by Pierre Rey
"Not that one," said the oldest of the workers. "That's Marilyn's!"
"Marilyn's? No kidding?"
"Please don't!"
"Okay, you can keep Marilyn. I guess she won't be in very often ordering shoes. Hah! Smash 'em! Go ahead!"
Biasca, still on the floor, his face hidden in his hands, sneaked a peek at his workers, whom he thought of as his own children, trampling those unique molds that had been his treasure. It would take him years to collect them again—if these crooks let him live.
"Now, show me your stockroom!"
Biasca waved his head toward a door at the back. He got up painfully, stumbling over the broken plaster, and caught sight of one shard that said "Henry Kissinger." None of me staff made a move as he turned the knob on the stockroom door. It was full of precious leathers, im ported from Italy or England, and shoes that were ready for delivery or partly finished. The hood opened his violin case. To Biasca's surprise, there was no machine gun in it, but an acetylene torch with a half-sized gas tank attached.
"You're not going to burn the place down, are you?" Biasca pleaded.
Without answering, the hood started to shove the shoe boxes around, and then said, "We won't burn any thing down. Just singe your crap a little bit"
He turned a button, and the gas started hissing out of the torch. He used a pocket lighter, and the flame spurted forward, setting fire to the first cardboard boxes.
"How much do you want?" Pietro asked as he wit nessed the nightmare.
"We don't want your dough!"
"Then what do you want?"
"Nothing. Take your shoes off."
Mechanically, Biasca obeyed. He was no longer afraid. He didn't care. What worse could they do to him?
"Do you have a mold of your own feet?"
"No."
"Good. 'Cause you wouldn't have much use for it." "Why?"
Unexpected, and with horrible accuracy, the heavy torch came crashing down on each of his bare feet, and he could hear the cracking of his own smashed bones.
"They'll never be the same again," the hood in formed him with nice courtesy.
When the wave of pain finally got to him and he was able to scream, Biasca realized he was all alone in his stockroom.
"Come in, my friend. Do come in."
Homer Kloppe was vigorously shaking the hand of his caller, a man of some forty years who looked youthful de spite his white crew-cut hair.
"Did you have a good trip?"
"Excellent, thank you."
"Can I give you a drink? Whiskey, perhaps?"
"With pleasure."
Homer took two silver tumblers from a shelf. "Do sit down. How long will you be staying in Zurich?"
"I'm heading back to Detroit in three hours."
"Oh, too bad. I'd hoped you'd come to dinner."
Homer opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bottle of Waterman's ink. He unscrewed the cap and poured a light-colored liquid into two tumblers.
"Don't look worried," he said with a smile. "Even the Swiss don't drink ink. This is Irish Middleton, thirty years old. Taste it."
The man with the white hair smelled it circumspectly.
He was Belvin Bost chief administrative officer of Inter continental Motor Cars, an automobile-manufacturing firm set up after the war to launch a new prestige car to com pete with Rolls-Royce and Cadillac. In less than ten years the original factory of three hundred workers became a huge complex with six thousand people on the assembly lines. In the interim, the stock went through the ceiling, selling at twelve times its par value. Kloppe was the major stockholder, with a fifth of the total value of IMC.
"I was surprised to hear from you," Kloppe told his guest "What did you have to tell me that was so secret you couldn't say it over the phone?"
Melvin Bost looked embarrassed, but then he an swered, "There's been another accident."
He held his glass out to Kloppe, who poured him an other shot of Waterman's.
"Another?"
"The seventh in sixteen months. For the same rea son. Break in the steering column."
Homer's little pink mouth twisted slightly. "What did the investigation show?"
"We know very well what it is. Defective tempering of the steel in the steering columns of all our Beauty Ghost P9s."
"Why all of them?"
"We make the parts ourselves. We acquired a three-year supply of steel at a very good price."
"Well, use different steel."
"We've already begun to."
"Have you filed suit against your supplier?"
"The very first day—as soon as the widow of the guy who was killed in the P9 sicced her army of lawyers on us."
"Did she win?"
"Not yet but she will. It was easy for her to prove that the accident was a clear case of mechanical failure. But that's not the end of it The estates of the six other victims are suing us, too."
"Well, what do you think we ought to do?"
"I don't know, sir. I came here to ask what you thought."
"How many Beauty Ghosts are on the road?' "Worldwide, 482,326."
"Are you certain these accidents are not merely co incidental?"
"Seven accidents for identical causes can't be co incidence. That's a pattern."
Homer Kloppe sighed deeply.
"We put the problem through the computers. Statistic ally, there should be one such failure in every ten thou sand cars or so. That means roughly forty-eight accidents out of the 482,326 cars in use."
"That's terrifying!"
"Those are just statistics, sir. Nothing proves that all those accidents will actually take place. I'm just saying that the figures show they may"
"I won't permit it! We have to forewarn every P9 owner in the world!"
"What are you suggesting?"
"You have to recall them and replace the defective part without charge."
"We've considered that, but it's prohibitively expen sive."
"How can you tell? If you make that kind of gesture you'll get such publicity that we may be swamped with new buyers."
"Perhaps, sir, but I still don't think that'll offset the hundred-fifty-million-dollar cost"
Homer spilled some of his drink. 'I beg your par don. How much did you say?"
"A hundred and fifty million dollars," Bost repeated in an even tone.
Homer almost choked. Some quick mental arithme tic told him that his personal share of the loss would be thirty million dollars.
"You see, sir," Melvin Bost went on, "I expected you to have this kind of straightforward reaction. But I must warn you that if we do make this honest gesture, it'll be our last We’ll be out of business."
"Still, we can't let forty-eight people ride around risk ing death."
"Six thousand assembly-line workers fired, five hun dred supervisory personnel unemployed, engineers out of work. You can see why I didn't want to do anything before consulting with you."
‘I’m appalled.
"And well you may be. There's no halfway measure in this thing. If word about it gets out, we have to go all the way or lose our good name. Unfortunately, if we do go all the way, EMC won't be able to meet its obligations."
"What to do? What to do?" moaned the honest Swiss banker.
"My advice, is to do nothing, sir. There may not be any more accidents. If that widow hadn't sued us, we might never even have known about this mechanical de fect. We can take our chances..."
Kloppe stared at him. "It's not up to us to take our chances, Melvin! We have no right to do that"
"Well, remember, out of the seven accidents, only four involved fatalities."
Homer shook his head. "Only four..."
'Two of the others caused rather serious injuries, but the last one only had bruises. If I may, sir, I’d like to suggest something to you. Let's go on for three months, say, and if there's no recurrence, we'll forget about it. In the meantime, I will have had a chance to consider every possible way of staying in business—that is, if t
here is one—when we order a massive recall for replacement of all the steering columns. How does that strike you?"
Homer Kloppe was pensive.
Melvin Bost waited for a few minutes that seemed like an eternity. Then he resumed his tack: "Under the circumstances, sir, I think that would be the wisest thing to do. Especially since the new P9s coming out in less than a month will have nothing wrong with them at all."
Homer's two shiny incisors appeared and chewed at his baby-like mouth as he said, "Do whatever is best Mel vin. Yes, whatever is best..."
Chimene Kloppe had two double chins, porcelain-blue eyes, brown hair, and pale, delicate skin. Her life was a series of small quiet pleasures, marked off by tea-time, mealtime, prayertime, visiting time, and sleeping time. That there was no longer any time for sex did not surprise her, as if her old urges had dissolved in. the un broken drowsiness of her marriage.
Enclosed in the warm cocoon Homer had spun about her, she envied no one. She had a reasonably fine collec tion of jewels and a chauffeur, like everyone else, and she tried to alleviate what guilt she had by generously devoting her time and some of her money to "doing good."
"Homer, are you leaving the table so soon?"
1 have some work to do. Will you excuse me? I have quite a few papers to go through before tomorrow. Where's Renata?"
"Out with Kurt, I believe."
Homer Kloppe made an ill-disguised face which Chimene pretended not to notice. They had already argued a hundred times - over their future son-in-law. Chimene thought it charming that he should be considered a revolutionary. Homer questioned the very basis of his revolutionary ideas, calling them childish, unrealistic, and negative—although secretly he was impressed with Kurt's academic status.
"Well, good night, then."
Chimene smiled, then added with a touch of worry in her voice, "You work too hard, Homer. Will I see you at breakfast tomorrow? I’d like to tell you about the final arrangements I’ve made for the wedding."
Kloppe looked sharply at her, and again she took no notice of it The scandalous ceremony Renata had de cided on for her marriage had tacitly become a taboo subject between them.
As she watched him disappear, she thought what a good husband, a good Christian, a good citizen, and a good father he was to have accepted, in his position in so ciety, his daughter's outlandish whim about the wedding! Nor had Homer ever forgotten Chimene's birthday, or been late to dinner. And even in the days when he was still attractive, she knew he had never been unfaithful to her. Once again she wondered whether she would dare ask him about the pictures of a nude black woman in provocative poses she had accidentally found in his over coat pocket
Despite young Volpone's protests Moshe Yudelman had insisted on two "soldiers" going to Zurich with him. Folco Mori, a simple foot soldier despite his unusual gifts, seemed happiest in this subordinate position, which his high-spiritedness, his disdain for danger, and his inborn ferocity might have gotten him out of. Unfortunately, it was these very ''qualities, along with dexterity with a switchblade unmatched anywhere in the world, that made his bosses leery of him end kept him unjustly away from any real responsibilities. The capiregime, who treated him with affected friendliness, actually feared him. They claimed he went a little heavy on the violent side—striking where threat would have been preferable, maiming instead of simply breaking reparable bones; therefore, they limited his activities to the handling of people who resolutely refused to conform to the Volpone family code. When Folco Mori went into action, his enjoyment of the job took precedence over everything else.
Pietro Bellinzona was a much simpler case. He car ried out the most delicate assignments without com plaint, never asking questions. He was fiftyish, but his husky wrestler's shoulders hid the weight he had put on owing to a sweet tooth that had dogged him since child hood. The fact that he also put away a quart of whiskey a day never caused him to miss a target. He had been in the service of Genco Volpone for the past twenty years, and he was satisfied with his fate, delighted not to have to think for himself, simply carrying out orders, no matter what they were. Moshe Yudelman had personally in structed Pietro to stay at all times with Italo Volpone, and that was what he would do. Folco Mori, on the other hand, was supposed to keep a discreet watch and show his hand only if Babe was in imminent danger. Too bad —because Pietro loved Folco's company.
Pietro went through the airport security clearance with Italo Volpone, remembering just in time not to wave hello to Folco, who had his nose buried in a news maga zine. Volpone had not said a word or even deigned to look at him. As Italo went up the steep ramp into the plane, he reminded Pietro Bellinzona of a dangerously doped fighter climbing into the ring.
Three years before, Carlo Badaletto had bid adieu to Genco Volpone and joined the Gabelotti clan as consigliere. Ettore Gabelotti had all the necessary qualities of an excellent capo—toughness, cruelty, hypocrisy, unscrupulousness, vindictiveness, and outstanding intelligence. After the first phase of Operation OUT, Gabelotti told Badaletto, "Zu Genco is a straight shooter, but his brother is a double-crossing shit"
Carlo ran the tips of his fingers over his jaw at the spot where Italo's head had butted out his front teeth. ‘Can you tell me what the bastard of a little brother is doing in Switzerland? Especially after going to see Kirk patrick with a flock of mouthpieces?'
Ettore Gabelotti answered softly, in his best godfatherly tone, "Don't let it upset you, figlio mio. After all, Italo Volpone can go anywhere he wants without affect ing us. As for that trip to the precinct, maybe they final ly found out he's a scofflaw."
Lately, Don Gabelotti had been walking around with a constant chip on his shoulder—quite beyond his cus tomary sudden and often seemingly unwarranted rages. He pretended to make light of Carlo's suspicions, but secretly he shared them, and by mutual accord with his consigliere he had commissioned an out-of-town operator, Rico Gatto, whose face wasn't known in New York, to keep a tail on Babe Volpone. Through one of his contacts at JFK, he had been tipped off that Babe had booked a ticket in his own name on Flight 311 to Zurich. Rico Gatto's assignment was to keep Gabelotti abreast of every move Italo made. And Rico had seemed a little disap pointed that that was all there was to it
Gatto's usual contracts were for bits, and fatal ones. His fees were what the traffic would bear, depending on the importance of the target or the number of people to be rubbed out Rico had an artist's penchant for putting new twists on the jobs he pulled. It was unusual for him to make two bits in a row in the same way, as some of the unimaginative hit men did, without either enjoyment or revulsion. Before each contract Rico had the same kind of butterflies in his stomach as a performer about to go onstage.
"Is this Rico dependable?" Carlo Badaletto asked his don.
"Don't worry! I've used him on a lot tougher jobs man this. And if we finally have to shoot it out hell know how to handle it"
Gabelotti was delighted that Carlo had reacted the way he did. The jerk had wanted to tail Italo himself, but Ettore had squelched that idea by saying, "Can't you think of any better way to tip our hand?"
Carlo was depressingly envious as he pictured Rico Gatto sitting in a comfortable airplane seat gazing at the back of Italo Volpone's unprotected neck.
Captain Kirkpatrick trusted only cops he had per sonally trained. That's why he selected Pat Mahoney and Dave Cavanaugh, Irishmen like himself. They were tough guys, dedicated and incorruptible, and they'd stick with Italo Volpone if they had to follow him into hell.
They had looked at pictures of Italo until their minds were full of those hard eyes and raven-black hair. Now they were getting into the 747, having checked in as if they didn't know each other. Cavanaugh was in tourist class, Mahoney in first—the luck of the draw.
Seated in first class, Rico Gatto got up to retrieve the cigarettes he'd left in his trench-coat pocket Looking for ward, his eye took iq the back of Italo Volpone's power ful neck.
A young guy with dirty-blond hair, sitting several rows awa
y from Italo, had to be either one of Volpone's hoods or a cop. Rico settled into his seat stretched his legs deliriously, and waited for his first drink. No chance of Volpone slipping away; next to him sat his bodyguard, a solid giant-dressed in a dark suit Rico opened his favorite book, the Old Testament There was such a va riety of crimes in its pages that his own record, in contrast, seemed almost innocent.
"Boss, how about some champagne?" Pietro Bellinzana was saying to Babe Volpone.
"What's that?""