He thought she was wonderful and over-poweringly sexy, and when she smiled, showing her dazzlingly white, movie-star teeth, he was struck speechless.
"I bet you don't like my radio," she said. "Is that right?"
"Well . . ."
"Okay. I'll turn it off. I'm sorry." She looked beyond him at the Oldsmobile under the parking lights. "That your car?"
"Yes," Tom said, the lie coming easily. He put his hand on the door post and looked at her, his eyes moving over that incredible bust.
"Some car."
He grinned.
"Some girl."
They laughed.
"Why don't you come in?" She stood aside. "I'm Sheila Allen."
He moved into the cabin, closing the door. He watched her turn off the radio, his eyes on the solidness of her hips, feeling his blood move faster, thinking she wouldn't need a pillow under her in bed.
"I'm Tom Whiteside. I don't mean to be a crab. I was trying to sleep."
She waved him to an armchair and sat on the bed. Her skirt rode up and he could see her smooth white thighs. He looked away, rubbing his jaw as he sat down.
"You're lucky to be able to sleep," she said. "I can't sleep. I don't know why it is. I never get off before two."
"Some people are like that." He studied her. The more he looked at her the more infatuated with her he became. "I can sleep any time."
She found a pack of cigarettes, shook two out, lit them and gave him one. There was a slight smear of lipstick on the cigarette. It gave him a bang as he put the cigarette between his lips.
"You wouldn't be going to Paradise City tomorrow?" she asked.
"Why, sure. I live there. Are you going there?"
"Yes. There's a bus around nine . . ."
"Come with me."
She smiled, her big eyes opening wide.
"I was hoping you would say that. You work there?"
"That's right . . . General Motors."
"Gee! That must be a pretty good job."
He waved his hand airily.
"It's not so bad. I look after the whole district. Yeah, I can't complain. What are you planning to do in Paradise City?"
"Look for a job. Think I'll find anything?"
"Sure . . . a girl like you. Any ideas?"
"I'm not much good at anything . . . a waitress . . . a hostess . . . something like that."
"Not much good at anything? Who are you kidding?" He laughed. "You won't have to dig deep . . . not with your looks."
"Thanks . . . I hope you are right."
He regarded her, then asked, "Got anywhere to stay?"
"No, but I guess I'll find something."
"I know a place. I'll take you there. It'll be around $18 a week and it's nice."
She shook her head.
"Not for me. I haven't the money. I can't go higher than $10."
"Had it rough?"
"Rough enough."
"You leave it to me. I'll find you a place. I know the City like the back of my hand. Where are you from?"
"Miami."
"What makes you think Paradise City could be better than Miami?"
"Just a change of scenery. I'm a great one for changing the scene."
"Well . . ." He stared at her, then got to his feet. "I'll be leaving at nine tomorrow morning. That suit you?"
"Suits me fine." She stood up, smoothed down her skirt and then came close to him. "I'll pay for the ride if you want me to."
There was that look in her eyes that made him flush.
"I don't want any payment . . . it'll be a pleasure."
"Most men would." She turned her head and looked at the bed. "That kind of payment."
Tom would have given a lot to have taken her up on the offer, but he found he couldn't. This girl suddenly meant much more to him than a quick roll in the hay.
"Not me," he said, his voice unsteady. "Then nine o'clock tomorrow."
She leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. The feel of her soft lips against his sent his blood hammering.
"I like you . . . you're nice," she said, smiling at him.
He hadn't slept much that night. The following morning, he drove her to Paradise City and found her a tiny room for $8 a week. Away from her, he found he was continually thinking of her. In the past he had got around and had had a number of girls, but none of them affected him the way this girl did. He called on her the following evening. He had borrowed, without permission, the Oldsmobile Sedan, and he was wearing his sharpest suit. They had dinner at an expensive sea food restaurant on the outskirts of the City. It was understandable that Sheila believed she was being courted by a successful, wealthy young business man.
Ever since Sheila had been dumped, at the age of twelve, by her parents on a State highway and left there to fend for herself, she had been in and out of all kinds of trouble, just keeping clear of the Law. She had always looked older than her years. She was now twenty-two. From being a waitress, a dance hostess, a stripper and a receptionist at a two-dollars-a-night hotel, she had finally become one of Miami's many Call girls. This hadn't lasted long. She had helped herself to the contents of a client's wallet and had had to leave Miami in a hurry. She now had fifty dollars in her purse and she wasn't inclined to look for work. She saw Tom Whiteside was infatuated with her, and she decided the fifty dollars would last long enough to keep her until she married him.
They were married when one dollar fifty remained in her purse. It had been a close thing.
Both of them were in for a sharp disappointment. Sheila discovered that Tom lived in a small, shabby bungalow, left him by his father, and that he was neither wealthy nor successful. Tom found she was completely incompetent to run his home. She was lazy; she was frigid and she was continually asking for money.
They had been married now for twelve months. They made the best of a bad job. It suited Sheila to have a roof over her head and regular meals. It suited Tom to have a glamorous- looking wife. At least, if he didn't get any satisfaction from his marriage, he did bask in the envy of his friends, who thought Sheila was sensational.
He turned off the Miami highway on to the dirt road that led through the pine forest down to the Paradise City highway. He switched on his headlights. The sun had gone down behind the foothills. It was now turning dark.
Sheila said abruptly, "About that watch . . . you may not know it, but any decent husband gives his wife a wedding anniversary present. There's nothing else I want so much. I should have something I want."
Tom sighed. He hoped she had put the goddamn watch out of her mind.
"I'm sorry, baby. We just can't afford that kind of money. I'll find you a watch, but it's not going to cost $180."
"I want this watch."
"Yeah . . . I know . . . you told me, but we can't afford it."
"I must have been crazy to have married you," she said with an outburst of bitterness. "All those lies about your success. Success? What a joke! You can't afford anything! We don't even get a decent vacation. Camping! God! I should have had my head examined!"
"Would you kindly shut up?" Tom said. "You're no ball of fire youself. Look at the way you keep house . . . like a pigstye. All you're any good at is watching TV."
"Oh, knock it off!" Her voice was strident and hard. "You bore me. Mr. Successful who can't afford $180. Mr. Successful . . ." She laughed. "Mr. Cheapie, I would say."
The car slowed and Tom pushed down on the accelerator. The car continued to slow, not answering to the extra gas.
"Do you mind?" Sheila said, heavy sarcasm in her voice. "I would like to get home. You may like this dreary scenery, but I don't. Couldn't we go a little faster?"
The engine gave a splutter and died. They were going downhill and Tom quickly shifted the automatic gear stick into neutral. They continued to coast down the road as he cursed under his breath.
"What's the matter now?" Sheila demanded, rounding on him.
"The engine's packed up."
"It only wanted that. What d
o you expect with a cripple like this? So what are you going to do?"
As the road began to climb, the car slowed and stopped. Tom stared into the pools of light made by the car's headlights. Then, shrugging, he took a flashlight from the glove compartment, got out of the car and opened the hood. He had had a thorough training in servicing G.M. cars and it took him only a few minutes to find the gas pump had packed up. There was nothing he could do about this. He slammed the hood shut as Sheila got out of the car.
"We're stuck," he said. "The pump's gone. It's a five-mile walk down to the highway. I might be lucky to catch the last bus. You had better stay here."
"Stay here?" Sheila's voice went shrill. "I'm not staying here on my own!"
"Well, okay, then you better come with me."
"I'm not walking five miles!"
Tom regarded her, exasperated.
"So what do we do?"
"You and your lousy car! What a vacation!"
"Will you shut up about our vacation? I'm sick and tired of you complaining."
"So we spend the night here. Get the sleeping bags out."
Tom hesitated, then went to the back of the car. He got the sleeping bags off the rear seat and found the picnic basket. He was hungry, tired and depressed. He locked the car, then threw the beam of his flashlight to right and left. Seeing a narrow path facing him, he went ahead, and found himself in a tree- surrounded glade.
"Sheila! This will do. We can sleep here. Come on. You want something to eat?"
Maisky, lying in his cave, heard Tom's voice. He sat up, his body stiff with apprehension.
Sheila joined Tom in the glade, muttering as she picked her way over the rough ground. Tom had put down the sleeping bags and was opening the picnic basket.
She sat on one of the sleeping bags, took out a cigarette and lit it.
"The end of a perfect vacation," she said. "Oh, boy! Is this something for my memory book! I've enjoyed every minute of it!
Tom found some dry slices of ham, a half loaf of bread that was brick hard and a half a bottle of whisky.
He poured two big drinks. He gave Sheila some of the ham and half the loaf. She promptly threw the food into the bushes.
"I'd rather starve than eat that muck!" she said furiously and drank the whisky at a gulp.
"Okay . . . starve," Tom said. "I've had about all I want from you tonight." Turning his back on her, he began munching the dry ham.
Leaving his bed of blankets, Maisky crawled to the entrance of the cave. He peered through the branches down into the glade. It was too dark to see anything, but he could hear voices although he was too far away to distinguish what was being said.
He lay on the cold, damp floor of the cave, listening. His body trembled with weakness. Who were these people? What were they doing down there? How long would they stay?
Tom finished his meal, then taking off his windcheater and his shoes, he got into his sleeping bag. Sheila was already in hers.
"Will you try not to snore?" she said. "It only wants you to snore to make this really perfect."
"Just go to hell!" Tom said bitterly, then trying to make himself comfortable, he closed his eyes.
* * *
Sergeant Patrick O'Connor, known in the police force as Gutsey O'Connor, was sixty-one years of age. He had been in the Paradise City police force now for forty odd years. Six feet three, with an enormous belly that had earned him his nickname, a brick-red face and thinning, sandy hair, he was one of the less- liked sergeants attached to the force.
In another year, he planned to retire. He hadn't done so badly during his service career. He had made a nice slice of money putting the bite on the prostitutes, the pimps, the pushers and the queers who lived in his district. For a $10 bill, he was always ready to look the other way, and although his graft was small over a period of forty years it had totalled up to a respectable sum.
When Beigler told him to take Patrolmen Mike Collon and Sam Wand and search five hundred bungalows in the hope of finding the missing Casino robbers, O'Connor stared at Beigler as if he couldn't believe his ears, and when Beigler told him to go to the Armoury where he would be issued with tear-gas grenades and automatic weapons, Gutsey O'Connor's red face turned a purplish white.
He had heard all about the Casino robbers. They were desperate, dangerous men — one of them was a Mafia killer!
O'Connor plodded down to the Armoury thinking that this was just his luck. In another year, he would be free of this kind of caper. He would own his own bungalow, his own car and he planned to grow roses. Now he might very easily get himself killed on this goddam assignment.
He found Mike Colon and Sam Wand waiting for him in the Armoury. Both these patrolmen were young and keen. Colon was big, dark and tough looking with a growing reputation for being smart, and with a number of arrests in his book. Wand was shorter, fair, with steel-grey eyes. He too was keen and ambitious. The kind of punks, O'Connor thought sourly, he would get landed with.
"Okay, fellas," he said, "get your weapons and let's go." He drew an automatic rifle and ammunition from the Sergeant Armourer who grinned unfeelingly at him.
"Watch that big belly of yours, Gutsey," he said. "You don't want anyone to make a hole in it. I reckon there'd be enough gas out of that to light the City for a week."
"Shut your trap!" O'Connor snarled. "All very well for you . . . you just hand out a gun. I've got to use it!"
He stamped out of the Armoury. Collon and Wand exchanged winks. They followed him to the waiting police car and they all piled on. Wand took the wheel.
"North Shore," O'Connor said, "and snap it up."
The time was a little after six o'clock when they reached the first row of bungalows that skirted the beach near the Casino. The three officers got out of the car.
"Okay, fellas, start working," O'Connor said. "You know what to do. Find out who owns the place. If they've been there some time, skip the search. If they are renting the place, go over it. I'll be right here, covering you."
Wand stared at him.
"Doing what, Sarg?" he asked.
"You deaf? I'm here to cover you," O'Connor barked. "Get moving!"
The two patrolmen looked at each other in disgust, then set off towards the bungalows. They were both aware of the danger of their assignment, but neither of them hesitated. They never had had any use for Gutsey, and this act of blatant cowardice set their seal of contempt on him.
"Good luck, Mike," Wand said as he pushed open the wooden gate, leading to the first bungalow. "Watch it."
"You, too," Colon said, and moved farther down the lane to the adjacent bungalow.
The search progressed fairly swiftly and unsuccessfully. None of the people renting the bungalows objected to letting the police officers in. They had all heard about the Casino robbery, and were thrilled to be on the fringe of such a daring steal.
Around eight o'clock, the two patrolmen had covered forty of the bungalows, and it was now growing dark. Gutsey O'Connor was sitting in the police car, resting his feet and dozing. He was no longer taking any interest in the search, being convinced it was now just routine and the wanted men weren't hiding in his district.
But Wand and Callon didn't relax. They knew that any moment they might turn up these three men and then there would be a battle. Young and as tough as they were, the strain was beginning to tell.
The final bungalow in the long row yielded nothing and they returned to the police car.
"How long do we keep this shindig up?" Wand demanded as O'Connor jerked awake.
"We'd better drive to the South end now," O'Connor said, trying to sound alert. "The Chief didn't say anything about knocking off."
"Sure you wouldn't like to help out, Sarg?" Wand asked sarcastically. "One more man on the job, and we'd get done that much quicker."
"I give the orders around here," O'Connor snapped. "Get in and let's go."
They drove farther down the beach road, past a big clump of palm trees until they came within sigh
t of another long row of bungalows.
Without knowing it, they were now within five hundred yards of Maisky's bungalow. The two patrolmen, their automatic rifles carried at the alert, walked along the sandy road, split up and began rapping on doors again.
At this moment, Mish Collins pushed aside his plate and released a soft belch. That, he told himself, was one of the best meals he had eaten for a long time. Looking across at Lolita who had prepared the meal, there was genuine admiration in his eyes.
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