Knock Knock Whos There Read online

  “So what do we do?”

  “That’s right . . . so what do we do?” He thought, staring across

  the lake. “When I planned this steal, baby, I told myself I would have

  to be patient. I told myself it wouldn’t be safe spending that money

  for a couple of years.”

  She stiffened.

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  “Two years?”

  “As long as the money stays in the locker, it’s safe. Try and move

  it and you and me are dead and the money goes back to Massino.

  Sooner or later, he’ll get tired of watching the lockers. It might take a

  month . . . even six months, but I have my contact in East City. He’ll

  tell me when the heat’s off and until it’s off, we have to wait.”

  “You’re not planning to stay here six months, are you?”

  “No . . . I’ve got to find myself a job. I’m handy with boats. I’ll go

  to Tampa . . . I’ll find something there.”

  “And what about me?” The hard note in her voice made him look

  at her. She was staring at him, her eyes glittering.

  “I’ve some money. It’ll be rough like this, but if you want to

  come, I’d like to have you with me.”

  “How much money did you take from this man, Johnny? You

  haven’t told me.”

  And he wasn’t going to tell her.

  “Around fifty thousand,” he said.

  “You’re risking your life for fifty thousand?”

  “That’s it. I want to own a boat. I can get one for that money.”

  She stared at him and he saw she didn’t believe him.

  “It’s more than that, isn’t it? You don’t trust me.”

  “I don’t know. I never got around to counting it. My guess is fifty,

  but it could be more . . . could be less.

  She sat still, thinking.

  He watched her, then said quietly. “You’re wondering if ten

  thousand in the hand is better than fifty thousand in the bush, aren’t

  you?”

  She stiffened, then shook her head.

  “No. I’m trying to imagine myself on a boat,” but he knew she

  was lying.

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he said. “Look, suppose when

  you go over for the mail you call these attorneys. Let me tell you

  what will happen. Five or six men will arrive. They’ll try to take me

  alive, because dead, they will never find the money. One thing I’m

  sure about: no one takes me alive. I’ve seen what happens to men

  who have tried to doublecross Massino. He has them tied to chairs

  and beats them with a baseball bat: careful not to kill them, breaking

  their bones and then he finally sticks a butcher’s hook in their throats

  and hangs them in the chair until they die: so no one is taking me

  alive. So there will be a gun battle and during the gun battle you’ll

  stop a bullet. Believe me, baby, no one will live to collect that ten

  thousand dollar reward: that’s just bait. So don’t do anything you’ll

  regret.”

  She shivered, then put her hand on his.

  “I wouldn’t betray you, Johnny, I swear I wouldn’t, but what

  about Ed?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about him. Here’s what you tell him.

  You tried to get into my suitcase while I was fishing, but it was

  locked. So when I got back, you went over to collect the mail and the

  newspaper. You telephoned these attorneys and said you thought

  the man they were looking for was in Little Creek. And what do you

  imagine they said?” Johnny looked at her. “They said the man had

  been found in Miami and they thanked you for calling them and they

  were sorry you had been troubled. How will Ed react to that?” She

  relaxed.

  “That’s smart. He won’t want to spend more money on a long

  distance. Yes, he’ll drop it.”

  “That’s the way I figured it. I can stay here until the end of the

  week, then I’ll tell him I’m moving on. We’ll hire that car you talked

  about and we’ll go to Tampa.”

  “Why wait? Why not go tomorrow?”

  “That’s not the way to play it. During the next five days, you’re

  going to fall in love with me and you’ll leave him a letter telling him

  so and that you and me are going off together. Rush it and he’ll get

  suspicious. He might even phone these attorneys. He might ask at

  the village and find out what car we’ve hired. Then we wouldn’t get

  far, baby. Believe me, this is a game of patience.”

  “Wait! That’s all I do! Wait!” Freda got to her feet. “God! I’m sick

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  of this life!”

  “It’s better to be sick of life than not have a life.” Johnny stood

  up. “I’ll go get some supper.”

  He left her and went to his room. Closing the door, he slid the

  bolt. Then taking out a spare khaki shirt, he felt in the breast pocket.

  From it he took the key to the left-luggage locker. He looked at it for

  a brief moment. Engraved on it was the number of the locker: 176:

  the key to $186,000!

  Sitting on the bed, he untied his shoe lace, put the key into his

  shoe and then tightened the lace. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was

  safe!

  A few minutes later he returned to the deck.

  Freda was in the living-room, using the vacuum cleaner.

  “I’ll be back,” he called, then went to the boat, started the

  engine and headed out to the middle of the lake.

  The telephone bell rang just as Massino was about to leave his

  office for home.

  “Get it!” he barked to Lu Berilli who scooped up the receiver.

  “It’s Mr. Tanza,” he said and offered the receiver.

  Cursing, Massino snatched the receiver from him, sat on the

  corner of his desk and said, “What is it, Carlo? I’m just going home.”

  “Just had a hot tip come in,” Carlo said. “Could be nothing, but

  could be something. A man, answering to Bianda’s description is

  living in a houseboat near Little Creek: that’s five miles from New

  Symara. He’s been there about two days and living with a man and

  his wife. The woman has hot pants. The husband is a trucker and

  away all day. She’s Swedish and says this guy is her half-brother. He’s

  as Italian as we are. This is a straight tip and the source is reliable.”

  “So why bother me?” Massino demanded. “You’re looking for

  him, aren’t you? Well, check this punk out.”

  “We want one of your boys to identify him. No point in starting

  anything without being sure. Can you send someone?”

  “Okay. I’ll send Toni.”

  “Fine. Tell him to fly to New Symara and then take a taxi to the

  Waterfront Bar. All the taxidrivers know it. He’s to ask for Luigi. He’s

  our contact man. He’ll fix it Toni has three or four men who’ll take

  him to Little Creek. Okay?”

  Massino scribbled on a pad.

  “Yeah,” he said and hung up.

  He turned to Berilli.

  “Find Toni. Give him this. He’s to fly on the first flight out. Tell

  him his job is to identify some guy Tanza thinks is Bianda. Get going!”

  Berilli found Toni drinking beer with Ernie in a bar all Massino’s

  men frequented. Toni and Ernie had just come off a long, boring stint

 
of watching the left-luggage lockers and Toni was griping.

  Ernie, who never minded a job where he could sit and do

  nothing, was listening with a bored expression on his fat face.

  “Look who’s here,” he said when he saw Berilli come

  “That creep!” Toni sneered. “What’s he good for?”

  Berilli came over and sat at their table.

  “You have yourself a job.” He hated Toni and it pleased him to be

  the conveyor of bad news. “The boss says you’re to fly right away to

  New Symara . . . wherever the hell that is. Here . . . it’s all written

  down.”

  Toni took the scrap of paper, read it and then looked blankly at

  Berilli.

  “What the hell’s this all about?” he demanded.

  “This guy Luigi says they think they’ve spotted Johnny. They want

  someone to go down there and identify him before they move in.”

  “Johnny?”

  Toni lost colour.

  “Yeah. The boss says for you to take off right away.”

  “That’ll be the time,” Ernie said and chortled. “When you face

  Johnny. Man! Would I like to be a long distant witness!”

  Toni cursed him.

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  “You’re sure the boss picked me?”

  Berilli sneered at him.

  “You call him. Don’t you want the job?”

  Toni licked his lips, aware the two men were watching him and

  grinning. He got to his feet and left the bar.

  Johnny got back to the houseboat around midday with three fair-

  sized Black Crappie. He had been uncomfortable wearing his bush

  jacket but he had to wear it to hide his gun and holster. From now

  on, he told himself, he wouldn’t move without his gun. His instinct

  for danger was alert. While fishing, he had thought of Salvadore. The

  fat man had been friendly, but that didn’t mean a thing. Everywhere

  there was a Mafia contact. He remembered Salvadore saying: You

  Italianlikeme?On the face of it a harmless remark, but it could also

  point to trouble.

  All the same the peace of the lake, the quietness, the fact no one

  came near, although he could see distant boats, gave him a feeling of

  security, but he would carry his gun.

  He dumped the fish into the kitchen sink. There was no sign of

  Freda. He went into his room, then kneeling, he looked under the

  bed and he smiled.

  He had placed the suitcase at a slight angle and now it was

  straight. That could only mean Freda had touched it. He pulled it out

  and examined the locks. They were flimsy enough and it was possible

  she had a key that could open them. He unlocked the case and

  counted the ten dollar bills. Of Sammy’s money, he had left $2,857.

  He relocked the case and pushed it under the bed, then he went up

  on deck.

  He sat in the sun for more than an hour, then he heard Freda

  crossing the creaky jetty.

  “Hi! Where have you been?” he asked as she came around the

  deck and joined him.

  “A walk. Did you get any fish?”

  “Three Black Crappie.”

  “God! Crappie again!”

  “The bass were shy.”

  She went to the rail and stood against it, her hands on the rail,

  her body slightly bent forward. Johnny eyed the soft, sweep of her

  buttocks. He came up behind her, his hands cupping her breasts, his

  body against her softness.

  She slid away from him.

  “Skip it!” she said, her voice hard. “We can’t spend all the week .

  . .” She used the ugly four letter word and it shocked Johnny.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “This is a game of patience.”

  “I’ll fix the fish.” He had a definite feeling that she was now

  hostile. “Eggs and bacon for lunch.”

  “Fine.”

  He watched her walk into the kitchen. This woman could be

  tricky. He thought of Melanie: no trickiness there. He sat for a long

  moment, his mind active. Freda must learn he was the boss. If she

  didn’t recognize this fact, he could be in danger.

  Getting to his feet, he walked into the kitchen. Freda was

  washing the fish and she glanced over her shoulder.

  “What do you want?”

  “Dry your hands.”

  “I’m busy . . . go sit in the sun.”

  He jerked her around and slapped her face. He was careful not to

  hit her too hard, but the slap was hard enough to jerk her head back.

  Her blue eyes blazed and her hand dropped on a kitchen knife by the

  fish.

  He caught her wrist, squeezed and the knife dropped to the

  floor, then he caught hold of her, pinning her arms to her sides and

  shoving her out of the kitchen, he forced her along the passage to his

  room.

  “Let me go!” she exclaimed.

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  She was strong and hard to hold but he handled her. He got her

  into his room, kicked the door shut, then released her.

  “Get them off or I’ll rip them off!” he said.

  “Who do you imagine you are?” Her eyes were blazing with fury.

  “You’ll have me when I want you and not before! Now get out!”

  To Johnny who in the past had been in many brawls, she was

  pathetically easy. He weaved as she struck at him, her clawed fingers

  hopelessly out of range. Then he had her on her back on the bed. Her

  wrists now gripped in his hand.

  “Going to behave, baby, or do I really get rough?” She stared up

  at him, then relaxed.

  “I’ll behave.”

  He released her wrists, undid her belt and pulled the stretch

  pants off her.

  Later, she said, “I’m starving.” She ran her fingers down his hard

  back. “I love you. You’re all man. Whatever you say, whatever you do

  is all right with me.”

  She slid off the bed and went away.

  While he dressed, he heard the sizzling sound of bacon cooking.

  He went into the kitchen. Freda, naked, was cracking eggs into the

  pan.

  He came up behind her and stroked her buttocks. “Stop it,

  Johnny, or we don’t eat.”

  While they were eating, Johnny said, “In five days from now, you

  and me will be on the road together . . . starting a new life.” Freda

  smiled at him.

  “I want it! Johnny . . . you don’t know how much I want it!”

  They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the deck, soaking

  up the sun. Around 18.30, Freda said, “I’ll start supper. You take a

  walk. Don’t get back for an hour. I must convince Ed.”

  “I’ll take the boat, maybe I’ll catch a bass.”

  “If it’s Black Crappie, put it back.”

  Well away from the houseboat, Johnny sat in the boat and

  thought of her. He wondered too what Melanie was doing. If she had

  found someone to replace him. He wondered what Massino was

  doing. Probably taking his fat, spoilt wife on some shindig. During the

  hour, he caught four Black Crappie and put them back, then he

  turned the boat and headed back to the houseboat.

  As he got on deck, he saw Scott hosing down his IF truck. He

  waved and Scott waved back. He went into the kitchen.

  Freda nodded.

  “It’s all right. There’s nothing for us to worry about. He�
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  dropped it.”

  Johnny drew in a slow deep breath.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  A little after 11.15 an air-taxi landed at the New Symara airport

  and from it came Toni Cappelo.

  Ten minutes later a taxi dropped him outside the Waterfront Bar.

  He regarded the outside of the building and was surprised. This joint,

  he decided, had a lot of style. Situated opposite the yacht basin, the

  swank district of New Symara, the Waterfront Bar was the haunt of

  the rich. Tables, shaded by gaily coloured umbrellas, stood before

  the building which was painted white with sky-blue wooden shutters.

  There was a red carpet leading into the bar over which was a blue-

  and-white, barrel-shaped canopy. The tables were crowded with fat,

  rich-looking people off their yachts.

  Toni felt a little shabby as he walked into the bar, carrying his

  suitcase. He was aware people were staring at him and he now

  wished his clothes matched theirs.

  An Italian in a white jacket and blood-red trousers, intercepted

  him.

  “You want something?” The contempt in the man’s voice gave

  Toni a rush of blood to his head.

  “Luigi, you punk,” he snarled, “and hurry it up!”

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  The waiter’s eyes bulged.

  “Signore Moro is busy.”

  “Tell him Massino,” Toni said. “He’s expecting me!”

  The waiter’s contempt went away. He pointed.

  “Excuse me. Please go ahead. First door behind the bar.”

  Toni found Luigi Moro behind a desk as big as a billiard table. He

  was scribbling figures on a scratch pad and as Toni walked in, he

  leaned back in his chair and nodded.

  Luigi Moro was around sixty-five years of age, enormously fat, his

  nose slightly flattened—a gift from a tough cop when he had been

  young—his dark, shifty eyes as animated as the eyes of a dead fish.

  “Sit down . . . have a cigar.” He waved to a chair and pushed a

  silver box containing Havanas in Toni’s direction.

  Toni wasn’t a cigar smoker. He sat down on the edge of the chair.

  He had heard about Luigi Moro, one of the Mafia’s favourites: a man

  people had to respect or there was trouble.

  Moro lit a cigar, taking his time, looking thoughtfully at Toni.

  “I’ve heard about you: you’re good with a gun.” Toni nodded.

  “How’s Joe?”

  “He’s okay.”

  “A big steal.” Moro laughed. “I bet he’s flipping his lid.”