Fran said icily. "On and off." She ran the game, ignored me. And the joint continued to jump.

  Laddy Layton, like he'd said he would, was killing the people. During the second show the Game Room emptied except for a pair of die-hard blackjack players. We knocked off for a while.

  "Quite a night, huh?" I said, when Fran and I had lit smokes, settled to rest.

  She leaned against the table, slumped wearily. She hadn't yet spoken to me directly.

  "Fran, what's wrong?"

  She looked up. "Nothing. Too many people, I guess. Pretty good night."

  "Pretty good? You ever seen a better since you've been in this hillbilly joint?" I picked up the hasp, slid the money-catcher in view. It was almost full. "Look at that."

  "I see," she said. Then, suddenly flaring, "What do you want me to do—write a press release?"

  I stopped, rose slowly, pushed the box back in with my knee. I looked at her for a silent minute.

  "No," I said quietly. "I don't want you to do anything at all. Sorry I did whatever it was I did that got you down on me."

  "Johnny, I—" She stopped, compressed her lips.

  My hand touched hers; I fumbled for her fingers. Her eyes filled. Just like that. Then she jerked her hand away, fled through the door into the club proper.

  I turned to Bev, who'd taken in the whole play. "What'd I do?"

  She pushed her shoulders up, grinned a little wearily. "If you don't know, I can't tell you."

  "Bev, look, I'm tired. I had a bad night. A guy gets shoved and I'm in the middle of it. Tough cops use me for practice. Everybody and his shill is trying to fit me to this local hassle." I flipped my cigarette end into the sand um. "I got no time for temperamental employees. So, tell. Tell quick and simple and don't worry about confidences. What the hell's with that girl?"

  She shook her curls at me wonderingly. "Thought you were sharp, Johnny. And I guess maybe you are, in your own funny way. She loves you, that's all. She wants a chance to worry about you so you tell her funny jokes. She wants recognition as a woman, you give her funny dialogue." She shrugged. "Keep it light, keep it unimportant—keep it anything but real."

  "You're out of your mind. She's an icicle, for Christ's sake."

  "An icicle, huh? Boy, you know a lot about women."

  "Look, I've only known her a couple days." I walked to the door, looked out at the main room. "How come it's got to be so big?"

  "Because it's a big thing," Bev said softly. "Bigger than anybody, sooner or later. You'll see. Everybody knows about you and Gina Donetti." Her eyes turned away from me. "Fran, too. She digs you, you see. Maybe she wonders how you could make it with Gina fifteen minutes after her husband got dead."

  "So that's it."

  "Yes, that's it. You haven't changed, Johnny."

  "Hell no, I haven't changed. Why should I?" A
pair of loggers appeared in the doorway. "Take care of business," I told her.

  I went to the bar.

  Condi told me sometime during the evening that French had given him fits about the gun. The .45 used on Donetti had been one of Condi's. It seems he kept a large and lethal collection of the things in his motel cabin across the way from the Cherbourg. Everybody in the world, it seemed, knew about his passion for guns. French had traced it even though the bartender hadn't reported it missing. Each firearm had been registered as it was acquired and a ballistic sample taken, so French had no trouble running it down. But he'd let Condi go. He had been at the Club Carroll when the Cad hit the building. But so had everyone else in town. Or so it seemed. Condi just liked guns. Well, there's no accounting for taste.

  Then I called French, asked if there was anything new and told him about Horace Gilbertson, my banker friend with the private army.

  * * *

  "Nice crowd."

  I was next to the wall, the last stool on the bar's curve. Ford Messner had taken the one next to me, quietly moving in. I turned all the way around. His cold eyes swept on, over me, looked at the wall behind. His lips held a smile, but I knew how much that meant. He said, "I said, nice crowd."

  "I heard you. What do you want here? It must be pretty important to make you wear a tie."

  He looked down. He did in fact have on a tie, and the knowledge seemed to surprise him.

  "You are a funny, Berlin. Ha, ha."

  He pronounced the syllables carefully. I rolled up a fist, got a leg under me. His eyes narrowed.

  "You want trouble, Messner? That what you came here for?"

  "No trouble," he said finally. "Just looking around."

  And he turned away. But his eyes said something else. For just a moment they spelled murder in chips of ice. It was there, then gone. Naked and shining, like minnows in blue water.

  The evening was so hectic I didn't notice when he left. Like I couldn't remember when Carla Teacher came in, exactly. She came with a crowd of young people, none of them over twenty. The kids managed to get a table near the dance floor. I caught the waitress as she left the station, told her who I was and what I wanted.

  "Just keep your eye on that kid, will you, honey?" The waitress balanced the tray of Cokes the kids had ordered, dodged traffic as we spoke. "I got a feeling about that girl and I want to know if anyone—aw, I don't know. Just watch her. Okay?"

  "Sure, Mr. Berlin," the waitress said. "Where'll you be?"

  "Game room, probably. Or the office. I'll be around."

  The girl nodded, spun into the crowd expertly, balancing her loaded tray.

  Then I forgot all about the incident because this was like getaway day at a country fair.

  The Cherbourg was launched. If Dan maintained a policy of consistently good entertainment, reasonable food prices, he'd be home free.

  The back room did fine. I gave the kids a break, then sloughed the twenty-one snap about one o'clock, put the hairy young man on the crap table with the girls. Dan and I started upstairs for a preliminary check of the receipts. We ran into Coley O'Rourke. He was with the redhead from Devil's Lake—a strangely chastened and penitent Sheila. She dropped her eyes when our paths crossed at the bottom of the enclosed stairwell.

  "Hello, Sheila. O'Rourke."

  Coley glared, pulling possessively on the girl's creamy arm. She stopped.

  "I'm sorry about the other night, Johnny," she said.

  "Keep quiet, Sheila," O'Rourke said. "This guy's a louse and you don't owe him nothing."

  I got his tie in two fingers, twisted; his feet scraped and he came right up into my grin.

  "Where's your memory, creep?" I asked. "You forget what happened to Parisi already?"

  "Damn you!"

  His skinny arms flailed. Dan moved in front of us, shielding the bit from the paying customers. I held O'Rourke's tie with my left hand, slid my right hip out of the way and jabbed four fingers of my right hand into his gut. He sagged; I held him up with the tie. The girl's face was white.

  "Please don't, Johnny," she said. "Please don't. You'll make it hard on me."

  The last was whispered in my ear as I turned O'Rourke to the wall, pinned him there face-first. The girl tugged at my arm. Her lipstick was as red as I remembered it and the pallor of her face made it stand out starkly. She was scared of something. Her lips trembled. "Please..."

  I let go of the club owner. He turned, gagging, face a livid blob in the dark of the stairwell.

  "You bastard!" he whispered. He shot a glance full of malevolence at the girl. "I'll show all of you. Wait. Just wait."

  I sighed, tired of the whole mess suddenly. "All right, O'Rourke, you're not hurt. Just get out of here. And don't take it out on this girl. If you do, I'll send you to visit Mops Parisi. You understand?"

  He nodded. His eyes were full of the hatred of the man who has been humiliated, must accept it. He wheeled out the door. Sheila grabbed his arm and he jerked away savagely.

  "What was that all about?" Dan asked.

  I stared after the pair. "I don't know. I wish I did. I can't figure that O'Rourke at all. He should be against syndication as much as any of you."

  "He is. That's one thing I can say for him. He's fought it from the first."

  "But he's got Messner working for him. And you fired Messner because he wanted the GPA. How do you figure it?"

  Dan said, "I don't know. But I sure don't want anything to spoil what we've got started here. How do you feel about staying, Johnny? I need you. You can see that."

  My mind was still with the scene we'd just played. I took Dan's arm, started up the steps to his office.

  "I'll stay, all right. But I've got a grifter's hunch. And it bothers hell out of me."

  "What is it?"

  "I had some visitors tonight. A pair of hoodlums and a big wheel from the syndicate that backed Donetti."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Listen." I pushed open the door, stepped into the office. "Donetti just started things off. Somebody's going to get hurt real bad around here. And for some silly, God-damn reason, I wish I knew who..."

  Dan bit his Up, pulled off the glasses. "Why, Johnny? It's none of our business, is it?"

  I looked at him; my face felt tight, cold. "I don't know, Dan. I don't know."

  Chapter 11

  A waitress brought hot coffee and Dan figured up a preliminary total on the cash. I had robbed the four registers and a quick tabulation showed an amazing figure with a good hour still to run. He was still counting when the door burst inward, hit the wall. Fran stood there, breasts heaving.

  "Johnny. One of the waitresses said to get you right away."

  I spun from the chair and joined her at the door. I knew what it was. Fran's violet eyes were dark and concerned. "What is it?"

  Dan asked. "Trouble?"

  "None of ours." I grabbed the girl's arm. "I’ll take care of it. We should get down there, anyhow—still crowded." We sped down the stairs. I sent Fran to the game room. "Johnny, if you're in trouble, I want to help."

  "It's all right, kitten. Just something I cooked up. Go take care of my loot."

  She ran her eyes over my face for a silent moment, then nodded. The full lips tilted. "Okay, champ," she said. So maybe she'd quit being mad at me. Layton was on for the last show. The crowd was intent. I made the table where Carla and her coterie had been sitting. Everyone was gone but Carla and the waitress, who was bending over her.

  The kid' sat huddled at the untidy table, shoulders hunched, her young face white and puckered around the eyes. Layton was wowing the people. But for once he wasn't moving Carla. "What's up?"

  The waitress turned, relief plain on her features. "Boy, am I glad you got here, Mr. Berlin. This kid's a mess. I don't know what's wrong with her. She's been sitting here and shaking for ten minutes."

  "Well, something must have happened. You see anybody messing with her?"

  The girl said no and I slid into the chair next to t
he huddled Carla.

  "What's the matter, honey? Come on, look around at me here."

  She pulled away. "Let me alone. I'm all right. Just let me alone!"

  She was far from all right. "Tell me what happened. Someone scare you? Carla, why don't you level with me? You know I won't let anybody hurt you."

  She shook her head hard, started sobbing aloud.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake." I tried to turn her to me. "Come upstairs with me, Carla. Will you do that?"

  The waitress came back, hovered anxiously.

  Carla sobbed, "No. Just let me wait till Laddy's done. Then I'll go home. I'll go home..."

  "People are beginning to notice, Mr. Berlin."

  And they were. Even Layton on the stand looked our way with the annoyed frown of the heckled performer.

  "Okay," I said. "Get a cab. I'll put her in it. She won't tell me a damn thing."

  "I won't go," Carla said, looking at me for the first time "Not till I see Laddy."

  "You mean that jerk let you sit here all night and hasn't even spoken to you?"

  She nodded, miserable again.

  "Why that—" I stopped, knowing how much good it would do to loud talk the creep to this kid. "Carla, look. Why don't you let me send you home? Then when Laddy gets off the stand, I promise- to make him get in touch with you tonight. Deal?"

  She looked up, biting her lip. The thin wrists in my hands shook with little recurring shocks. This girl was really torn up about something. It's funny what a man will do to some women. Suddenly I didn't care about the Cherbourg, the syndicate or what people might think. I stood, smoothed the shining head with my hand.

  "Come on, sweetheart. We'll get you home and in bed.

  You want to see Layton, I'll see that you do. That's a promise."

  Her eyes blinked and some of the tension left her. She nodded.