by Paul Kenyon
Skytop reached under the table and patted the hand. "That reminds me, babe," he said, "I've got to take a leak. Be right back."
He pushed back his chair and stood up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bartender make a sign to somebody beyond his line of vision. He crossed the sawdust-covered floor, lurching a little more than necessary.
The john was a shadowy crypt that smelled of urine and ammonia and stale marijuana. There was a large bald man in a nylon windbreaker loitering against the wall. Skytop ignored him and stepped up to one of the two urinals. He was still spraying the cracked porcelain when he sensed the thickset presence directly behind him.
"Are you the dude who's been asking a lot of questions about porno films?" said a gravelly voice.
Skytop finished unhurriedly and turned around. It was the bald man, standing close enough to radiate body heat. His shoulders were as wide as Skytop's. He had thick curly black eyebrows and a hooked nose pitted with oily pores.
"If you say so," Skytop said.
"I hear you been going up and down the Strip, making some kind of a pitch."
"What about it?"
"What's your game, buddy?"
"You already know. I'm a cameraman. A frigging good one. I'm trying to promote a little moonlight."
The bald man took a backward step and looked at Skytop's crotch. "Maybe I can do something. With your equipment, you might fit in as a stud."
"No thanks. I work the other side of the camera."
The bald man said, "Things are tight right now, friend. The territory's crowded."
"Maybe somebody should move off the turf then."
"Maybe somebody should keep off."
There was a little click at hip level. Skytop didn't look down. He kept his gaze where it belonged: on the other man's eyes. He recognized the sound. It was a switchblade knife being opened in the bald man's pocket.
"Well, it's been very interesting talking to you," Skytop said, "but we aren't getting anywhere. I guess I'll just keep asking around." He made a move to get around the bald man to the door.
The bald man reached past him and flushed the urinal. Two things happened immediately. First, the music outside in the club became louder. The drummer was going wild. Skytop had no doubt that the performance behind the bar was going wild too, encouraging the club's patrons to postpone any visits to the john.
The second thing that happened was that two husky young men came into the john together. They were the two jocks Skytop had noticed sitting at the corner table with their girl friends.
"What's up, Max?" one of them said.
The bald man bobbed his chin toward Skytop. "Injun Joe here wants to shoot pictures. But he don't belong to the union."
The two jocks grinned. They moved toward Skytop, bending thick bare forearms that were knotted with muscle from hours of weightlifting and pushups. Skytop wasn't impressed. The arm position made a good display. But it wasn't an efficient position for defense or offense.
The bald man had the knife out in the open now. He'd once been a street fighter, Skytop decided. He held the knife properly: low, underhanded, the butt braced against the heel of his hand, the thumb positioned for leverage.
"Planning to do some cutting, Max?" Skytop said.
"A cameraman's not much good without his equipment," the bald man said.
Skytop waited until the jocks were on either side of him, reaching out to trap his arms. They were smiling with anticipation, their teeth white in their tanned, clean-cut young faces.
He jerked his elbows outward in a swift, economical thrust. The waists they struck were rock-hard from all the sit-ups. But the elbows were harder. There were twin moans of pain and surprise.
Simultaneously, Skytop flicked his moccasined foot at the outside of Max's wrist. The bone-hard edge of the foot grated against the bald man's wristbone. The knife went clattering to the tile floor. Max stooped to pick it up. Skytop caught him under the chin with his knee.
By that time the jocks had recovered. One of them grabbed Skytop's wrist and pulled it toward him. Skytop didn't resist. He pushed in the direction of the pull, adding his strength to the jock's. At the point where the jock's arm wouldn't bend back any further, Skytop put his other hand lightly above the other's elbow. He had the jock's wrist trapped by that time, having whipped a big hand around in an acrobat's grip. The jock's arm broke at the elbow with a sharp crack.
The jock screamed. Skytop kicked him in the balls. He didn't want the man staggering out into the topless club with a broken arm. The tanned face under the crew cut had gone green. The jock rolled around the floor, moaning.
The other jock was on his back now. He'd been a microsecond too slow to trap Skytop's other arm, and had wrapped two beefy arms around Skytop's torso in a bear hug. He didn't know what to do with his grip. He seemed to be trying to pull Skytop backward off his feet.
Skytop simply shrugged his body sideways. The jock swung like a pendulum. At the height of his swing, Skytop helped him along by putting a hand under the jock's crotch and lifting. The jock rose toward the lavatory ceiling, did a back flip and came crashing to the floor. It looked as if his back was broken. Not taking chances, Skytop kicked him in the head. Then he turned his full attention toward Max.
Max was on his hands and knees, blood dribbling from his mouth. But he had the knife in his hand again. He looked scared. And dangerous. The thickset cameraman was cat quick, despite his bulk. He converted the hands-and-knees position to a knife-fighter's crouch before Skytop could reach him. Skytop looked at him with new respect. He backed away a couple of steps, out of reach of a single lunge. The bald man was going to have to telegraph his thrust over a six-foot path now.
The bald man's eyes narrowed. His knife hand streaked toward Skytop's belly. Skytop stepped to the outside of the thrust and grabbed for Max's wrist. But the wrist wasn't there. Max hadn't followed through on the lunge. He was back out of reach again. Now he knew that Skytop knew all the moves. He wasn't going to expose himself by using any rational slash or stab techniques.
Instead, he went crazy. He began slashing the knife in random patterns through the air, advancing rapidly on Skytop. Skytop backed up. His back hit something. It was the doorless edge of the john's single toilet booth.
Max smiled. Skytop could stay where he was and get cut up, or he could box himself up inside the booth.
He backed all the way into the booth. Max's smile broadened. He rushed inside, his hand a blurred egg-beater. But Skytop was in the air, launched upward by the foot he'd put on the seatless rim of the toilet bowl. His big hands caught the top of the booth, and he swung himself over the side. He dropped lightly to the floor. He was outside and Max was inside. He whipped around front, catching Max as the bald man was turning around.
He was inside the arc of Max's weapon hand in a flash. He grabbed Max's wrist and swung the hand against the side of the booth. Max held on to the knife. Skytop jerked the hand sharply down, all the way to the tile floor. He brought his heel down, all his weight behind it. Max's hand smashed like kindling wood. Max clawed at Skytop's eyes with his good hand. Skytop grabbed the cuff of the nylon windbreaker and brought that hand down too. He crunched it under his heel.
Max half straightened, looking stupidly at his ruined hands. They were a mess. Skytop could see little sharp white bones sticking through the skin.
Skytop said, "You were right about my name. It is Injun Joe. Joe Skytop. You've probably heard of me. I've worked with Hal Mohr."
He paused to see how much Max understood. The bald man was going into shock. But there was a dim light of recognition in his rapidly glazing eyes.
Skytop went on hurriedly. "I'm staying at the Hollywood Inn, Max boy, in case any of your friends want to get even." He grinned evilly.
That did it. Hate flared in Max's blurred eyes. He raised his smashed hands and tried to make fists. He gave a choking gasp, and his face turned pale.
"A thug's not much good without his equipment, is he, Max?" Sky
top said. He put a big deliberate hand in the center of the bald man's chest and pushed him backward into the toilet.
He left Max sprawling there, his arms and legs sprouting from the bowl, the bald head gleaming under the naked overhead bulb. He walked past the two groaning jocks and stepped out to the blare of trumpet music.
* * *
The man in the pinstriped suit walked up the Capitol steps, looking like a government lawyer or a successful lobbyist. He carried a black vinyl legal folder under his arm. He held his arm in a position that concealed the forged chain that linked his wrist to the steel spine of the folder.
It was a fine sunshiny day in Washington, and the steps were mobbed with tourists, taking pictures with their Instamatic cameras, clustered in conversational family groups or flowing in a pastel-garbed mass toward the entrance.
The man in pinstripes stopped and lit a cigarette, one-handed, with a cigarette fighter. He inhaled and took a casual look around. Farther up the steps a stocky man in a gaudy sports shirt was taking a picture of the Capitol dome. The man in pinstripes resumed his climb, contriving to pass near the stocky man.
As he drew abreast, the stocky man said, "Do you have it?" His accent was Russian.
The man in pinstripes looked at his watch impatiently: a busy lawyer giving a tourist the time. He said, "Meet me around the side in five minutes. Black Lincoln with New Jersey plates. Make sure you're alone."
"No one followed me," the Russian said. His tone was indignant, but his face was smiling: the expression of a man thanking someone for the time. "We sent three decoys out of the embassy first. They picked up all the FBI men on duty."
The man in pinstripes nodded brusquely and continued up the steps. At the top he snapped his fingers — a man who's forgotten something. He went back down the steps. The stocky man was nowhere in sight.
Five minutes later, the stocky man was approaching a black limousine that was parked at the curb, its motor idling. The rear door opened. He climbed in. The car drove off.
The man in pinstripes was sitting in back, the folder in his lap. The driver was a thick-necked man with a cauliflower ear, wearing a gray cap.
"Is that it?" the Russian said, reaching for the folder.
"First the money," the man in pinstripes said.
The Russian sighed. He took a thick envelope out of his pocket. "Still no trust," he said sadly. "We have been doing business together for almost a year. I always take it on faith that what you give me will turn out to be worthwhile."
The other man said nothing. He finished counting out the money and put it in an inside pocket. Then he said, "The key, Rollo." The driver passed a key back over his shoulder. The man in the pinstriped suit unlocked the folder and passed it over.
"It's worthwhile, all right," he said. "We're going to start raising the price after this delivery."
"Impossible. We are paying you the maximum already."
"Wait till your bosses see what's inside that folder. And there's better stuff to come. They'll pay."
The Russian was going through the folder. He lifted his eyebrows. "This is very detailed. You did not get it by eavesdropping. You must have gotten it through blackmail."
"Stage Two," the man in pinstripes said.
The Russian continued to riffle through the contents of the folder. "Very interesting. Very high quality information. This did not come from the lower and middle levels of the government agencies involved."
"We want another twenty thousand dollars per drop," the man in pinstripes said.
The Russian rubbed his shovellike chin. "I'll tell you what. I can't say anything definite without checking my superiors, but we might be willing to come up with that amount — but not for this. We have heard rumors about films, about tapes. If you can give us prints…"
"So you can do your own blackmailing? Forget it."
"But you cannot squeeze this lemon much further. You have squeezed it almost dry. Why not make a profit on your films before they are worthless?"
"Oh, we'll make a profit. Don't worry about our profit."
"But…"
"We're in the film business. And we're in the information business. One is a by-product of the other. But we don't mix our markets."
"Ah, you Americans are true capitalists. Even the Syn."
"Especially the Syn."
The Russian laughed. "All right. But when you are ready to show these films, these special films, to the public, I'll want an invitation."
"You'll get an engraved ticket."
"Prekrasna." The Russian closed the folder. "You can let me off at the next corner."
After they'd dropped the courier off, the driver said, "How come you dint tell him about the party tonight in New York, Mr. Denaro? I bet you coulda got the twenty Gs outa him just for helping him crash it."
"Stick to your driving, Rollo, and leave the business to me," the man in pinstripes said. After a minute he relented. "The Russians are too cute. They might try to pull something. We've got a lot of profitable bookings lined up for that film. Private parties, all of them. I wouldn't want to jeopardize them."
"I understand, Mr. Denaro."
Mr. Denaro grew expansive. "Like I said, Rollo, the Syn's in business. We're going to get a lot of free advertising out of that…" He chose the word with satisfaction. "…that premiere tonight in New York."
Chapter 6
It was an apartment in the East Fifties, in one of the new luxury high-rises that are deforming the New York skyline. They entered through a jungle-green-carpeted lobby walled with gold-flecked mirrors. The elevator was a gilt cage, roofed with an arbor of metallic leaves and little artificial birds.
Terence pushed the apartment buzzer. A party babble came through the closed door. While they waited, he looked her over with a transparent lust.
"You look smashing, Penny m'dear," he said approvingly. "Nobody will bother to watch the screen."
She was wearing a slinky, bare gown by Halston in midnight blue matte jersey. The scoop neckline dipped at center to a point well south of her breasts, with two spaghetti straps hoisting little pennants of jersey that showed occasional flashes of the pink halos surrounding her nipples. It plunged low enough in back to reveal the cleft between her buttocks.
The gold-plated Bernardelli VB was in a cunning sling hidden in the hem. She hadn't dared wear the usual thigh holster; Terence's actor friends tended to be gropers. The little automatic weighed a scant nine ounces and affected the line of the gown not at all.
The door opened with a burst of party noise. A puffy-faced man with pretty golden curls and dazzling teeth stood there, a martini glass in his hand and an unfit joint tucked behind his ear. It was their host, Baynard Warren, whose performance as a tough cop in his last picture had won him an Academy Award.
"Welcome, welcome!" he said with an exaggerated bow. The martini sloshed on his red velvet jacket. "Glad you could make it, Terence. I thought you were shooting a picture in Corsica."
"Wouldn't miss one of your parties for the world, Bay," Terence said. "You know the Baroness, of course."
Warren took in her neckline with an interest that seemed to be architectural rather than sexual. "Seen you a million times, Baroness," he said, "but never before in the flesh."
They followed him into the apartment. It was a smallish party — only about thirty people. Penelope recognized only a few faces. The wide-shouldered man near the sideboard, snorting coke from a tiny gold spoon, was Ray Faye, star of Gorilla Planet and its nine sequels. The tough-looking man in the turtleneck, watching the party aloofly through drooping eyelids, was Mitchell Lloyd, who had shrugged and mumbled his way through a dozen brilliant performances. He'd been the victim of a celebrated marijuana bust some years ago, Penelope remembered.
The rest seemed to be small fry and hangers-on in the television and film world — the ones who had made it to walk-ons and bit parts, and the pretty girls and pretty boys who were still trying. There was a grasshopperish boy in a mint green corduroy suit c
arefully passing a roach clip around a group of people sitting on floor cushions. A gray-haired man in a double-breasted denim jacket and neck bandanna was ogling the rouged nipples of a girl in a see-through blouse. On a striped divan in a dim corner, two young women were making slow-motion love, hardly disturbing a cadaverous man in gold spectacles who was discoursing on Brechtian drama to a glassy-eyed dolly who seemed to be dressed mostly in mosquito netting and body paint.
"…anything you want," Warren was saying, "over on the sideboard. Coke, smack, hash, grass. And there's a bar set up through that door, in the pantry."
Terence wandered off to get her a martini. Penelope continued looking around. A few of the men and one or two of the girls tried to lock glances with her, but none of them had the right kind of electricity. Except Mitchell Lloyd. The tough-guy actor gave her an amused, knowing stare, the eyes hot under the drooping lids. His big body lounged insolently against the mantel, one thumb hooked in his belt, the pelvis cantilevered forward. He raised his glass in an almost imperceptible salute.
"Hello!" a voice said brightly at her elbow. "Aren't you the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini?"
It was the youth in green corduroy. She turned her back on Mitchell Lloyd, giving him a fine view of her lower spine framed in the deep vee of the gown.
"How clever of you to recognize me," she said.
"I thought so. I'm Joey Jardine. I'm in Bottoms Up at the Music Box. Doesn't Bay throw marvelous parties?"
"This is my first."
"He always does something special, you know. Like tonight." He rolled his eyes. "He's supposed to show us a very different movie. I understand that it's costing him twenty thousand dollars. To say nothing of all the happy stuff on the sideboard. There must be a thousand dollars worth of flake alone." He looked at her, bright-eyed. "That's cocaine."