Hard-core Murder

by Paul Kenyon

  "Let's get out of here, children," she said.

  With a last look around, they left the room. Penelope removed the little reservoir from the Spyder and dribbled a trail of the epoxy adhesive down the edge of the door before she closed it behind them. Nobody would be opening the door before they were supposed to now.

  Climbing up the fire stairs, they could see the long chain of blind men below, moving uncertainly down the steps like some strange centipede. There was an off-center white stripe down the centipede's spine: the cotton gloves resting on each shoulder. A thrashing confusion began, as the blind men blocked the ascent of a new batch of armed hoods on their way up.

  In the antechamber to the roof door, Sumo took the time to turn the rigged shotguns around and reposition the trip wire. Anyone coming after them would get a nasty surprise.

  They slid down the anchored Spyder thread, one at a time, to the tenement roof, not bothering with the trolley, using loops made out of their belts to keep from slicing their hands. When they were all safely down, Penelope lit a cigarette and touched the glowing end to the treated polymer fine. A spark traveled up the thread, shriveling it to ash as it went.

  As they watched, the entire top of the ProFilm Building belched flame. A lid of glowing debris lifted straight up and fell back in fragments. The explosive force of the plastique, not able to get past the blank walls of yellow brick, had found an easier way out. Smoke poured into the New York sky, obscuring what was left of the night.

  Farnsworth was waiting for them in the van, looking pale. Blood was oozing from the fleshy part of his shoulder. "Just a scratch," he said. Inga gave him a sip of brandy from her flask while Penelope bandaged the wound.

  On the way back, they drove past the front entrance of the ProFilm Building. Dazed, soot-blackened hoods were stumbling out of the door and standing in aimless clusters on the sidewalk. Even at this hour, a curious crowd of neighborhood people had gathered to watch.

  "Somebody's going to be mad," Farnsworth said.

  "I wouldn't be surprised," the Baroness said.

  Chapter 8

  The Big Cheese was in a foul mood. All the vice chairmen knew it. They filed into the conference room, one by one, trying to pick up a clue from the primly efficient executive secretary who sat at the desk outside.

  One of them was pausing to lean over her desk now. He was a waxy-faced, dyspeptic man named Pecorino, who ran the prostitution, porno and blackmail operation in the North Central district.

  "What's going on, Lavinia?" he whispered. "Am I in trouble?"

  "Haven't you heard, Mr. Pecorino?" she said. "We had a crisis here in New York. At the film lab."

  "No," he said. "I been on the road with one of my sales managers." He straightened, adjusting the knot of his fifty-dollar tie. "So long as it ain't North Central. Thanks, kid."

  "Don't mention it, Mr. Pecorino."

  Pecorino went through the polished walnut door and took a seat at the conference table next to a round-faced jolly man named Mascarpone, who was vice chairman for New England.

  "How goes it, AT?" Mascarpone said. "Say, what's up? The monthly conference ain't due for a week yet."

  "We got a crisis," Pecorino said. "Something to do with the film lab."

  "As long as it ain't New England," Mascarpone said, settling back comfortably.

  The nine vice chairmen sat and waited, fiddling with their note pads or puffing nervously on the Havana cigars from the silver box on the table. Most of them were youngish men, in their late thirties or early forties, dressed in custom-tailored suits and imported shoes. One of them, a scar-faced individual named Fontina, was only twenty-eight years old.

  A door slammed somewhere, and there was the sound of a voice raised in a stream of abuse, and the Big Cheese stomped into the conference room. He took his seat at the head of the table and glared at them.

  "Okay," he said furiously, "we got a problem."

  He was a very large man with carrot-red hair and pale freckled skin. A ruthless force emanated from him like a tangible vibration of the air. His name was Thomas Ragusano, but nobody had called him that for years. He was the Big Cheese, or simply, the Biggie.

  "Sardo," he said, stabbing a finger at a sad-eyed man who resembled a bloodhound in a chalk-striped flannel suit. "You're in charge of the New York-Jersey operation. What happened at the film lab?"

  "They hit it. There must have been fifty of them to do all that damage. They worked fast. Nobody got a good look at them. Thirty of our boys dead, another thirty-forty hurt. All the film in for processing burnt. All the major equipment ruined. We're out of business for a month, maybe two. It's gonna take a million dollars, easy, before we set up again."

  There was a low murmuring around the table. The nine vice chairmen looked at one another.

  "All right, all right!" the Big Cheese said. He hammered on the conference table with his lignum vitae gavel. He turned back to Sardo. "Who was it, the Syn?"

  Sardo spread his hands. "Who else? They're sore at the heist we pulled last night at the actor's. They declare war."

  Young Fontina cleared his throat. "That heist was a mistake," he said. "We got nothing out of it, not even the film."

  Sardo's eyes blazed with anger. "You all voted yes on it, every mother one of you!" He faced the Big Cheese unflinchingly. "And you stamped your okay on it."

  "The point," the Cheese said, "is that your boys lost their heads. They made a mess of it. So instead of maybe knocking off a few of our soldiers to teach us a lesson, which we can afford, they give us a war."

  Sardo said, "I'm not responsible for a few hotheads."

  "But you are," said the orange-haired man. "We run this outfit like a business. The Org isn't like some hole-in-the wall family. An executive is supposed to be responsible for the acts of his subordinates."

  He pressed a button in front of him. His secretary came in, a steno pad in her hand. The men at the table watched her progress across the room with pleasure. She was a dark-haired girl with a fantastic figure. The crisp white ruffled blouse looked as if it were bursting in front. She sat down on a chair near the table and crossed her legs. All the vice chairmen on that side craned their necks to get a look. She flipped open the steno pad.

  "Take a letter," the Big Cheese said. "Dear Mr. Sardo. Your explanations are unsatisfactory. In view of the grave position in which you have put this Organization, I regret that I have no alternative but to fire you."

  His secretary turned a page of her pad. There was a flash of fire from between the pages. Sardo tumbled out of his chair, clawing at his chest.

  "Is that all, Mr. Ragusano?" she said.

  "All for now, Lavinia," said the Big Cheese. "When the meeting's over, have the maintenance men remove the body."

  She closed the pad and got up. The eight remaining vice chairmen watched her undulating rear all the way to the door.

  The Big Cheese gave a look of distaste to Sardo's body, stretched out on the floor. He said, "Back to business, gentlemen. Fontina, you're in charge of the New York operation from now on. Most of the action will take place here and in San Francisco, but I want all you guys to hit them, and hit them hard, in your own territories. We're gonna fix it so it just isn't safe for anyone to go to a Syn dirty movie or buy a magazine in a Syn porno shop."

  Fontina said, "Gotcha."

  The Big Cheese pounded on the table. "The Syn wants war," he said, "we'll give them war!"

  * * *

  Harry Weems looked at his watch. Almost noontime. Most of his customers would be going out to lunch soon. No point in making calls for a while. Besides, he wasn't in the mood for work anyway. He rested his salesman's sample case against his leg and looked around.

  He was standing outside the Times Square subway station, at the corner of Broadway and Forty-second Street. The theater marquees were all around him, no matter which way he looked. INSATIABLE HOUSEWIFE. HEAD MISTRESS. DEEP GOAT. LUST HORIZON. NYMPHO NURSES. There was a crawling sensation in his jockey shorts. Harry wr
estled with his conscience and won.

  He looked around to see if there was anyone who knew him in the street. There were just the usual hustlers and dirty-necked kids and camera-slung tourists. He picked up his sample case and hurried over to the nearest box office.

  There was a guy ahead of him, a shamefaced junior executive type in his thirties with an attaché case. The guy fidgeted while the broad in the booth took her time about his ticket and change, then darted into the theater, his head down.

  Harry paid for his ticket. Five dollars. Wow, it better be good! He hunched his shoulders and followed the junior executive inside.

  It was dark inside. The screen was filled with a color close-up of some part of the anatomy. It was so close that you couldn't tell what it was — just a big magnified square of flesh. There were a few dozen guys scattered among the seats, sitting as far from each other as they could get. A lot of them had newspapers in their laps.

  Harry took an aisle seat and settled back to watch. It was pretty good, something about an X-ray machine repairman who goes to the hospital and mixes it up with the nurses. His jockey shorts were binding him. Wow, he'd have to spend another twenty bucks at a massage parlor after this!

  About ten minutes later, the lights went on. The cops! All around him, well-dressed businessmen were leaping from their seats like startled hares. There was a general rush for the exits.

  But the exits were guarded. It wasn't the cops. It was a bunch of hoods in dark suits, waving hardware. What the hell was this?

  The hoods were beating up anybody who tried to leave. They had one dignified businessman up against the wall while a big gorilla with a cigar slapped him back and forth across the face. The businessman started crying like a kid. The gorilla looked him over judiciously, then reached down and pulled the businessman's zipper open. He puffed on his cigar to get it going, then dropped it inside the businessman's pants. The guy yelled. They let him go and laughed as he danced around, screaming, beating at his trousers with his hands.

  By that time, Harry was on his hands and knees between rows of seats, crawling for a side exit. The hoods were spreading through the theater, beating up the customers, breaking up the seats and generally doing damage. A gorilla was on the stage, slashing the screen to ribbons. When he finished, he lit a smoke bomb and tossed it. One of the hoods yelled, and they started to group at a rear exit.

  Harry reached the end of the row. Now was his chance! Still on his hands and knees, he poked his head out. A big hairy hand came from nowhere and grabbed him by the collar. There was a pair of big black shoes under his nose. The hand hauled him to his feet, and they started to beat the bejesus out of him.

  * * *

  Little Frankie Gomez sauntered toward the doorway, walking tough. His mother would blow a fuse if she knew he was prowling The Strip tonight. He'd told her he was going to Eddie's house to do his homework.

  The sign on the doorway said: NO MINORS ALLOWED. He scowled at it and gave himself a more macho stride, widening his legs to let his cojones swing. Shit, man, he'd be seventeen next month! He hunched his neck into his leather jacket and pushed the door open.

  The fat man at the cash register didn't even look at him. The place was filled with the usual creeps, damp-complexioned Anglos with unfocused faces, pimply adolescents. Hell, that kid over at the rack of beaver magazines probably was younger than he was!

  Frankie elbowed his way past a pale, clerical-looking Anglo who was standing at a table spread with secondhand nudie magazines, methodically turning the pages one at a time. The man flinched as he went past and moved away a step. They were all like that, afraid of their shadows, sure that any kid with a Spanish face was going to mug them right then and there, getting their kicks by looking at pictures.

  Frankie found his favorite place, the table near the display of leather-and-chain books, that had all the real hot stuff on it. It was very educational. He was still a virgin, but in a week or two, when he got around to calling up Mary Sanchez, he was going to know all about it. He began turning pages. Holy Saints, that blonde puta had a crack big enough to take a horse! What if Mary was like that? He'd fall in!

  He was so engrossed that he didn't notice when the men in the dark suits came in. He looked up when they started slapping the fat man around.

  All the customers dropped the magazines they'd been looking at and began backing toward the far wall. A shaggy guy in a Hawaiian shirt came out of one of the curtained peep show booths, took one look at what was happening and ducked right back inside.

  The dudes in the dark suits started kicking over the racks and tables. One of them had a jerry can. Bato loco! What was he doing? He was pouring gasoline over the heaps of magazines. The place was going to go up like a torch!

  Frankie started to edge his way toward a side wall, to place himself where the fire wouldn't be between him and the door. One of the hard guys caught the movement. He grabbed Frankie and gave him a crack across the face.

  "Get back there with the others, kid," he said.

  Frankie felt himself pushed and shoved against the back wall, crowded now with a mass of trembling customers. Madre de Dios! He hoped there was a back exit, down that corridor between the rows of peep show booths. It was going to be one hell of a tangle when all these frightened rabbits started scrambling and fighting to get out at once.

  The dark-suited batos were backing toward the door, holding their guns on the cowed customers. The last one out reached in his side pocket.

  "Lots of luck, creeps," he said. He struck a match and tossed it into the gasoline-soaked pile of books and magazines.

  * * *

  Mr. Head took the phone from Teresa. Her thin arm trembled as she gave it to him. He frowned. He was about to hear something unpleasant. Teresa had detected it in the quality of Gabriel's voice at the other end. She was infallible at picking up people's vibrations. That was why he liked to have her around.

  "Yes, Gabriel," he said gently. "Is something wrong?"

  "I don't like to worry you, Mister Head…" Gabriel was a well-bred young man. Respectful. Courteous.

  "Don't let it concern you," Mister Head said. "Please go on."

  "Well… we had a bad night. All over."

  Mister Head's great bowl of a skull inclined. "What do you mean?"

  "We got raided. Real rough stuff. In New York they broke up the Cherry Blossom Synema. Roughed up the customers. In L.A. they torched one of our bookstores. Killed the manager. Sent eight customers to the hospital with burns. Two of them died. Raided a stag party in Kansas City where we were supplying film. Killed our projectionist and circumcised the bridegroom for a gag. Blew up the peep show arcade in St. Louis. Same thing all over the country."

  "And who is responsible?"

  "The grapevine says the Org. They want to take over. This is the start of a big push."

  Mister Head drummed his fingers on the desk.

  Gabriel said, "Mister Head, are you there? Do you want me to round up the board members and have them fly out to Vegas?"

  "No, I believe this calls for quicker action than that. We'll do it by conference call. Gabriel, stay where you are. Be ready for my call in an hour."

  "I'll be waiting, Mister Head."

  After hanging up, Mister Head turned to his secretary. "Teresa, place a call to each member of the Board." He looked at his watch. "Tell them to stand by for a ten a.m. conference call. You set it up. Put it trough the scrambler."

  "Yes, Mister Head," Teresa said. She wrung her fleshless hands nervously.

  "And send Vito in here."

  He waddled over to the barber chair, a massive head and torso mounted on stumpy legs. He hopped into the chair, rested his head on the backrest and waited. In a few minutes Vito came in. He covered Mister Head with a striped sheet and gave him a shave, hot towel treatment and a scalp massage. He was just slapping cologne onto the fleshy cheeks when the calls began to come through.

  "That will be all, Vito," Mister Head said. "No don't bother about the
rest of it. Just leave. Quickly."

  Vito picked up his barber's bag and scurried from the room. Mister Head swung the chair around to face the far wall. His torso was still covered by the striped sheet.

  The wall curtains parted. The entire wall was covered with videophone screens, twelve of them, each boxed in its own section of shelf. At the top center was a monitor screen to show Mister Head how he himself looked.

  Faces began to pop out all over the wall. As each one flickered into existence, it gave a greeting. Mister Head acknowledged each one with a courteous nod and an inquiry about the man's health.

  When they were all ready and waiting he began.

  "I'm sure that by now you've all heard about our troubles of last night. They seem to have been coordinated. There is no doubt that the Org is behind it. Evidently the previous raid at the apartment of Baynard Warren was not an isolated incident. They have declared all-out war."

  A face in the upper left corner box spoke. "But why?"

  "It's obvious that they now feel they are strong enough to take over our entire film and publications operation."

  Another face spoke. "They're crazy. They oughtta know they can't get away with it."

  "Nevertheless," Mister Head said, "they already have caused us severe inconvenience. One of the persons killed at the party was the actor Terence O'Shea. We had approached him about starring in the new venture we are financing through Sullivan Flick. Now that project will have to be delayed until we can find another actor."

  "I think I can help, Mister Head," said the face in the lower right box. "I got a file on an actor we helped out a long time ago. We got a lot on him. I'll send the file over to you."

  "Is he an important name?"

  "One of the best."

  "Thank you, Benedict. Now, to our more immediate problem. The Org has challenged us directly. Do we accept that challenge?"

  There were angry mutterings from all of the twelve boxes. "Cream the bastards!" someone said.