Carla's Revenge

by Sydney J. Bounds

“I wondered if you’d thought over my proposition,” Waldemar drawled easily. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to pass up the chance of taking out insurance with the firm I represent.”

  “I can’t afford it, Mr. Waldemar,” Franks quavered. “You know I have to pay Logan, and my shop—”

  He stopped, gave a cry of pain as one of the hatchet men twisted his arm.

  “Logan isn’t around to give you protection,” Waldemar pointed out. “I suggest you come in with us—we can give you the protection you need.”

  Franks began to sweat. His old bones creaked as the hatchet man went on twisting his arm.

  “I can’t pay,” he gasped. “I don’t have the money.”

  Rufus Waldemar toyed with his cane. He was still smiling when he drawled:

  “That’s too bad. You see, I’m afraid we shall have to make an example of you, Franks. I must impress upon Logan’s clients his inability to offer them security.” His tone changed abruptly, and he snapped: “Let him have it!”

  Franks tried to draw back. His voice quavered.

  “No! Don’t—”

  The first hatchet man pushed him viciously. Franks stumbled off-balance; his knees banged against a refuse bin and he staggered, his hands clawing at the fence for support. He was too old to put up a fight; too weak, even, to run.

  The second hatchet man brought out an open razor. The steel blade gleamed in the dusk as he moved closer. Franks felt his throat constrict.

  “No, no!” he croaked. “Not that…arrgh!”

  The razor slashed down. The keen blade sliced into his cheek, laying it open. Blood poured out, running down over his collar.

  The second hatchet man also had a razor. He slashed Franks across the other cheek. Franks started to scream. His withered arms flailed uselessly as the steel blades came down, again and again.

  “Make a good job of him,” Rufus Waldemar said coldly. “I want these Bowery guys to know we aren’t kidding.”

  Neither of the hatchet men said anything. They closed in on Franks, going to work with sadistic pleasure. Their arms rose and fell tirelessly; and the razors sliced Franks’ face to ribbons.

  Franks felt his strength failing. His mouth was full of blood, choking him. His knees buckled and his old frame sagged forward. His hands fell limply to his side—he was too weak even to try to protect himself. The two hatchet men went on carving his face with their open razors; slicing and gouging, slashing and hacking the flesh from the bones.

  Franks slumped forward, sobbing. He could no longer see through the red mist before his dimming eyes; the roaring in his eardrums blocked out all other sounds. The agony stabbing his face swept over him in recurring waves, slowly taking away all feeling, all consciousness. He crumpled in a heap on the ground, motionless.

  Rufus Waldemar turned the limp body over with the tip of his shoe. He bent over and peered down.

  “I think,” he murmured gently, “that no plastic surgery will ever be able to help Mr. Franks!”

  He turned away, followed by the two hatchet men. The car that waited was a large black Rolls. Waldemar and the other two got in. As the Rolls glided away, a door opened and a woman’s voice called:

  “William? Is that you?”

  Rufus Waldemar smiled to himself. He didn’t bother to look back. He spoke to the driver.

  “We’ll call on Toni next. He has a shop in Cork Street. Drive there right away.”

  The black Rolls purred through the night and the rain, heading for Toni’s shop.…

  Back in the alley, Martha Franks saw the silent body on the ground. She ran forward, crying:

  “William…William!”

  She reached her husband and shrieked with horror. She dropped to her knees, her skirt falling in the mud, the rain washing her face. She cradled her husband in her arms, salty tears staining her wrinkled cheeks. She began to whine in a high-pitched key.

  Her eyes stared with glassy despair at the shattered face she had known so well. Blood seeped over her hands and clothes and the corpse grew cold and stiff under her frail hands.

  At last, she stood up. Her grey hair glistened under the raindrops and her face was white and lined with pain. Her thin body shook with anger at the brutality of the unknown murderers. Her tiny hands clenched.

  She raised her head to the dull sky and spoke to the cold night air.

  “Oh God, give me the strength to bring his killers to justice!”

  She turned away, fighting back the tears that threatened to overflow her ageing eyes. She stiffened her frail body with a sudden fixed resolve. Every cent she possessed should go to apprehending the murderers; she would never rest until she had made them pay in full for her husband’s brutal death…never!

  * * * * * * *

  The olive-green Lincoln stopped on Cork Street and lulled into the curb. King waited till his other two cars had taken up a covering position, then he turned to Carla.

  “That’s Toni’s shop,” he said, pointing across the street. “Get him across to the deserted lot behind the wharf—we’ll be waiting.”

  Carla covered her bare shoulders with a dark cape and clutched her handbag. She slid out of the car and crossed the street. Her eyes were bright with excitement; her dark face flushed. This was living, she told herself. King was going to put Toni on the spot—and she was going to help.

  She sauntered past the shop front. A faint light showed through the glass and she saw Toni behind his desk, sorting papers. A thin, youngish man with high cheekbones and a swarthy complexion. A Latino.

  Carla put on her act. She was a gay rich girl who’d had too much liquor. She swayed as she walked and started to sing off-key. Toni looked up; his eyes fixed on the lovely girl outside his shop.

  Carla was aware she had his attention. She swayed up to a lamppost and clung to it. Clumsily, she started to adjust a suspender.

  Toni came out of the shop. Carla heard the doorbell tinkle. She turned, and from the look in his eyes, knew she had him hooked. She dropped her dress and backed away.

  “Let me fix that,” Toni said, hurrying after her. “Come into the shop and we’ll fix it good.”

  Carla giggled and swayed away, moving down the alley towards the riverfront. Toni went after her. He was young and hot-blooded—and here was a beautiful young girl too drunk to know what she was doing. Toni liked ’em that way.

  Carla stopped her slurred singing, and shouted:

  “You can’t catch me—I bet you can’t catch me, handsome!”

  She started to run, weaving an unsteady course across the deserted lot, with Toni in pursuit. The river was a gentle murmur of moving water close at hand. The wharves were deserted. It was still and quiet with no sign of King. Only Carla and Toni.

  He caught her up, pushed her against a wall so she couldn’t get away. Carla let her cape slide off her shoulders and Toni’s pulse leapt as he saw her beautiful figure. He grabbed hold of her and kissed her.

  “That’s enough, Toni!” grated a harsh voice.

  The Latin recognized the voice of King Logan. His arms fell away from Carla and he spun round. King held a heavy .45 automatic in his hand and his round, beady eyes were cold as ice.

  Just behind King loomed the burly figure of Ham. The scarred face was impassive, the dull eyes emotionless, but he wore brass knuckle-dusters on each hand. Toni didn’t like the look of the set-up.

  King said: “You shouldn’t chase girls, Toni, it’s liable to get you into trouble—especially when she’s my girl.”

  Toni said: “Honest, King, I didn’t know—”

  He broke off, sobbing, as King lashed his mouth with the barrel of his gun. Toni shrank back, spitting blood and holding his face.

  “I didn’t know—” he whined.

  King snarled: “You paying insurance to Shapirro?”

  Toni said: “He threatened me, King. Honest, I had to—”

  King hit him again with the gun, smashing his jawbone. Toni began to make strange, injured noises. He kept his eyes fixed on Kin
g’s face as he tried to move away.

  King said: “Beat him up, Ham. I want to make it clear to everyone that Shapirro can’t protect his clients.”

  Ham moved in, swinging his large fists. He sunk his right into the pit of Toni’s stomach; slammed his left into his face. The brass knuckle-duster came away covered with blood and skin. Toni whimpered, gasping with pain, trying to move away. Ham kept after him, hitting him.

  King stood back, watching. Carla said, over and over:

  “Hit him, Ham! Beat him up!”

  She was enjoying herself. This was the real thing; more exciting than society life. She felt exhilarated. She liked the way the blood ran down Toni’s swarthy face, the animal, sobbing sounds he made as Ham hit him.

  Toni couldn’t get away. Ham had him cornered and hammered him to a pulp. His right fist crashed into the Latin’s nose, breaking the bone at the bridge. Toni covered his face with his hands and Ham kneed him, knocking the wind out of him. Toni doubled up and Ham smashed a cheekbone.

  The splintered bone dug into Toni’s flesh, making him scream with pain. He fought back, flinging out his arms, trying to keep Ham away. Ham wasn’t easily kept away. His arms moved like pistons, in-out, in-out. Toni’s eyes puffed up and he staggered blindly, no longer able to see clearly. He walked into Ham’s swinging fists and stumbled. Ham hit him across the back of the neck and he slumped forward. Ham kicked his feet from under him.

  Carla couldn’t keep still. She had a lust for blood. She wanted to hear Toni scream again. She danced round them, shouting:

  “Kick him, Ham! Kick him to pieces!”

  Ham did his best to oblige. His heavy boots slammed into Toni’s body. Toni retched, and he rolled over. Ham booted him in the small of the back, making him stiff with sudden agony. Ham knocked him flat again and kicked him viciously. Toni went slack. He lay in a limp heap, not moving as Ham went on kicking him.

  At last, King pulled him off. He said:

  “That’s enough. He won’t pay any more protection money to Shapirro.”

  Carla said: “I liked that! Let’s beat up some other guy!”

  Ham pulled off the knuckle-dusters and wiped the blood. He said:

  “You want I should drop him in the river?”

  King shook his head.

  “Naw. I want him found. When the word gets around, the suckers will think twice before paying someone else insurance.”

  Ham started back across the deserted lot, towards the car. Suddenly, he stopped.

  “Jeez!” he said, pointing. “I guess—”

  He didn’t say any more. A fusillade of shots boomed out and a rain of lead swept the open ground. Ham staggered in his stride, nearly chopped in half by tommy-gun fire.

  King cursed, and pulled Carla under cover.

  “Shapirro’s mob,” he hissed, and fired back.

  A car lurched across the uneven ground. It was the Lincoln with Jerry behind the wheel. Lead slugs ricocheted off the armoured plates as it careered towards them. In the distance, there was a loud explosion, a puff of orange-red flame and clouds of black, oily smoke. Machine-gun fire chattered angrily. A grenade exploded, blotting out the noise of gunfire.

  Jerry flung open the door of the car and King dived into it. The Lincoln was still on the move as King pulled Carla in after him. Jerry drove along the waterfront, skidding round corners, keeping his foot hard down on the accelerator.

  King looked back. There were two cars behind now—but they weren’t his own boys. The two black Rolls clung to the Lincoln’s tail. Someone behind was firing at the tyres. King slid the bullet-proof glass down an inch and shoved the nose of his automatic through the slot. He emptied the magazine at the first of the pursuing cars and hit the front offside wheel. The tyre exploded and the car skidded into a wooden hut, blocking the path of the second Rolls.

  Jerry swung the Lincoln down side streets, shaking off pursuit. He eased up a little when it was clear they no longer had anything to fear.

  King’s face was a livid mask of anger. Carla eased away from him; she’d never seen him like this before.

  “What happened back there?” he demanded, his voice shaking with fury.

  Jerry lit himself a cigarette and dragged on it.

  “Shapirro’s mob caught us by surprise,” he said. “They shot up the boys in the rear car before they had a chance. Then it was a pitched battle; but Shapirro’s hoods had their tommy-guns firing first. Not one of our mob got away. I escaped because this car’s armoured, otherwise I’d have bought it too.”

  King Logan began to curse violently.

  “Then we’re all that’s left of the outfit. You, me, and Carla.”

  He brooded on it, then spoke to Jerry.

  “We can’t go back to the Royal. Shapirro will be waiting for us—he won’t let us rest now. He’ll be out for blood—to finish us off.”

  “We pulling out of New York?” Jerry asked.

  “No! I’m not running from any fancy guy. We’ll hide out till I’ve got another gang together. Then I’ll take Shapirro apart. I’ll strew him in little pieces right across Long Island!”

  Carla didn’t say anything. She was thinking that King was up against the wall, finished. That it was only a matter of time. She remembered Rufus Waldemar’s offer. It might not be a bad idea to move into Shapirro’s apartment. She thought she’d get a lot of fun with him. Anyone who could shoot up King Logan, and get away with it, was the guy she admired. Only, King mustn’t suspect anything.…

  Jerry said: “Where to?”

  King said: “We’ll have to ditch the Lincoln—it’s a signpost right to our door. There’s a little dive off the Battery where we’ll be safe for a time. The Water Rat. We’ll go on foot.”

  They ditched the car and took the subway down to the Battery. The Water Rat was tucked away behind dingy dwelling houses near the docks. It lay squeezed between two warehouses, a tiny, almost subterranean place where sailors could get drunk, or take dope, or get a woman. There was more of it below ground than above, and the cellars could be hired by anyone needing to lie low for a time. The police left it strictly alone.

  Carla didn’t like the look of the place and, anyway, she wanted to contact Rufus Waldemar.

  She said: “I’ll go up to my father’s place at Mount Vernon. You can let me know when you’re ready to start again. I’ll rejoin you then.”

  King shook his head.

  “Don’t be a dope. Carla. Shapirro knows you’re runnin’ with me—if he finds you out in the open, it’ll be curtains. You’ll stay here. It’s safer—anyway, baby, I need you around to help pass the time. I get lonely without you, Carla.”

  He grabbed hold of her and crushed her vibrant form to his chest, his mouth hot and passionate on hers.

  “You’re staying with me, baby,” King Logan said hoarsely

  Clara surrendered to his lovemaking. King still roused her. He excited her the way no other man ever had. She wrapped her arms round his neck returning his kisses.

  She began to wonder when she would be able to slip away from the Water Rat, to meet Shapirro and change sides. Well, there was no hurry—Shapirro could wait.…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The apartment house was in downtown Manhattan, and Eddie Gifford had to climb three flights of rickety wooden stairs to 37a. He rapped on the door and waited.

  The old woman who answered was dressed in shabby black and her grey hairs were streaked with white. Her face, too, was pale, deeply lined. There wasn’t much of her; just a frail old woman with shaky hands and something hard and ruthless showing in her narrowed eyes.

  “Mrs. Franks?” Eddie asked politely.

  She nodded. Eddie shoved a pasteboard card into her hand and waited. Martha Franks read what was on the card:

  EDDIE GIFFORD

  Private Investigator

  She looked him over very carefully. She decided she liked his tanned face, the humorous quirk to his mouth, his curly brown hair and steady eyes. His eyes were brown too. He had a
lithe, athletic figure, well-balanced. He looked like a man who would finish whatever he started.

  “Come in,” she said, opening the door wider.

  Eddie went in. The room was sparsely furnished, cold. There was a bed, a chest of drawers, and a chair. The floor was clean and there wasn’t any dust on the mantelpiece over the fireless grate. Either Mrs. Franks didn’t have much money or she didn’t like spending it. Eddie wondered which.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Gifford,” said Martha Franks.

  Eddie sat in the chair; the old woman perched herself on the edge of the bed. They sat watching each other, not speaking. At last, Eddie spoke:

  “What did you want to see me about, Mrs. Franks?”

  Martha looked at him steadily.

  “I want you to track down a killer,” she said calmly.

  Eddie gave a slight start, and waited for the next.

  “My husband was beaten up—cut to pieces with razors,” Martha said. She twisted her hands together as she spoke, as if she couldn’t get the picture of her husband’s face out of her mind. “I want you to take the case—to find who was responsible and bring him to justice.”

  Eddie said: “That’s a job for the police.”

  Martha said, bitterly: “They won’t do a thing. They’re too scared. I come from the East Side—the cops don’t worry about things that happen on East Side.”

  “Tell me about it,” Eddie suggested.

  She did. She told him how she and her husband had started a small business, tobacco and papers and children’s toys, down in the Bowery. That was thirty years ago. They bought their own house. Life wasn’t easy, but they managed. Then, recently, there had been some trouble. A gang had started to threaten her husband, making him pay insurance.

  Martha had wanted to sell up and get out, but her husband didn’t like running away from small-time racketeers. He paid the money and nothing happened for a time. Then he’d begun to get worried again. He wouldn’t tell her what was wrong…then he’d been killed. Brutally cut about with razors. And the police shrugged it off like it was normal business practice.

  “You know who it was collecting the protection money?” Eddie asked.