Carla's Revenge

by Sydney J. Bounds

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1951 by Sydney J. Bounds

  Originally published under the title, A Coffin for Carla

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For Mike Shine

  CHAPTER ONE

  The car was a Lincoln. It was wide as a tank, and streamlined; the nose was curved, the tail narrowing to a cigar-shape. The steel plates had been reinforced, painted a drab olive-green, and the windows were curved and bulletproof. It was not the sort of car an honest citizen would need in his daily chores.

  The car sped through the narrow dimly-lit streets of Manhattan’s East Side and turned into the Bowery. It stopped outside a dingy shop with boarded windows. The sign over the door was old, the paintwork flaked, but the words were still legible:

  JOE MAZZINI

  Coffins to Order

  Two men and a girl got out of the olive-green Lincoln and walked across to the shop. The girl was very young and very beautiful, and she looked as out of place in the Bowery as a mouse in a cat’s home. But appearances can be deceptive.

  She had raven-black hair, short and bobbed, an oval face that was smooth and dark complexioned, wide eyes with jet-black pupils, and perfectly shaped lips brightly coloured with crimson lipstick.

  The evening gown she wore was whiter than snow and didn’t need shoulder straps for support, not in the way it conformed to the mature curvature of her figure. The gown flattered her slim waist and tapering hips, dropping about her ankles. She had high-heeled shoes that sparkled diamonds, and sheer silk hose. She might have been anywhere from nineteen to twenty-one, and she had the beauty of youth and maturity combined.

  For an instant, she passed through the bright beam of the Lincoln’s headlamps, and the white dress hung like a pellucid net about her, revealing slender limbs, and curves of grace and beauty.

  Her bare shoulders were dark-skinned, half-covered by a white fur wrap, and she carried a tiny handbag of black leather. The way she walked, swaying from the hips, and the eager light in her jet-black eyes, revealed a suppressed excitement. She wasn’t tall, but what there was of her was just as perfect as a woman can be.

  Her two companions would have passed as typical Bowery thugs. One was broad and heavy, slow of movement and thinking. He wasn’t particular about his dress, and wore brown shoes with a blue suit. His face was wrinkled and scarred, his nose flattened and his eyes dull. He looked capable of carrying out simple orders, if they were spelled out in words of a single syllable.

  The other man dressed flashily. His royal blue tie clashed with a beige shirt, which clashed in turn with a fawn jacket with wide lapels and razor-creased slacks of bright green. His face was lean and hard and shadowed by the brim of a Fedora hat. He was no taller than the girl, but he swaggered as if he knew how smart he was.

  All three went into the shop on Nugget Street in New York’s Bowery. A passage led to a workshop littered with planks of wood, joiner’s tools, and half-completed coffins. There were shavings on the floor, and an unpleasant smell in the air.

  The girl’s nose didn’t wrinkle at the smell; she might have been used to death.

  “Hi, Joe,” she said in a soft drawl. “This is a business call.”

  Joe Mazzini laid down a chisel and looked up. He didn’t look as if he were pleased by the call. He was thin and bony with a grey face and a twitch about his mouth. His feet shifted almost as much as his watery eyes.

  “Wotcher want?” he said, looking from the girl to her two companions. He seemed more than a little uneasy about something.

  The girl held out an immaculately manicured hand. Her nails were crimson to match her lips.

  “Five hundred bucks,” she said casually.

  Joe looked down at the floor and scuffed wood-shavings with his foot. His twitch was giving him trouble.

  “I can’t pay it, Carla,” he mumbled. He had to moisten his lips before he could go on. “I can’t pay anymore.”

  Carla smiled bleakly. Her jet-black pupils contracted to pinpoints as she looked at Joe Mazzini. She loosened the fur wrap about her throat and leaned on a coffin.

  “Warm in here,” she drawled. “Shouldn’t be surprised if you had a fire one day, Joe. All this wood—make a swell bonfire. Now, for five hundred bucks, you get protection against fire. A sort of insurance policy.”

  “I can’t pay,” said Joe Mazzini, “not any longer.”

  Carla frowned, and how she managed to do it without looking any less beautiful is just one of those things.

  “Why not, Joe?” she asked softly. “You’re doing good business. Why, we’ve put some business your way ourselves.”

  She glanced at the unfinished coffin.

  “Old Rory,” she said, nodding towards the coffin. “He stopped paying insurance—then a car knocked him down. His relatives are paying for the coffin, aren’t they?”

  “It’s not that,” Joe mumbled. “I’m paying insurance to another outfit, these days.”

  There was a sudden hush. It hung over the room like midnight over a graveyard. Then the flashily-dressed man began to swear. The words he used would have made an innocent girl blush—Carla heard him out without blinking an eyelid, then said:

  “Looks like you’ll have to convince him there’s only one sound insurance company in the Bowery, Nick.”

  Nick tipped back his Fedora and smiled coldly. He took a step forward, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. It was then that a new voice said:

  “I wouldn’t bother.”

  Nick stopped as if he’d trodden on a rattlesnake. Carla turned to see a man come through the door at the rear of the shop. He was strikingly handsome and quietly dressed in a grey lounge suit. His hair was blond, his eyes blue, and he sauntered forward with confident ease. His voice and manner suggested culture; he might have been a movie hero right off the set. Debonair was the word Carla thought of.

  He strolled across the workshop, swinging a gold-tipped cane, and smiling. His blue eyes lingered over Carla, admiring the perfection of her figure.

  “May I introduce myself?” he said politely. “Rufus Waldemar, representing the Traders’ Insurance Inc. Mr. Mazzini has just transferred to our list.”

  Carla didn’t say anything. She was looking at Rufus Waldemar and trying to make up her mind about him. The man with the dull eyes and slow-thinking brain didn’t say anything either. He waited for orders. Nick snarled savagely.

  “You think you can cut in on our racket? You tailor’s dummy! I’ll carve you into little pieces!”

  Rufus Waldemar smiled gently. Not a blond hair fell out of place. He was calm, unruffled, as if he were dealing with a naughty child. He swung his gold-tipped cane jauntily, pushing wood shavings along the floor.

  “I’m sure,” he said pleasantly, “that you won’t wish to give trouble. My presence here is to point out that Mr. Mazzini is now under the protection of Traders’ Insurance Inc.—and that we are in a position to give protection to our clients. You see my point?”

  Nick swore virulently.

  “You cheapskate!” he snarled. “You think you can scare us off? You couldn’t scare a three-year-old! Joe’s paid us protection money for a couple of years—and he’s going on paying. You can’t cut in on us and get away with it!”

  Rufus Waldemar looked at Nick the way a professional looks at an amateur.

  “But we have,” he said quietly, swishing his cane. “Mr. Mazzini is our client—and I, personally, shall see that his shop and person remains unharmed. I suggest that you leave without making trouble—now.”

  Nick jeered: “Look who’s talking!”

  Carla said: “You know we represent King Logan?”

  Waldemar
smiled pleasantly.

  “Of course.”

  Nick said: “King runs the protection racket in the Bowery. He’s boss of the East Side. You’d better take yourself off to another quarter before King puts the finger on yuh.”

  Rufus Waldemar’s gold-tipped cane swished the air and he smiled again. His blue eyes were calm, his slender hands steady.

  “King Logan did run the protection racket,” he replied gently, “but he doesn’t now. Logan is finished in the Bowery. Traders’ Insurance Inc., have taken over for Logan—and Mr. Shapirro, our boss, wishes me to leave this message with you for him. ‘King Logan will take himself out of New York if he values his health’!”

  Carla said: “King isn’t going to like that. He likes to think he’s the boss around these parts. This means trouble.”

  Nick said: “Shapirro is a—!”

  The words he used to describe Shapirro left no doubt in anyone’s mind that he considered Shapirro to be several times fouler than a ten-year-old cesspool.

  Waldemar’s eyes hardened and the smile froze on his lips.

  “You will,” he said, “apologise for that.”

  Nick snarled: “Yeah?” and drew a knife. He hurled himself forward at Waldemar.

  Carla saw Waldemar’s expression change. He no longer looked young. His face was the face of a killer, cold, ruthless. The gold-tipped cane swished up, pointing straight at Nick’s chest. Too late, Nick saw the gleaming steel blade shoot out of the cane. He couldn’t avoid it because his momentum carried him forward. He groaned as the steel sliced into his chest, slid between his ribs, and found his heart.

  Rufus Waldemar took a step back, lowering his swordstick. Nick’s body slid off the steel and huddled motionless on the floor. Nick was never again going to think he was smart—he was never going to think anything again. He was dead as last year’s fashions.

  Blood seeped through the beige shirt and spoilt the royal blue tie. The fawn jacket started to discolour, a dark red stain spreading across it. Waldemar wiped the six-inch blade clean and sheathed it. The swordstick became an innocent gold-tipped cane again.

  Carla didn’t move. She had a gun in her black leather handbag but she didn’t bring it out. Her eyes were watching the open door behind Rufus Waldemar, and she saw the three hatchet men standing there. Each of them held a heavy automatic, pointing into the workshop.

  “A customer for you already, Mr. Mazzini,” Waldemar said. His smile had returned now. He was, once more, the debonair man of the world. He swung his cane jauntily as if he hadn’t a thing to bother him.

  “King isn’t going to like this,” Carla said. “He’s going to come a-gunning for someone.”

  Joe Mazzini looked at the ground and scuffed wood-shavings with his foot. His twitch had become suddenly worse.

  “You’d better box him, Joe,” Carla said, nodding at Nick.

  The heavy man with the flattened nose and dull eyes rubbed one of his scars.

  “You want I should take him?” he growled, staring at Rufus Waldemar.

  Carla shook her head. “No,” she said shortly. Ham was a dumb ox; he hadn’t noticed the three hatchet men waiting for him to start something. She said: “Go out to the car, Ham. Wait for me.”

  Ham shuffled off. Carla looked at Waldemar, and said:

  “Lucky this is a coffin shop. No trouble about losing a stiff here.”

  Rufus Waldemar smiled and bowed.

  “You’ll convey my message to King Logan?”

  Carla nodded. She had a new respect for Waldemar after seeing the cool way he had disposed of Nick. She thought he might give King a little trouble.

  “I’ll give him all the details,” she said, turning for the door. She paused, and added: “But he isn’t going to like it.”

  “That needn’t worry you,” Rufus Waldemar suggested. “I’m sure that Mr. Shapirro would be delighted to welcome such a beautiful girl into his organization.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Carla drawled. She looked at Joe Mazzini, and said:

  “This means trouble, Joe.”

  She went through the door, out to the car.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Carla’s hand gripped the wheel of the car and her foot kept the accelerator hard down. She thought King would want to know what had happened at Joe Mazzini’s coffin shop and she was in a hurry. Ham sat beside her not saying anything.

  The olive-green Lincoln flashed through the drab streets of Manhattan’s Bowery and crossed the East River by Brooklyn Bridge. The night sky was dotted by a million lights from the unshaded windows of New York’s skyscrapers. Below, the water gleamed and flowed, and a tug hooted. The skyline was majestic; tall, stately buildings rose almost from the water’s edge and the riverfront was noisy with traffic. But Carla had no eye for the scene.

  She kept the Lincoln to the centre lane, passing everything on the road. Once on Long Island, Carla left the main road and threaded her way between dingy Brooklyn tenements. It was an area of squalor, where large families lived cooped up in one room, where children played in the streets, and lines of washing hung in the caverns between giant concrete blocks.

  King Logan had been born in Brooklyn and, now that he could afford to move to a more select area, he refused to leave. Brooklyn was home to King Logan and he intended staying there, though now he lived in a hotel and hired the best suite in the place.

  It was called the Royal, a name that tickled King’s fancy. Carla drove the Lincoln into the all-night garage at the rear of the hotel and she and Ham took the elevator to King’s floor.

  King Logan was standing by the window, looking out over the river, when Carla hurried in. It was a favourite pose of his, standing there looking out across the river to Manhattan Island; he said it gave him ideas. King had a secret longing to be acknowledged the gang boss of all New York—and Manhattan was most of New York.

  He turned as he heard Carla and Ham. He was tall, over six feet, and well-proportioned. He looked as if he had been carved out of muscle, and prided himself on being as tough as he looked. His hair was dark and close-cropped, and his eyes were too much like round beads, and too close together for him ever to be called handsome.

  He wore a maroon sweatshirt and grey gabardine slacks. A green silk dressing gown draped his shoulders, and the right side sagged under the weight of the heavy .45 automatic he kept in his pocket. King never went anywhere without his .45. He said it was his best friend.

  His feet were covered by hand-made slippers, but they were hardly visible for the thick rug that carpeted the floor. King spared nothing to impress his visitors that he was a big-shot. The furniture, the hangings, everything about the suite suggested big money. If King had had any taste, it could have looked like an emperor’s palace—as he hadn’t, it resembled an opulent and gaudy nightmare.

  His eyes, when they settled on Carla, seemed to bore right through her white gown, to caress her from head to toes. He moved towards her, swiftly for so large a man, and brought his hands out of the pockets of his dressing gown. The little finger of his right hand had been shot away at the second joint—the result of a gang fight early in his career—and gave him a sinister appearance.

  He caught hold of Carla and swung her off her feet, cradling her warm body close to his chest. His lips sealed hers in a long kiss before she could speak, almost bruising her with the force of his passion. He lowered her to the ground and removed the fur wrap.

  Carla gasped for breath. King’s passion always roused her; the way he wanted her took her breath away. She stepped back, brushing off his hands, and sat down on a long. low divan.

  “Trouble,” she said. “Nick got his tonight.”

  King Logan frowned. His eyebrows seemed to meet in one dark line and his face showed the brutality of his way of life. He glanced at Ham, but Ham’s scarred face and dull eyes told him nothing. He turned back to Carla.

  “Cops?” he said, His voice was harsh, grating like a file on rusty iron.

  “Yeah,” said another voice, �
��what sort of trouble, Carla? And what happened to Nick?”

  Carla looked towards the bar built into the wall. She hadn’t noticed that Jerry was in the room, but then King hadn’t given her a chance to notice anything.

  Jerry leaned against the bar, a cigarette drooping from his thin lips, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. Jerry usually looked that way. He was King’s right-hand man, a thin, lanky man with a mean face. Viciousness gleamed in his eyes and lean hands were like claws. He never stood upright, but crouched, like a bird of prey about to pounce on its victim.

  Jerry wore an exaggerated drape suit with thickly padded shoulders; his shoes were black and shiny and pointed. He looked as if he tapered from wide shoulders to lithe hips to pointed toes. His head was small and seemed incongruous perched atop such exaggerated shoulders.

  The jacket of his drape was open, hanging free to show the .22 target pistol in the holster under his arm. Jerry was a crack shot with a .22 and didn’t need a heavier gun.

  Carla wasn’t in a hurry to tell her story. King hadn’t been very nice to her lately, and now she had the floor, she was going to make the most of it. Carla liked it when she was the main attraction.

  “No,” she said softly, “not the cops. Another gang.”

  She relaxed on the divan, leaning back into the cushions, drawing up her dress and crossing her legs. She had nice legs, slender and curved and clad in sheer silk hose, and she showed them off whenever she could. No one took any notice.

  “What gang?” King Logan demanded harshly.

  Carla selected a cigarette, fitted it into a long, jade holder. She placed the holder in her mouth, lit the cigarette, and blew a stream of smoke, very gently, very slowly. She wasn’t in any hurry—not now she had them waiting on her.

  She opened her handbag and drew out a wad of greenbacks.

  “The weekly haul,” she said. “Five hundred each from Jamie, Franks. Willet. and—”

  “Never mind that,” King snapped. “Tell me about Nick.”

  Carla told him. She told him how they’d gone into the coffin shop on Nugget Street, how Joe Mazzini had refused to pay any more insurance, how Rufus Waldemar had appeared and Nick had died on the end of his swordstick, how the three hatchet-men had stopped her taking immediate reprisals, and how Shapirro had warned King to leave town. She didn’t tell him that Waldemar had suggested she leave Logan and join Shapirro—that was something Carla kept to herself. She thought it might not be a bad idea, if King looked like coming out the loser.