by Walter Wager
“Frankly, I never expected you or any other important attorney to take the case,” the clergyman admitted as they prepared to part. “I didn’t think anybody cared about Samuel Clayton.”
“Somebody cares at least sixty-five thousand dollars’ worth—and that’s quite a bit of caring. You’d be astounded to know just how rich and influential a person is paying for this defense…As a matter of fact, I probably will be too.”
Snell peered thoughtfully.
“You mean you don’t know who’s putting up the money, Mr. Davidson?”
“Not yet, but Mr. Jack Kelleher and I will eventually figure it out, won’t we? In the meanwhile, it remains a minor but probably not too important mystery. I assume that it’s the good guys.”
“That’s what he said,” the minister mused aloud.
“He?” Kelleher broke in prankishly. “I’ll bet he was a tall masked man on a white horse, and he had an Indian named Tonto with him—right?”
Reverend Ezra Snell shook his head.
“No, it wasn’t the Lone Ranger or any other fictional character. He was a man in ordinary clothes, white, nice-looking and probably somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five years old. He said he might be able to get us a first-class lawyer.”
“Yes?” Davidson pressed.
“And he said that I must not tell anyone who he was because it could cost him his life…We were talking rather vaguely about cooperative efforts, joint projects. Now he’s kept his part of the bargain by payment in advance, and I still don’t know what he wants.”
The lawyer grunted.
“Don’t worry, Reverend. You can be certain he does,” he assured Snell. “At these prices, he knows exactly what he wants and he’ll tell you when he’s ready. He’ll have a whole shopping list, I’d imagine…In the meanwhile, if you can get word to Mr. Clayton that I’m going to represent him, that might be useful.”
“I’ll try.”
“There’s one more thing that I’d want you to do,” Joshua David Davidson announced and then he explained what it was. “Now if they’ll need money for transportation or living expenses, I can put up one thousand dollars at once. They’re going to be my strategic reserve in this chess game, and I’ve got to protect them.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Sit back and enjoy,” advised Kelleher. “When you see Joshua David Davidson go to work in that courtroom, you’ll be amazed, delighted and a little bit awed. I still am—after nine years.”
“Stop that nonsense, Jack,” the lawyer snapped in irritated embarrassment. “With an ego as enormous as mine, I don’t need any flattery from my associates.”
“He’s better than Perry Mason, although not so handsome,” the former Notre Dame tackle joshed.
Knowing that Kelleher really meant it only made the praise even more awkward, for the criminal lawyer was secretly proud of his staff’s esteem and devotion.
“That’s not going to get you the extra twelve-fifty a week, Jack,” Davidson replied in pretended scorn. “You’ll just have to learn to live within your present income…I’ll see you in the courtroom tomorrow morning at ten, Reverend.”
Close-up of Davidson’s hand on the doorknob.
Fast dissolve to the two New Yorkers exiting the church.
Medium trucking shot as they walk slowly through the late-afternoon heat toward Lowell Square in search of a taxi.
“We’ll need a car. Rent a limousine, air-conditioned, as soon as we get back to the hotel.”
“Right, J.D.”
“I’ll want you to drive it. I don’t want any of these big-eared locals eavesdropping, you understand.”
“Right, J.D.”
Tighten to medium close-up of both men.
“And stop that ‘Right, J.D.’ routine, will you? I’ve got enough on my mind without either your clowning or extravagant praise.”
“Flattery’s the food of fools, right?”
“Jonathan Swift,” the older man identified instantly. “Yes, that’s about it. Let’s just do our thing quietly and efficiently…Ah, there’s a cab.”
Across town in the Paradise House, John Pikelis was on the telephone speaking with Irving. It was very hot in Miami, Irving reported, and he was suffering with a summer cold. Summer colds are especially annoying, Irving sniffled. When it came to sniffling, Irving was a born leader, Pikelis thought, but when would he get to the point? After enduring several more minor complaints, the racketeer who ruled Jefferson County decided to put the question bluntly.
“Irving, have you heard anything on that matter I asked you to check?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well?”
“I’ve asked somebody who has a lot of friends around,” he began.
That would be shrewd Meyer.
“And he’s asked quite a few people who ought to know. Big people in town here, in Vegas and Chicago and L.A. and Cleveland and New Orleans and New York. Top people—you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean, Irving. What the hell did they say?”
The man in Miami hesitated, pausing to phrase his reply precisely and politely. He blew his nose, apologized.
“In a nutshell, it was all negative,” he finally replied. “Entirely negative. Not one of them had heard anything about anyone who might want to bother you, John, and not one of them has anything but friendly feelings toward you and your associates. Yes, I think that’s an accurate summary of all their comments.”
“I see,” Pikelis muttered as he wondered whether it was true.
Had Meyer told Irving the truth, and were all the Mafia bosses being frank with Meyer? According to the book—going by Meyer’s stature and reputation—it should be the truth.
“As a matter of fact, some of these people seem to be having problems of their own,” Irving continued. “There’s one awfully nice fellow all hung up with a deportation case and another has a nasty tax problem, and I suppose you heard about the mess in Brooklyn.”
There had been five killings in the previous seven weeks in a bloody struggle between two Cosa Nostra “families.”
“Yeah, I read the newspapers,” Pikelis acknowledged flatly.
“It’s difficult to believe that men would be so unreasonable—so difficult and primitive—in this day and age,” grumbled Irving. “Sensible people have tried to talk to them—older and more mature people with business experience—but they’re like animals.”
“There’s a real breakdown in law and order all right,” sympathized Pikelis. “No more respect. Well, it’s not going to happen here. I’m not going to stand for any of that stuff here, and you can tell everybody I said so. This is a nice, clean, quiet town—and it’s going to stay that way.”
“I blame it on those crazy college kids and the hippies, John. They’re so disorderly and dirty and violent—fighting with the police and making those hysterical demonstrations on the campuses and in the streets—that they’re setting a horrible example for the whole country. You’re right about the respect thing, John. It’s a disgrace.”
Pikelis assured him again that it would never happen in Paradise City and asked when the eighteen new machines would be arriving. Irving examined his book, promised delivery by the second of August “at the latest.” He would personally call the manager of the factory in Indiana to make sure.
“Thanks, and best regards to your family,” announced the racketeer.
“I’ll tell him tonight.”
That night, Gilman drove up to the gate of the Fun Parlor at 7:55—just as usual—and waved to the guard, who recognized him and opened the massive portal to admit the croupier’s car. The guard looked cool behind his bullet-proof glass, relaxed in the comfort provided by the air-conditioner that was built into the side of the gatehouse. The man from Las Vegas knew that Arbolino would be packing his part of the gear at about this time, checking it again as he’d been trained to do. Gilman was, of course, right. As he stepped out of his car in the parking lot, the stunt man—thirteen
miles away—was completing his audit and closing the second suitcase.
In Room 407 at the Jefferson, Williston was studying his watch and waiting for the phone to ring. It came at 9:10, and the caller congratulated “Mr. Warren” for sending along “the data” so regularly “on schedule.” A listener would have thought that the caller was an associate at the Southern Public Opinion Corporation. In fact, the voice belonged to P.T. Carstairs, who was reporting that he was back—on time—and would seize the car in ninety minutes as planned.
At 9:25, Carstairs walked into the lobby of the Paradise House and announced that he had returned from Daytona. He picked up his key, stepped into the bar for a Pernod. When the bartender named Harry welcomed him back, the millionaire sportsman thanked him for the salutation, acknowledged that he’d seen a racing driver friend in Daytona to discuss Grand Prix prospects and announced that he was going directly to bed.
“Alone,” he added wearily.
“You can’t win ’em all, Mr. Carstairs,” sympathized Harry Booth.
“I certainly can, young man,” the second most eligible bachelor in the United States responded in mock indignation, “only this time I’m too bushed to play. Good night, sir.”
At 9:33, Parker Terence Carstairs entered The Breckenridge Suite and at 10:39 he quietly left it via the rear service door. Four minutes after that, the telephone rang in Room 218—a small room at the back of the hotel—where Pikelis’ chauffeur was sprawled on the bed in his undershorts, watching TV. “Mr. Pikelis wants you to bring the car out to the Fun Parlor right away,” somebody said.
“I’m making tracks,” the driver replied obediently and hung up without asking any questions. Mr. Pikelis didn’t encourage questions, but he did reward fidelity, so the chauffeur dressed quickly and hurried down to the basement garage where the gleaming Cadillac was housed. The big limousine pulled out approximately sixty-five minutes after Mr. Arthur Warren had pulled into the entrance of the Starlight Drive-In Movie on Route 121.
“Can I still see the whole show?” the man in the blue Dart had asked.
The fat woman in the box-office booth nodded, chewing gum and smiling.
“Last show starts in a couple of minutes. First picture’s The Rape of the Zombies and then the main feature’s Bullitt starring Steve McQueen,” she singsonged mindlessly.
“I hear Bullitt’s pretty good,” the spy chatted as he waited for the change from his five-dollar bill.
“Top-notch, they say…Three, four, five. Thank you.”
He drove in and parked at the back. There were at least eighty to one hundred other cars spread across the lot, he noticed with satisfaction. Most of the other patrons appeared to be teenagers, and that was good too. They would be busy groping and panting through most of the evening, and his presence at the Starlight would probably be remembered by the gum-chewing cashier. At 10 P.M., the lights dimmed and The Rape of the Zombies began—immediately after three slides advertising local roadhouses and stores. He stared at the picture in disbelief, for if it wasn’t the worst film of all time it was certainly a major contender. It was a genuine tribute to the 1943 OSS survival course and the more recent riots on the Columbia campus that Williston was able to endure The Rape of the Zombies without gagging. Even the two topless scenes of the seminude “native” girls didn’t help. It was a little better when he turned off the sound, but not much.
At 11:05, the mad scientist was hacked to pieces by his own zombies, and the film ended and everybody who still had pants on left the cars for soft drinks and pizzas and Texas-style “giant hot dogs.” At 11:25, the lights faded once more as Bullitt jumped onto the huge screen. At 11:31, Professor Andrew Williston looked around warily and concluded that no one in the immediately adjacent vehicles was interested in his car. He reached down to the floor near the far door, found the half-dummy they’d stolen from the department store and slowly raised it to the seat. Then he opened the well-greased door beside him, slid out as he moved the dummy into position behind the wheel. He closed the door with a minimum of noise, glanced around again. No one was looking. Crouching low, Williston moved off into the shadows and slipped through the trees at the back of the lot. Two minutes later, he found Arbolino in the panel truck on the side road.
They drove five hundred yards slowly before the stunt man accelerated to thirty miles an hour and flicked on the headlights. A moment later, the truck moved into the intersection of Ocean Road—four and three eighths miles from the Fun Parlor. They’d measured the distance precisely during the “dry run” rehearsal the previous night—studying the route, traffic, timing of the escape.
“I guess I’d better tell you about the picture—in case anyone asks you about it later,” Williston announced.
“I saw Bullitt on the Coast a couple of months ago, Andy.”
“I’m talking about the other one—Rape of the Zombies. A real stinker, pure—or should I say impure—trash. Listen to this yarn.”
Arbolino listened, laughed.
“Sounds like one of those low-budget exploitation pictures they shot in ten days,” he judged when Williston finished.
“Very low-budget. I think they were using secondhand zombies. Even the teats on the topless natives were sagging,” the professor complained. “Oh, here we are. This is where we pull off the road and wait. Shouldn’t be long, if he’s on time.”
“He’ll be on time.”
A mile away, the large Cadillac was rolling smoothly through the night and the driver was enjoying the stereo sound of the radio, humming loudly along with Bobbie Gentry’s rhythmically plaintive “Ode to Billy Joe.” Just before the final chorus of the 1968 hit, he stopped enjoying the record—abruptly.
The cold gun muzzle at the back of his neck had that effect.
“Keep your hands—both hands—on the wheel, Tom, and don’t look back,” a voice hissed.
He sneaked one instinctive glance at the rear-view mirror, saw that the man behind him appeared faceless. Stocking mask, he guessed correctly.
The gun dug painfully into his flesh.
“Don’t do that again, Tom, or I’ll kill you. Just drive.”
“You’re crazy,” warned the chauffeur. “This is John Pikelis’ personal limousine. You’ve got to be crazy to try to hijack this car.”
“I’m crazy and you’re still alive—for the moment…Up ahead there…by the two big trees…pull off the road, stop and blink your headlights three times. Then turn them off. You got that, Tom?”
“Yeah.”
The saga of “Billy Joe” ended, and now the genial announcer was praising the merits of Miller’s High Life beer. Tom Waugh’s throat felt exceedingly tight and dry, a combination induced by fear and confusion and anger. He was furious but not foolhardy, so he obeyed Carstairs’ instructions to the letter.
“Good boy, Now no tricks, or you’ll be splattered all over the windshield…Turn slowly to the right…just your head…That’s it.”
The door beside the chauffeur opened, and Waugh heard the keys being removed from the ignition. A second man. The gun was still pressed against the base of his skull, so there had to be a second man. A few seconds later, the driver heard footsteps and the sound of the trunk being opened. The second man—or men—loaded something into it, closed it and walked back to replace the key in the ignition. Then the door behind the chauffeur was closed, and one of the rear doors opened and slammed. The weight of the car shifted, reflecting the presence of one—perhaps two—additional passengers.
“Let’s go, Tom,” the voice hissed.
“Where to, sir?”
There was an understandable bitterness in that last word.
“Fun Parlor.”
“What the hell for?” wondered the chauffeur irritably.
“To have some fun, you idiot. Roll it…now.”
“The limousine moved back onto the highway, cruised two hundred yards.
“Put your lights back on, Tom. No tricks, please. We don’t need any police cars, you know.”
“When we get to the gate, just wave to the guard and show your teeth in your country-boy smile. I’m moving back into the shadows, but this gun is still pointed at the back of your head.”
The pressure of the round hard muzzle vanished, and then the chauffeur heard the sound of metal against metal.
“Silencer, Tom,” explained the invisible whisperer. “Just put on the silencer. Now I can blow out the back of your head with almost no noise—if you get stupid.”
“I’m not that stupid,” Pikelis’ chauffeur snapped.
It was eerie. The other passenger or passengers hadn’t made a sound, said a word. Their discipline added to the driver’s fear, confirmed his belief that these were cold-blooded professionals who actually would kill if resisted. Now the radio was thrumming out one of Chet Atkins’ best country records, but even that familiar favorite didn’t make Tom Waugh feel any better.
In the back of the car, Williston looked down at the phosphorescent face of his wrist watch and realized that Gilman was taking his nightly “ten minute break.” He’d be turning over the roulette table to the “relief” man, strolling back to the male employees’ lavatory and then planting the incendiary time pencil in the alarm control box concealed behind the painting in the corridor outside Dennison’s office. It would erupt in a single searing flash of intense heat, melting, fusing and destroying all the controls at 11:51. Or perhaps 11:52 or even 11:50 if the timing mechanism wasn’t quite perfect; you couldn’t sensibly count on it completely.
That was why they were going to strike at 11:49.
“There’s the gate, Tom. Slow down and be good,” Carstairs hissed.
As planned, the guard admitted the Pikelis limousine without question. The chauffeur obeyed the whispered instruction to drive the car to the rear of the Fun Parlor—the employees’ parking area—and it was there that he was knocked unconscious. To make sure that he stayed that way for at least an hour, Williston injected a small dose of the same drug they’d needled into Luther Hyatt so satisfactorily. The Sledgehammer team propped up the driver to make it look as if he’d dozed off behind the wheel, and then the three spies scattered on their individual assignments.