Chita Crane leaned against a lamppost, indifferent to the slight drizzle of rain, a cigarette between her full, red painted lips, her large dark eyes fixed with a concentrated stare at the entrance to the Giza Club, across the street.
The time was a little after three o'clock in the morning. Very soon now, the mugs would be coming out. One of them, and it had only to be one, would notice her and would come over. He would be a little drunk or maybe very drunk. He would offer her a lift in his car.
Chita was above average height with broad shoulders, a bust development that would make any man stare, slim hips and long legs. She wore black leather trousers, shiny and greasy from constant wear, and a black leather windcheater, on the back of which was painted in white, a realistic looking Crane fly or to give it its more popular name: a Daddy Longlegs. This outfit was the uniform both she and Riff, her brother, always wore. They were known among the gangs in their district as the Leatherjackets which, as most people know, are the larvae of the Crane fly.
When Chita could be bothered, she bleached her dark hair blonde, but more often than not, her hair was a dirty looking, streaky blonde—black. She had high cheekbones, large blue-black eyes and a well-shaped nose. No one could call her beautiful nor even pretty, but she was sensually attractive to men. Her eyes, old in wickedness and sexual promise, had a magnetic attraction. She was, like her brother, cruel, ruthless and vicious. It is always hard to accept the fact that anyone could have no redeeming feature, but it would be hard to find a redeeming feature in either of the Cranes. Both of them were habitual liars, dishonest and treacherous. They were also selfish, mean and utterly anti-social. Perhaps the one good thing - if you could call it that - in their make-up that someone could point to was their quite extraordinary love for each other.
They were identical twins: there was a bond between them that withstood all their quarrelling and their constant fights, and they often fought like animals: Chita giving as good as she got. But if one of them fell ill which was seldom, or got into trouble which was often, the other was always there, giving support no matter how tough the spot. They completely relied on each other: they shared good luck with the bad and it was unthinkable to them if one had a dollar, it wouldn't be automatically shared with the other.
Across the street, standing out of sight in a dark alley was Riff Crane. He was a few inches taller than his sister. His high cheekbones and his big glittering dark eyes were like those of his sister's, but he had had his nose broken in a fight when he was a kid, and some months ago, an enemy had caught him unawares and had cut his face open with a razor from his right eye down to his jawbone. These two scars gave him a vicious, frightening appearance of which he was proud. Chita and he had laid a trap for the man who had slashed him. The score had been successfully settled. The man was now being led around by his wife, half-blind and stupid from repeated kicks to his head. Both Chita and Riff always wore skiing boots. They went well with their uniform and were terrible weapons in a street fight.
A man suddenly appeared in the doorway of the nightclub. He looked to right and left, stared at Chita, then started off down the street, his hands in his pockets. Chita watched him go indifferently. The exodus had begun: sooner or later, some mug would come over to her. She saw her brother flick his glowing cigarette end into the street and move further back into the shadows.
Men and women began to emerge from the nightclub. Car doors slammed: cars drove away. Still Chita waited. Then a small man, wearing a raincoat and a slouch hat came up the stairs from the nightclub and paused in the doorway. Chita eyed him with interest and she lit another cigarette, holding the match cupped in her hand to light her face.
The little guy stared across the street at her, seemed to hesitate, then he came over. Chita's experienced eyes noted the quality of the raincoat, the handmade shoes and the glitter of a gold strap watch. This could be the mug she was waiting for.
The little guy grinned at her as he approached. He had a cocky, knowing air about him. He moved lightly: his thin, foxy face was suntanned as if he spent much of his time out of doors.
“Hello, baby,” he said, pausing beside her. “Are you waiting for someone?”
Chita let smoke drift down her nostrils. Then she gave him her wide, professional smile.
“Hello, Mac,” she said. “If I'm waiting for someone, looks like I've found him, doesn't it?”
The little guy examined her carefully. What he saw seemed to please him.
“That's right: suppose we get out of the rain?” he said. “I have a car over there. Suppose you and me go someplace quiet and private? We could have lots to talk about.”
Chita laughed. She arched her breasts at him and lifted her dark eyebrows invitingly.
“Sounds like an idea: how private and where?”
“How's about a hotel, baby?” The little guy winked. “I have money to burn. Do you know a quiet little joint we could go to?”
This was easy . . . almost too easy. Chita allowed herself to hesitate before saying, “Well . . . if that's what you want, honey, it's okay with me. I know a place. I'll show you.”
She flicked her glowing cigarette high into the air. This was a pre-arranged signal to Riff, letting him know where she was taking the mug.
The little guy owned a Buick convertible. They got in and as Chita settled herself beside the little guy, he said, “That's an offbeat getup you have on. Suits you. What's the idea of the Daddy Longlegs?”
“It's my signature tune,” Chita said. She was already bored with this little man. She only hoped he had a wallet full of money. She eyed the gold strap watch. That, at least, would be worth her trouble.
Five minutes later they were booking into a shady hotel on the waterfront. The reception clerk, a dirty, elderly man, gave Chita a sly wink and she winked back. Both knew that within a few minutes, Riff would be arriving.
They went upstairs and into a fair sized room in which was a double bed, two armchairs, a toilet basin and a threadbare carpet.
Chita sat on the bed and smiled at the little guy who took off his raincoat and hat. He hung them on a peg at the back of the door. He wore a custom-made dark suit. He had the appearance of a man of money.
“I'd like my present, honey,” Chita said. “Thirty bucks.”
The little guy gave her an amused smile and moved to the window. He pushed aside the dirty curtain and peered down into the rain-soaked street. He was in time to see Riff get off his motorcycle, lift it up on to its stand and then start across the street towards the hotel.
“What are you looking at?” Chita asked, her voice sharpening. “Come here . . . I want my present.”
The little guy gave her an amused smile and moved to the window.
“No present, baby,” he said. “Nothing for you. I want to meet your brother.”
Chita stared at him.
“My brother? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Last week, you picked up a pal of mine,” the little guy said. “You brought him here. You and your brother skinned him and then your jerk of a brother beat him up. Now it's my turn . . .”
Chita eyed the little guy with sudden alert interest. He looked harmless enough. He was small boned, lightweight and even fragile. Riff could kill him with one punch.
“Be your age, Sawn-off,” she said contemptuously. “We don't want trouble, but you'll have it if you don't watch out. Riff could handle ten like you. If you don't want to land up in the casualty ward, hand over your wallet and your watch. I'll see Riff doesn't hurt you.”
The little guy sniggered. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
“The Leatherjackets! Two dumb vicious kids who can't earn a dime unless they use force. Baby, this has been piling up for you both for a long, long time. Now you're going to get it.”
As he spoke the bedroom door swung open and Riff came in. Usually when he entered this sordid room, Chita had taken off her clothes and was lying naked on the bed, and this gave him the chance of acting as the indign
ant brother. Seeing her sitting on the bed, fully dressed and staring at the little guy who stood in the centre of the room, still smiling, brought Riff to an abrupt standstill.
“Come on in, punk,” the little guy said. “I've been sweating to meet you.”
Riff looked at Chita who shrugged impatiently.
“Don't ask me,” she said, but she was a little uneasy. “I guess he's nuts.”
Riff moved into the room and shut the door. There was a watchful, alert expression in his eyes. His big fists dangled loosely at his sides.
“Okay, Mac,” he said. “The watch and the wallet. Snap it up. I want some sleep tonight even if you don't.”
“I'm in no hurry to sleep,” the little guy said and sniggered.
He seemed to be having a wonderful time and his lack of fear sparked off Riff's vicious temper.
“Snap it up!” he snarled and began to move forward.
The little guy backed away quickly until he was against the far wall.
“You want my wallet?” he asked and put his hand inside his coat.
“Watch him!” Chita said sharply.
Riff paused. The little guy had a gun in his hand. He pointed it at Riff.
“Hi, sucker!” the little guy said cheerfully. “You didn't expect to run into anything like this, did you?”
Riff snarled at him.
“You let off that heater and you'll be in lots of trouble,” he said.
He made a quick feinting movement to the right and then charged the little guy. Chita caught her breath. It seemed a mad thing to do. She saw Riff reel back and clap his hands to his face as at the same time, she smelt the burning fumes of ammonia.
Riff fell on his knees, his hands scrubbing at his eyes and howling like an animal in pain. Sniggering, the little guy watched him. As Chita started to her feet, he swung around and aimed the ammonia gun at her. She just managed to cover her face with her hands as the burst of ammonia hit her. She saved her eyes, but she drew in a lungful of the scorching fumes. Screaming, she rolled from the bed onto the floor.
The little guy regarded his handiwork with satisfaction.
He put the gun back into his pocket. He took his raincoat from the peg and put it on. Then he slapped his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. He paused for a long moment to watch the Cranes writhing like cut worms on the floor, then he let himself out of the room and went jauntily down to his car.
The Cranes never found out who he was. When the news got around how he had fixed them, those who had suffered at their hands regarded this anonymous little guy as a symbol of justice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Special Agent Abe Mason sat in his car some fifty yards from the entrance to the Regis Court Hotel, a quiet, second-rate hotel in a side street off Van Ness Avenue, San Francisco.
The previous evening, Special Agent Harry Garson had reported to the Field Office that Kramer had arrived at the hotel and had booked in. Since then, Garson and Mason had taken turns to watch the hotel.
Since Kramer had arrived, neither of the agents had seen him. He appeared to be lying doggo. They were satisfied there was no rear exit to the hotel. When Kramer chose to show himself, they wouldn't fail to spot him.
The time by Mason's strap watch was twenty minutes after eleven o'clock. The morning had been unproductive so far, but Mason was trained to patience. Often enough he had sat outside sleazy hotels for days on end without anything happening, but he knew, sooner or later, so long as he remained where he was, something was bound to happen.
At exactly eleven-thirty, his patience was rewarded. A taxi pulled up outside the hotel and Moe Zegetti got out. After paying the cabby, he hurried into the hotel. Mason lifted the mike of his radiotelephone and reported back to Jay Dennison.
“Stick with them, Abe,” Dennison said. “I'll send Tom over. When Zegetti comes out, Tom will take care of him. You take care of Kramer.”
Two elderly women came down the street and entered the hotel. A little later a woman with a small boy came in a taxi and also entered the hotel. Mason lit a cigarette and relaxed. These people couldn't have anything to do with Kramer.
A few minutes to midday, a girl and a young man came walking down the street. They looked like twins. The girl, her hair dyed blonde, was wearing a cheap cotton dress, scuffed white shoes and sunglasses. The young man was dark. He had on bottle green slacks, an open-neck grubby white shirt and over his shoulder he had slung a lightweight fawn-coloured jacket. He also wore sunglasses. They looked like a couple of students on vacation. Mason gave them a disinterested stare and then dismissed them. Because Moe Zegetti had had the intelligence to insist neither of the Cranes should wear their uniforms, they passed into the hotel without raising the Federal Agent's suspicions.
“The guy in the car across the way,” Chita said under her breath. “Could be a dick.”
“Yeah, I saw him,” Riff said. “Better tell Zegetti. Could mean nothing: could be a private dick on a divorce caper.”
They had been told by Moe to go to the first floor, Room 149, knock twice and wait.
There were a few elderly people sitting in the dusty lounge who peered at the Cranes as they walked to the stairs. A bellhop eyed them, started to get up, but decided it was too much trouble. These two seemed to know where they were going.
They arrived at Room 149, knocked and the door was immediately opened. Moe jerked his thumb and they walked into a comfortably furnished sitting room with a door opposite them leading into a bedroom.
Big Jim Kramer sat in an armchair by the window, a cigar gripped between his teeth. He examined the Cranes as they moved into the room. They came in cautiously, like animals uneasy in new surroundings. Moe was right. These two were tough. His eyes travelled over Chita: the girl was something . . . that bust of hers! If he had been five years younger, he might have had ideas about her!
Ignoring Kramer, Riff said to Moe, “There's a dick parked outside . . . could be a private eye . . . could be a Fed.”
Moe stiffened. His fat face lost a little colour. He looked quickly at Kramer who said quietly. “Forget him. I've got him tagged. The Feds must be interested when Zegetti and I get together . . : they don't miss much.” He eased his bulk in the chair, making it creak. “When I'm good and ready, I'll lose him. I've been losing cops for the past forty years.”
In their turn, the Cranes examined Kramer. They had read about him in the tabloids when they were kids. They knew him to have been one of the top racketeers in the business: a man who had made six million dollars. Seeing him now, heavy, old with a whisky complexion his suntan couldn't conceal, they were disappointed. They had expected to see a man a lot more lethal-looking than this sixty-year old hunk of beef, sitting in an armchair and smoking a cigar.
“Sit down, you two,” Kramer went on. He stared at Riff who still had a couple of raw blisters on his face where, two weeks ago, the ammonia had burned him. “What's the matter with your face?”
“A whore bit me,” Riff said as he sat down.
There was a long pause. Kramer's beefy face turned a dark red and his little eyes snapped.
“Listen to me, you young slob,” he snarled, “when I ask a question, you answer up polite . . . hear me?”
“Oh, sure,” Riff said indifferently, “but my face belongs to me: it's nothing to you what's the matter with it.”
Zegetti eyed Kramer uneasily. In the old days, if some punk talked back to him, Kramer would crush him with a blow in the face, but instead, Kramer shrugged and said, “We're wasting time. Now, listen, you two, I'm fixing a job. I could use you if you want to come in. There's no risk and it's worth five grand. What do you say?”
Chita was aware of the impression she had made on Kramer. She had an instinctive knowledge when she raised lust in men, and she knew she had stirred Kramer's desires.
“No risk?” she asked. “Then what's a cop doing, parked outside?”
“You two little jerks don't know what it is to be famous,” Kramer said. “Moe here was one of t
he top craftsmen in the game and I ran a mob of over five hundred hoods who really knew their business. When Moe and I get together, it's news. The Feds get scared. I said forget it. I'll lose them when I want to. Right now they can sit outside and stew. It won't get them anywhere. When I pull this job, they'll know nothing about it. Do you want the job? It's worth five grand. Make up your minds. If you want it, say so.”
Riff touched one of the raw blisters on his face and winced angrily.
“What's the job?”
“You buy it sight unseen,” Kramer said. “You don't get the dope until you say you're in, and when you're in, you damn well stay in or you'll have me to reckon with.”
The Cranes looked at each other. For the past two weeks they had been having a very bad time. Word had got around how the little guy had fixed them and they had lost face with their gang. The other gangs openly jeered at them and Riff had been involved in several fights: one of them he had nearly lost. Chita had been pestered on the streets by punks who wouldn't have dared touch her before. Riff had been laid up for a week. The offer of five thousand dollars stunned them. It was more money than they had ever hoped to lay their hands on in their lives. So far they had played it small, but safe. Now, getting themselves hooked up to a fat old square like Kramer could land them into trouble they had so carefully avoided so far. But the money was too big a temptation. Riff nodded his head at Chita who nodded back.
“Well, okay, we're in,” Riff said and taking out a couple of cigarettes, he tossed one to Chita and lit the other for himself. “What's the deal?”
Kramer told them what he had told Moe, but he mentioned no names. He said the girl was the daughter of a wealthy man who would pay ransom without going to the cops.
There was a long pause after Kramer had finished talking.
The Cranes looked at each other, then Riff slowly shook his head. To Kramer, he said, “That caper could land us in the gas chamber. Five grand isn't enough. If we're going to risk our necks, we want five grand each.”
Kramer's face went a blotchy red.
1963 - One Bright Summer Morning Page 5