Hammerlocke

by Jack Barnao

  "Sure, how's this?" He turned away from me and shadowboxed the air in front of him for thirty seconds non-stop. Then he stopped, panting.

  "That's the next lesson to learn," I told him. "How to keep on fighting until the other guy has collapsed with fatigue. You do that by keeping fit, working out and running every day of your life, even when it's thirty below and you don't want to get out of bed."

  "I will," he promised. "I will. I'll go running with you every day we're here and I'll keep on when we get home."

  Amazing, a few minutes' worth of technique and his fear of dying was over. That's the secret of building an army I guess, get 'em while they're young and tell them they're invincible.

  Voices suddenly muttered outside the door. I shook my head at Herbie. "Don't do anything rash," I whispered. "Wait for the right time."

  He nodded without speaking and then the door swung open. I blinked at the light and then focused on Carla, who was holding her little gun, and Pietro who had the family shotgun trained on Herbie.

  "Stand where you are, both of you," Carla said.

  "What's happening now?" I asked, trying to sound bored. I wondered if they'd got their money and were going to cancel us both and bury us in one of their big rosebeds. Maybe if I charged the guy with the shotgun he would aim at me while Herbie clobbered Carla and took her gun. At least he'd have a chance. It was better than rolling over and playing dead for them.

  "I have a proposition for you," Carla said. She was looking at me, ignoring Herbie as if he was just a pawn on the board. Maybe he would get valuable later but it was me she needed right now.

  "Didn't your mother teach you not to proposition strange men?"

  "Cut the crap. We could use some help and you're the best guy for the job."

  "What job? You need a Christian to feed to your lions? I hardly qualify. I haven't been to church in years."

  "Shut up," she snapped impatiently. "Listen to me."

  "Go ahead. Let's hear the latest scam."

  "We've had word from a friend that the police are going to booby-trap the money. They're putting it in bags with explosives in it."

  "Why would they do that? You've still got the boy, you just hold off on delivering him."

  She sighed. "You don't understand the way the Italian mind works, do you?"

  "Same way as a male dog's, I thought. If you can't eat it or screw it, piss on it."

  She didn't even bother sighing. She just said, "Whoever gets the money will take it to the boss. The boss will open it. That's the way it is. Only this time, when the boss opens it, he'll be wasted. Then everybody will run away, the police move in on the sound of the bang and find the boy. Simple."

  I shook my head. "That's garbage. You asked them to send Kate Ridley with the money, I know you did, I made the tape, remember? The police won't take a chance on harming her."

  Carla looked at me very straight. "The maggiore has refused to send Kate Ridley. He's hard. She volunteered to come, anything to get her darling boy home safe, but he said no."

  That was the first good news I'd had all day. At last somebody in the world wasn't giving in to these bastards. But there wasn't much hope that it would do me any good. I got back to my own situation, as tactfully as an Armenian rug dealer. "You mentioned a proposition."

  "We want you to inspect the bags for us, to open them if possible."

  "And what do I get in return?"

  "Your life," she said quietly.

  I laughed out loud. She was lying. All her brave talk meant was that they couldn't find a bomb disposal expert without calling in some veteran of the Red Guard who would want to corner a chunk of the take on behalf of the People—meaning him and his in-laws. As soon as I'd opened the bags they'd blow me away. But on the other hand, at least I would have my hands free while I was working. I might be able to overpower someone who had a gun. If I did, I could start reversing the odds in my favor.

  "What's the matter?" she asked with a pout. "Don't you believe me?"

  "I wouldn't believe you ever. But that's not the point. We're talking deals, I want the kid free or it's no dice."

  She swung her head away, exasperated. "Don't talk nonsense. The kid's safe as a church. Once we've got the money, he's released. You know that."

  "All I know is I've been lied to from the first time I set eyes on you." I glanced around at Pietro but he was concentrating on Herbie, neither one of us could have tackled him safely. Either I did a deal with them or we stagnated here until someone decided to pull the plug on us. I gazed at Carla, smiling politely and waited.

  "I've promised you your life," she said again.

  "And you'll cancel that promise the moment I've opened those bags, always supposing that I can open them without killing myself."

  "Listen," she said carefully. "You're not the only guy in Italy who knows how to handle explosives. We can have someone else flown in to check the bags. That's what Julio wanted to do anyway but I suggested you."

  "And he went along with that?"

  She sighed, waving her arms in exasperation at my stupidity. "You're so dumb you make me tired, Locke. If he brings someone in, they'll want a share of the money. You won't."

  "That's just part of the answer. The truth is, I'm expendable. If I blow my own head off with those bags you don't have any grieving widow to take care of." I was just feeding her the words while I asked myself all the questions about what she was saying. For one thing, would the police put the real money into an exploding bag? Surely they would pack the bags with old phone books or Italian soccer fan magazines. Why blow a fortune into confetti?

  And secondly, and more important, why would Scavuzzo accept the booby-trapped bags? That one bothered me. Why didn't they just insist the money was delivered clean?

  And then the answer came to me. Whoever had told them about the booby trapping must be close to the police and the law enforcement system in general. He was a mole they had planted and if they acknowledged his information by balking at the delivery of the bags, they would blow his cover. Boy, was this Machiavelli's hometown or what?

  "Since you have Herbie and me by the short and curlies, I'm going to accept your swell offer. Now, take the handcuffs off me and we can discuss it."

  She looked genuinely sorry, Sophia Loren regretting that she had no pen to give a fan an autograph. "You know I can't do that, John. You'd just jump me and try to get away. I'm only here to sound you out."

  "Then go in peace, my child." I moved away from her, backing, measuring the distance from my foot to her hand in case Herbie could get the other guy off balance and I could kick her gun away and give us a chance.

  "I'll be back as soon as we get word on the money," she said. She flicked a fast glance at Pietro. Then she whispered, "Listen, nothing's changed from this morning. You know that."

  "Nothing's changed from where you're sitting. I'm stuck in a shed with nothing to eat or drink and my hands cuffed behind me so I couldn't answer the call of nature should she choose to whistle at me."

  She shook her head quickly. "I can't change that. You're too dangerous to set loose. But I'll get you some food."

  "Okay." I nodded at her. "And if I'm going to go through with the defusing, there's some things I'm going to need."

  "Like what?"

  "Like too many things for you to remember without a list. Go get a pencil and paper and I'll tell you."

  "I'll come back," she nodded at me and spoke to Pietro. He listened to her without turning his head, like a well trained bird dog on the point, and nudged Herbie with the muzzle of his gun.

  I saw the kid stiffen, then check himself, holding in his new knowledge of how and where to hit a man so that he stays hit. I took the pressure off him, calling out, "Back inside, Herbie, they're bringing us some food."

  "I hope so," he said angrily. I was proud of him. Nobody would have guessed he was scared for his life.

  I turned and followed him back inside the shed. As Carla motioned to Pietro to shut the door I faced he
r. "No dinner, no bomb," I said.

  "Don't worry about your food. Just sit there and try to remember how to do your job," she snapped. And I laughed out loud as the door swung shut.

  Herbie looked at me, almost invisible in the thick new darkness now that our eyes were used to brighter light. "What's funny?"

  "She's hired me to defuse a bomb for her. I've never defused an explosive device in my life before."

  He was about as amused as a wife would have been. "Why are you laughing? You could get killed."

  "No chance of that, they won't use anything too complex. What it means is they have to free my hands and put a weapon right into them. We're as good as home free, Herbie, believe me."

  Chapter 20

  Carla kept her bargain. She and Pietro were back in an hour with food for us, a good spaghetti Bolognese that would have set off every garlic detector south of the Swiss border. She wouldn't take the cuffs off me, so Herbie fed me, as neatly as possible but it's an embarrassing process and I was glad to call it quits after about half as much as I would have liked to eat. So far my time in Italy had been a culinary bust.

  When we had finished eating, Carla wrote down all the items I told her I needed to defuse her booby-trap and then she shut us in again and left. We had already searched the shed twice for anything to unfasten my cuffs so we sat and waited without talking until they came back for me about an hour later. Pietro was dressed the same but Carla was wearing a set of baggy coveralls that hadn't been sewn by Bill Blass or any of that crowd. I still didn't think any good copper would mistake her for a man but it cancelled out the more spectacular aspects of her shape. I ribbed her anyway.

  "Why, it's Rosy the Riveter," I said. "No dice, kid, you couldn't disguise that bod by wrapping it in a lifeboat cover."

  "Not everybody is as relentlessly dirty-minded as you," she said with a touch of anger. I suppose she was feeling macho at the thought of lifting all that cash.

  "We're on our way," she said.

  "Good. These handcuffs are killing me."

  "They stay on," she snapped.

  I shrugged. "Have it your own way but defusing a bomb is hard enough with your hands free. Dressed like this I can't guarantee results."

  "We'll undo your hands when you're shackled into the truck," she said. "You're a mad dog, Locke, we're not taking chances with you."

  Herbie was looking at me, waiting for a sign, like maybe the Second Coming. In the meantime, Pietro was covering him carefully with the shotgun, there was no room to move. I gave Herb a microscopic shake of the head. Don't try anything, our turn is coming.

  "What happens to Herbie while I'm off playing with matches?"

  "He stays here."

  "And what guarantee do I have that he's going to be safe?"

  "You have my word on it," she said carefully. "Nothing will happen to him as long as you behave yourself."

  "Your word." I laughed. "Which word will that be? I can think of about thirty-nine of them that apply to you. None of which is worth making book on."

  "Shut your mouth. You come with me and do as you're told and you live. Any more of this crap and I'll shoot you."

  "Now instead of later?" I shook my head and sat down. With any luck, Pietro would try to stand me up again. While he was trying that, Herbie could practice some of the tricks I'd shown him. But Carla wasn't buying.

  "So far we've been treating the boy gently," she said. "It wouldn't take very much more of your aggravation to stop that. Like we could maybe beat him on the soles of his feet until you came along. Or we could cut his fingers off. I don't care. I just need you with me in that truck."

  I didn't believe her but it seemed that Herbie was impressed. He cleared his throat and said, "Listen, I'll be okay John. You go ahead."

  I winked at him. "Hang loose, it's me they want out of the way, not you. I'll call out when they bring me back, you'll know it's me."

  Pietro scowled at Herbie and flipped up the muzzle of his gun, indicating the inside of the shed. Herbie shrugged and went in. I could see his fingers flexing as he moved. He would be ready if they came to kill him. I hoped so. That way I would have been a successful bodyguard, regardless.

  I watched as Carla closed the door and clunked the big padlock shut. Then she hooked her head at me and I followed down the echoing courtyard which I saw now was lit with strips of fluorescent lighting hanging on bare ballasts below the old beams that supported the baked tiles. Why was it covered in? Crime, certainly, Scavuzzo needed a spot out of sight to unload trucks or do whatever else needed doing. Like disposing of unwanted bodyguards. I would have to use my time well once they took the cuffs off me, otherwise I would be shuffled out of here in a bag when they'd got their money, despite what Carla was promising.

  There was a van parked close to the big double doors of the courtyard. It was a nondescript rattletrap with no name on the side. Carla led me to it and opened the rear door. Pietro prodded me with his friendly persuader and I climbed in.

  The interior was surprising. The sheet metal on the sides was thicker than I had assumed, quarter-inch armor plate I would have guessed. The rear windows were one-inch thick glass, bullet-proof portholes that could be swung out of the way to fire through if needed. The driver's seat was accessible from the rear of the van, the way it is in a recreational vehicle. And there were benches along both sides, room enough for ten men to sit while the van chugged through traffic.

  "This thing's an armored personnel carrier," I said. "That's going to be useful if they decide to start shooting at us as well as trying to blow us up."

  "Sit there," Carla said and pointed to the end of the seat behind the driver. I sat, obediently. It was the spot I would have chosen over any other. I would be able to put the driver out of commission from here. If Carla was dumb enough to take her gun off me for a moment once we were driving it was game set and match to me.

  Carla lifted the lid of the seat opposite me. I could see two Armalites, the Browning rifles the Americans call M-16's. They were laid out in properly built braces. And there were magazines as well. If they were loaded I could resolve the whole situation once she took the handcuffs off me.

  Carla opened an inner container and took out a set of leg shackles, the same design as handcuffs only bigger. She spoke to Pietro and he covered me from four feet away while she stooped, out of his possible line of fire and coupled my left ankle to the post that ran up behind the driver's seat. Then she said, "I'm going to take your cuffs off now. Don't try anything cute or Pietro will shoot. I promise you that."

  "Sounds like the kind of promise you'd enjoy keeping," I said. "Here, help yourself." I turned away from her, pushing my wrists out where she could work on them. She tried the right wrist first, then swore.

  "Try the other one. I'll undo the right."

  She unsnapped the left cuff easily and I brought my hands in front of me, flexing my elbows, sighing with pleasure at the end of the cramps. The cuffs were still dangling from my right wrist.

  "Let me see the key a minute," I asked her, smiling politely. Manners cost nothing, especially when someone has a shotgun pointed at your gut.

  She handed over the key and I pushed the right handcuff shut one click, then banged it on the seat beside me. I saw the tiny shard of steel from the broken needle flip out. After that the key worked perfectly and I handed the cuffs and the key back to Carla and sat rubbing my wrists and flexing my arms, getting ready for the biggest challenge of the day. Because I'd made my mind up. There was no way I was going to do any bomb disposal work for them. At the first opportunity I would break the driver's neck and grab Carla.

  Pietro gave Carla the shotgun and stepped out of the van. He opened the big courtyard doors. Outside it was a lovely afternoon, hot and perfumed with flowers. I could see ahead of the van down a long driveway to a closed double gate made of thick iron bars. There were no dogs in sight but there was an eight-foot wall around the whole property, dogs could have run free throughout the grounds, answering to comma
nds on a silent whistle. It would make no sense to come back over the wall and attempt to get in and rescue Herbie. When I came I would have to come armed, or better still, with armed reinforcements.

  The only feature I didn't like was the two-way radio Pietro was using. For the fiftieth time since this job had started, I wished I spoke Italian. From his tone it sounded to me as if he was talking to his boss. That meant someone with the power of life and death over young Herb. I guessed that if Pietro didn't make his calls on cue, they would move Herb away from that house, even kill him. If I was going to try something, I would have to wait until we were almost back here before I tried to take Pietro out.

  Pietro got into the driver's seat, parking his walkie-talkie on the seat beside him and drove slowly down the roadway between the flowerbeds to the front gate. Carla sat opposite me, nursing the shotgun over her knees.

  A tiny old man came out to the gate and opened it before we got there. Pietro drove out, waving at the old guy, moving at a comfortable speed, not fast or slow enough to attract attention. I sat with my hands on my knees, bending forward so that Carla wouldn't see that my feet were braced against the side of the bench ready to lunge at her.

  I glanced out of the front window, past Pietro, seeing that we were driving down a slight slope between vineyards that ended raggedly against the road. Then I looked back at Carla and she held my gaze, fixedly, as if she was trying to beam me a message by ESP. Slowly, moving so carefully that Pietro couldn't have caught it in his rearview mirror, she raised one finger towards her lips, an unmistakable signal to wait. I narrowed my eyes at her, questioningly, and she winked. I still didn't trust her, but there was no doubt she expected me to make a move and wanted me to wait for her signal.

  Pietro passed a small car, glancing back at it in his mirror, then beaming to himself. When he had settled again, staring ahead oblivious to what was behind him, Carla silently mouthed four words, "First, Get, The, Money."

  I didn't move. I just sat hunched forward, forearms resting on my knees, still wondering what was best for me and for Herb Ridley. If I acted now I could possibly put both of them out of action. But if Pietro failed to make his appointed calls, they might kill Herbie out of hand and run. I would have to wait for a while anyway and see what Carla's plan was, if any. Otherwise I would take over the van once we were close to the house on the way back. Bide your time, Locke.