by Barry, Mike
He was a weak man. He accepted that weakness; for the most part it had not hurt him. He had known plenty of strong men in his time, men like Vinelli, and had survived most of them because strong men tended to get themselves, time and again, put into positions where they were tested by men equally strong and that was often fatal. Whereas weak men like Walker lived within the circle of their limitations willingly, almost eagerly holding onto their weakness as their strength because it protected them and kept them from taking the chances which time and again broke the strong ones. In weakness was strength, and if he was only a figurehead, well, then, the Paradise itself was only a figurehead, he knew that quite well and the two of them went together well. He booked in the entertainers, did the public relations bit, tried to keep the entertainers, even to the two-bit old men working in the lounges on Sunday mornings, happy … and the rest of it Vinelli could worry about. But now he was deep in and the responsibility his.
He could duck it of course. Wall up in the penthouse or duck out of town; say that he knew nothing about it. Let them when they picked up the pieces later decide whether or not Harry Walker was responsible. By that time he could be out of the country. But no, he felt the weakness rising within him and in a kind of disgust knew that he just could never get away with it. If the place blew, responsibility would be traced to him, and he would be dealt with almost as an incidental, their main thrust of revenge running over him like the sea over pebbles. He had to confront the situation.
Slowly, painfully, Walker picked up the phone. He dialed the security desk and waited until the chief man on duty picked it up. Three rings. They were getting sloppy. Three rings and even then there was a five second lag while the man fumbled for a cigarette or somesuch. They had gotten arrogant. They had become slipshod all the way down the line and acted as if they had gotten beyond any position where they could be touched. Dangerous. That was dangerous thinking. It all just went to show you.
If they got through this there would be a lot of people paying and at least he could take some satisfaction in knowing that probably, likely, one of them would be Vinelli.
“Who the fuck is this?” the security man asked when Walker had not responded the first time.
“This is fucking Harry Walker,” he said, and the guard gasped which helped his morale a little for what he was about to do. He asked for full security, he asked for reinforcements, and he told them to hit Vinelli’s room full out. He told them that he thought the manager was having a little trouble and it was more sensible to come in with full firepower. He told them that it was a matter of protecting Vinelli. The man sounded worried.
VIII
He squeezed everything out of Vinelli that he could. It did not take long. It took only a few moments in fact to get everything he thought he needed and then the only question was what to do with him. He knew that it would not be very long until they unloaded everything they had at this room. They were no fools.
“Where’s Stone?” he said when he knew the man was conscious. “Where is he?”
“I’m dying,” Vinelli said. He did indeed look like a dying man. Amazing how they crumpled. Time and again it was shocking for Wulff to realize the leveling effects of pain.
“You won’t die,” he said, “not soon enough anyway.” Soon enough would have been thirty years ago. “Where is he?” he said and held his revolver backhanded as if to club the man. Vinelli held his face rigid, his eyes unblinking and looked at the ceiling. A crying sound came from his throat. Wulff put the revolver, butt-first into the back of the man’s hand, hard. Vinelli whimpered, but then the whimper shook his leg and he screamed.
“Where is he?” Wulff said.
Vinelli was trying to talk. His throat bulged and little sounds came out of it. Wulff leaned over and looked at the man in a gesture as intimate as the beginning of a kiss. He spat into the man’s eyes.
“Speak up,” he said, “or I’ll hit the leg hard.”
“Stone’s dead,” Vinelli said in a croak.
“How?”
“We killed him.”
“Why?”
“We had to,” Vinelli said, his voice somewhat stronger. Thinking about Stone brought him back hours to a happier time when he had been the one on top. “The son of a bitch was holding out on us.”
“Was he?”
“The junk, the junk. He said he had a million dollars …”
“And he didn’t?”
“There was nothing,” Vinelli said. He gagged and tried to vomit but the angle was wrong and the vomit fell back into his throat. He purpled. “Kill me,” he said, “go on, just kill me.”
“When I’m ready.”
“I’m better off dead than talking to you.” He inhaled, tried to force volume. “You son of a bitch cop,” he said.
“I’m no cop.”
“I don’t know what you are.”
“Where’s the half million?”
“I told you,” Vinelli said with tears in his eyes, “there’s nothing. He was holding out on us.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
Wulff stood, went to the window, then came back. The office was sparsely furnished but he knew that the desk drawers probably held enough material, put in the hands of an honest staff, to give the drug trade a staggering, perhaps final blow. In time. The question was getting out of this room alive, let alone with files. “So you had him killed,” he said. “I told you that.”
“You told me nothing,” he said. He pointed the revolver at the man’s leg which had now become warped, was lying in a peculiar angle to the floor. “Where is the stuff?” he said. “Tell me or I’ll shoot you there again.”
Vinelli convulsed. “No,” he said, “you can’t do that.”
“Try me.”
“I told you, it isn’t. We found out he was holding out on us. There never was any stuff at all. It was just a way of getting out of sight. Of getting us to take him in.”
“So you killed him,” Wulff said. “Naturally.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Vinelli said hoarsely.
That was a question. It was an interesting question. At another time he would have to think it through. Now he only looked at Vinelli levelly. “I think you’re wrong,” he said. “I think that the stuff is here. He never would have left New York without something.”
Vinelli said nothing. Wulff looked at him. Probably if he did not receive medical attention shortly the man would die. The central nervous system was wrecked, overloaded by pain and there was considerable blood loss. Blood was draining out no slower than it had five minutes before. High blood pressure no doubt, the carotid blowing the stuff out unclotted under stress.
“It’s probably in a locker at the airport,” Wulff said, “that would be the most logical place.” He paused. “Did you search him? Of course you searched him,” he said. “Did you find a key?”
Vinelli’s eyes narrowed. Pain or not, he seemed to be thinking. Wulff could see the thoughts like little dogs chasing one another across his eyes.
“Don’t hold out on me,” Wulff said. He motioned toward the leg. “You’re in no position to get clever.” And neither am I, he thought. He heard the first faint sounds in the hallway. Time. Time enough. They were starting to close in.
“There was a key,” Vinelli said. A bolt of pain went through him, he put his palms flat on the floor and looking at the ceiling wrenched with agony. “Sure, there was a locker key in his clothes. We thought nothing of it. We …”
“Didn’t get around to it is what you mean,” Wulff said. “You would have though. You’re thorough. I’ll give you that. Where is the key?”
Vinelli shook his head, closed his eyes. Very methodically but with a shade of distaste, Wulff kicked him around the kneecap, the injured one. He did not like to do it. Unlike the Vinellis themselves he took no pleasure in inflicting pain, it was only a device. Still, he was willing to do it without worrying. That made him still more than two-thirds a cop.
“In the des
k, top drawer,” Vinelli said when he was able to talk again. “It’s in there. We would have gotten around to checking it out …”
“Yeah,” Wulff said and went to the desk, flung it open, found the key where the man had said it would be, “after you killed him first of course. It’s always a good idea to kill first and check after the fact, right?”
He could hear the voices in the hallway. Security was lax here; they did not know how to come up on a position silently but instead conferred with one another every step of the way, most likely for assurance. Arrogance and ease, no doubt. They probably had never had a challenge in this hotel. Taking drunken losers quietly out of the casino was just about their style, this was beyond them. Vinelli inclined his agonized head toward the door and his eyes lit with hope, then he closed them when he saw Wulff looking.
“Don’t worry about it,” Wulff said, going over to the door. “You’re not getting out of here alive.”
Vinelli said nothing. His hands were folded tightly over his stomach and he appeared to be praying. Prayer would always get them at the end. He wondered if this man had laughed when he gave the orders to kill Stone. Vinelli’s lips moved, his body convulsed again.
There was a knock on the door. “Vinelli?” someone said, “are you in there?”
Wulff gave the man a warning look. Vinelli said nothing. His voice would probably not have carried that far anyway.
“We’re coming in,” another voice said, “unless you tell us you’re all right we’re coming in.”
Wulff checked the chair to make sure that it was solid and well-set in place. Then he backed off from the door and lifted his gun.
“No you won’t,” he said.
“What’s that?” someone said, “what’s going on in there?”
“You’re not coming in,” Wulff said. He paused. “Your boss is in trouble here. If you come in he’s in worse trouble.”
There was the sound of anguished conference. “Who the fuck are you?” someone said hesitantly.
Wulff went over to the body on the floor and, kneeling, pressed his revolver into the temple. “Tell them who I am,” he said.
Vinelli’s eyes rolled. There was knocking on the door, increasing in volume.
“You really better tell him who I am,” Wulff said calmly, “or I’m going to have to start shooting. In the crossfire, you’ll probably get hit in the leg.”
“Please,” Vinelli said, drawing in his breath on every syllable. “Please don’t come in. I’m hurt. He’s in here with me.”
“Who’s in there with you?”
“Wulff,” Vinelli said. He gasped, his face turning yellow, he nodded in an agonized way, trying to show Wulff that he could not speak further. Wulff gave him a prod. “Martin Wulff,” Vinelli said, “the cop from New York. He’s hurt me. I’m hurt bad. I can’t …”
“Vinelli?” the voice said, “Vinelli, what the fuck is going on there. We …”
“Stay out!” Vinelli screamed, “for the love of God, stay out!”
Wulff gave him an approving pat, a well-done and went to the door. “I’m afraid your man is in trouble,” he said. “I’m in here with him and he’s helpless. If you don’t back off I’ll kill him.”
“He will!” Vinelli screamed, finding full volume. He hawked in air. “He will!”
“That’s right,” Wulff said, “I really will. So you’d better carry the message downstairs to stay the hell out of this room. Isn’t that right, Vinelli?”
Vinelli said nothing. It was not from failure of effort but simply a lapse of strength. He looked up at Wulff and licked his lips. “It would be better if you had fucking killed me,” he said.
“We’ll get around to that.”
“It would be better to be fucking dead than to be like this.”
“Not necessarily,” said Wulff. He felt almost cheerful. He felt that the situation was now beginning to come under control.
There was a sense of voices in conference in the lobby: murmurs, movement as if someone were pacing. Finally someone said quietly, “Vinelli? Vinelli is it really you in there?”
“It’s him in here,” Wulff said, “you can count on it.”
“Show us,” the voice said, “show us that it’s Vinelli in there and he’s alive and we’ll spread the word.”
“You think I’m crazy?” Wulff said. “You think I’m going to throw open this door for open house? You must be out of your mind.”
The voice dropped back into conference again. There seemed to be three of them there and Wulff could understand their problem. They simply did not know what to do. They had been sent here to blow someone’s brains out, preferably his, but hardly to be confronted with a series of choices. Choices were just not the specialty of this group. That was the trouble with the organization he thought wryly, it was very hard to get a good class of help. Those that had the intelligence to make choices or adapt were usually too intelligent for their jobs and had to be gotten rid of. The ones who were left were trustworthy but stupid. Modern personnel practice. It was a shame. The trouble was that the organization had to compete with too much private industry offering similar salaries and better fringe benefits to say nothing of a more guaranteed kind of life-span, and they were falling by the wayside. Already they were starting to import cheap labor; the classic solution for an industry under pressure. But how long until the cheap labor itself picked up the ground rules? No, he did not envy their position.
“Hold a gun on one of us,” the voice said, “and open the door. Just so that we can get a look at Vinelli. If it’s all true we go away.”
“Hold a gun on one of you?” Wulff said, “and what about the other two?” He was beginning to enjoy this perversely, it was like labor bargaining. Give a little, gain a little. He had all the time in the world. His plan had formulated slowly, now was densely coming together below the reach of consciousness. He was staying right here. No pressure. He was going nowhere. “What are the other two going to do; where are they going to be while this is going on?”
“I’ve got to get to a doctor,” Vinelli said from behind him, almost matter of factly. “If I don’t get to a doctor I’m fucking going to die.”
“Be happy you’re not in pain right now if you can think of a doctor,” Wulff said. “Well?” he said through the door, “how about that?”
“We’ll all be in sight with our hands up,” the voice said sullenly. “We’ll stay in front of you.”
“Why not take my word for it?” Wulff said.
“We can’t take anybody’s word for anything. We’ve got to check it out.”
Wulff eased the revolver out of his jacket and considered it, considered the door. The voice said, “That guy outside is dead.”
“I should hope so.”
“You must be some kind of a fucking maniac,” the voice said, “what are you doing going around killing people?”
“It’s an old habit,” Wulff said. “Drop your guns and put your hands up, line up in front of the door. I’ll open it now.”
“I’m going to get killed,” Vinelli said hoarsely on the floor, out of some terrible instinct. “I tell you, I’ll get killed.”
“Be calm,” Wulff said. “Take the long view of the situation. In fifty years we’ll all be dead.” Except for me, he thought, I’m dead already. They killed me once and they can’t do it twice. Only a dead man could go ahead to do what he was doing now.
He threw the bolt on the door, unzipped the chain. Then, Wulff delicately turned the knob, poised the door in position holding his rifle straight out, extended, like a quarterback on a statue of liberty play and then he pulled the door open, dodged to the side and came down on one knee.
What happened then happened very quickly. You could think things out, play them in your mind a hundred or a thousand times: meditate, consider, but when it came right down to the activity everything went much faster than you thought and that was why preparation was the key. A shot came over his head fast as soon as the door was opened. It passed
through the place where he would have been if he had not dropped quickly and hit the wall above Vinelli. Vinelli screamed. At the same time he saw the three men, they were in various positions: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, the three of them with guns in their hands desperately trying to locate him, the one in the middle already firing. He dropped that one with a spinning shot, then rolled, changing his position as a shot hit the floor, came out of the full roll to a position dead center behind the door and extending the revolver he shot another one of them, the one nearest to the door. This man hung in and out of the entrance staggering, gripping his stomach, blocking the third from a shot. If it hadn’t been for this the third one would have got him because he was the cleverest, the one who had used the most foresight. He was using the corpse in the hallway as half a blind, tugging the dead tall man by the back of his collar to half an upright position so that he was shield and cover and he fired methodically, steadily at Wulff, the bullets being intercepted by the dying man in the entrance who died more quickly, collapsed, rolled away. With the man out of the way now there was a clear shot: one clear shot for each of them and Wulff got his in first. He leveled it in tightly, looking for the spot in mid-forehead where the man would die most quickly but his roll as he got the shot off misdirected it slightly and instead the shot lodged in the throat, dead on the jugular. The man’s neck exploded, his own shot hit the ceiling and throwing blood into the air like a fountain. He fell into the carpeting in the absurd way a child draws sheets and blankets over his head, huddling, gathering. Wulff staggered to his feet, kicked the man in the entrance out of the doorway and bolted and chained it again.
So much for that.
Three against one; it must have looked very easy to them. On paper nothing could have been simpler: three men to take out one who was cornered in position but once again the troops were not at the proper level of competence. These were a much better group all in all, as you got closer to the center you got a higher level of man but nevertheless they were not very good. Wulff wiped his gun and put it away, looking back at Vinelli who was moaning. He had almost forgotten about him. The man had lapsed into unconsciousness; his face had turned bright yellow.