Have a Nice Night Read online

  Maggie's china blue eyes opened wide. 'You mean that place where all the gorgeous billionaires live?'

  'That's it.' Maggie gave a squeal of delight and threw herself at Brady who firmly pushed her away, 'Stop it, Maggie! Do you want to come with me?'

  'Try and stop me! Paradise City! The things I've heard! Gorgeous hotels, palms, beaches, restaurants . . .'

  'Cool it, Maggie. I'm going there to do a job. If you want to come, you'll have to help me.'

  'Of course I'll help you, honey. I would do anything for you! You know that.'

  'I love you like crazy, Maggie. Now listen. I'm not a dealer in antiques.'

  Maggie giggled. 'I never thought you were, sweetheart. I was once in bed with an antique dealer. After be had huffed and puffed, he never stopped talking about what he sold and who to. His pad was stuffed with antiques.'

  Brady patted her hand. 'Smart girl.' He paused, then went on, 'I am a professional thief.' He waited for her reaction.

  She blinked, then nodded. 'You mean you steal from the rich and give to the poor? Like Robin Hood? I saw a re-run of Errol Flynn as Robin Hood. He was groovy.'

  Brady sighed. 'Never mind Errol Flynn. I steal from the rich and put the proceeds in my pocket.'

  Maggie considered this, then nodded. 'I always thought Robin Hood needed his head examined or something. Now, I'll tell you honey, there have been times when some rich old fink has been screwing me and when he went to sleep, I'd take a thousand or so from his wallet -- so that makes me a thief too, doesn't it?'

  Brady sighed with relief. He was over the hurdle, now he had to instruct Maggie what he wanted her to do.

  He took her over Haddon's plan to rob the Spanish Bay Hotel. Maggie listened, and from her intent expression, Brady was satisfied that she was absorbing what he told her.

  'There's at least two million in it for us, baby,' he concluded. 'When I get the money, we'll get married.'

  Maggie sighed. 'You said that the last time, but you didn't get any money and we aren't married. All I got was a trip to Switzerland and a diamond watch.' She kissed him gently. 'Don't think I'm moaning. I loved my watch and I adore Switzerland.'

  'That job didn't jell,' Brady said. 'This one will.'

  'So what do I have to do?'

  'I'm going to the hotel as an old man in a wheelchair. You're going to be my nurse and companion. You will look a knock-out in a nurse's uniform.'

  Maggie's face lit up. 'Oh, yes! I'd love that! I've always wanted to be a nurse! Honest, honey! I love helping rich old men. I really do! I mean it!'

  Brady contained his impatience with an effort. There were times when he found Maggie a trial.

  'Your job is to find out where the safe is located. You will have to chat up the staff and sex the hotel dicks.'

  Maggie clapped her hands. 'That'll be no problem.'

  Looking at her, Brady thought it would certainly not be a problem. Maggie could sex George Washington out of his grave.

  'Well, baby, is it on?'

  'Try and stop me!' Maggie cried and threw herself into his arms.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Having spent twenty years in various U.S. prisons, Art Bannion, now fifty years of age, had accepted the adage that crime doesn't pay. Because of his association with many top criminals who had also been behind bars during his various incarcerations and becoming friendly with them, he had seen the opportunity of a new career which would help others and be profitable to himself. With the aid of his wife, he was now established as possibly the only casting agency for the underworld. After all, he argued, in Hollywood they had casting agents to supply movie moguls with stars and bit-part players, so why not a casting agency to supply the right man or woman for a carefully planned crime? For the past five years he had built up his agency, drawing first on the names of those who had been in prison with him and had been released, then collecting names of those who were recommended as the up-and-coming younger criminal generation.

  All his business was done by telephone. He sat in a small office off Broadway N.Y.C. from 09.00 to 18.00, smoking, reading crime fiction and waiting for a call. His wife, Beth, sat in a smaller office, knitting sweaters which Art didn't want, but had pressed on him.

  When a call came, Beth would flick through the big card index with expert fingers and take the cards into Art's office and he would satisfy the client with the name and address of the man or woman who fitted the client's requirements.

  Art took ten percent of whatever the man or woman he supplied was paid. This was a satisfactory arrangement for both the client and Art, and during the years, Art made a considerable amount of money, always in cash, and free from the grasping claws of the IRS. His activities were hidden behind a plaque on the door that read: The World Wide Bible Reading Society. He was bothered neither by visitors nor the police.

  This morning, Art Bannion, lean, balding, and with features a buzzard might envy, lolled in his desk chair, his feet on the desk, contemplating his past life. From time to time when he was bored reading crime fiction and when the telephone remained silent, he would think of his mistakes and his life in various prisons, and even of his mother and father.

  His parents had been small time farmers who were happy to slave on the land and earn, to Art's thinking, peanuts. His brother, Mike, ten years younger than Art hadn't had Art's driving ambition. Art had left home when he was seventeen, thirsting for money and the bright lights. After a year of semi-starvation in New York, he was caught with two other men, trying to bust a bank safe. He went to prison for two years. From then on, he never stopped trying for the fast buck, and did it so badly, he was continually being picked up and thrown in the slammer.

  When his parents died, his brother, Mike, joined the regular army and worked his way up to Musketry Sergeant, which Art considered to be one of the lowest forms of animal life. However, he was fond of his brother who never interfered, never criticized, always visited him when he was in prison and never attempted to change Art's way of life. There was a strong bond between the two men, and Art had a sneaking admiration for his brother which he kept to himself.

  When Art finally accepted the fact that crime didn't pay, he looked around, found and wedded Beth, a small, fat, easy going woman of forty whose father was serving life for murder and whose mother ran a sleazy brothel in New Orleans. Beth was happy to help Art run his crime-casting agency and to have a well furnished, comfortable four room apartment.

  Sitting at his desk, thinking about his past, Art turned his thoughts to his brother, and his face saddened. Mike had had a real tough break, a break that Art wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. When Mike had reached the rank of sergeant, he had married. Art had only met Mike's wife, Mary, once, but he had approved. She was an attractive girl who made Mike more than happy.

  Mike broke the news of his wedding when visiting Art in prison some six years ago. With a beaming smile, he told Art that he and Mary were planning on a big family. Art forced himself to look pleased, but he thought anyone wanting children should have his head examined.

  Mike had been transferred to California, and the brothers lost touch for some years. Art had vaguely wondered how Mike was getting on, but he was no letter writer, and I was fully occupied building up his agency.

  Now, two weeks ago, he had had a telephone call from Mike asking if they could meet. There was a note in Mike's voice that alerted Art that something was wrong. He had told Mike to come to his apartment, but Mike had said he wanted to talk to Art alone.

  'That's no problem,' Art had said. 'Beth can go see a friend. Something up?'

  'That's what I want to talk to you about,' Mike had said. 'See you then at your place at seven tonight,' and he had hung up.

  Thinking back on the meeting, Art grimaced. When he had opened the front door of his apartment in answer to the ring on the bell, he was confronted by a man he scarcely recognized as his brother. The last time he had seen Mike he had envied his physique and that look the Army gives to its regular
s. Now Mike was a shadow of his old self: thin, his face drawn, his eyes sunken, and a despair exuding from him that Art could almost feel.

  The two men had sat down in the quiet of Art's living room, the first time the brothers had met since six years before. Mike had sketched it out for Art in short curt sentences.

  A year after his marriage a baby girl arrived. Mary had given up her job to be with the baby, a Mongol baby named Chrissy, and tended her with loving care. They had to reduce their standard of living and make do on Mike's Army pay.

  'Jesus!' Art had exclaimed. 'A Mongol? What the hell's that?'

  'A mentally retarded child,' Mike had told him. 'A darling, affectionate kid who will never learn to write and only talk with difficulty, who will always be a burden -- never mind. She was ours and we were both crazy about her.'

  'So . . . ?'

  Mike stared into space for a long moment and the despair that sat with him deepened.

  'Mary was killed by a hit-and-run three weeks ago.'

  Art sat forward, staring at his brother. 'You mean your wife was killed?' he jerked out.

  'Yes.'

  'For God's sake, Mike! Why didn't you tell me?'

  Mike shrugged. 'I'm telling you now.'

  'But why now? I could have done something. I could have been with you --'

  'No one could have done anything for me,' Mike said quietly. 'I had to sort it out for myself. I have no wife and have Chrissy on my hands. I've put her in a home near my barracks so I can see her on weekends, and I got rid of our little house. This home is good for Chrissy, but it costs. I now live in my barracks. I've managed so far.'

  'You want money Mike? I can give you some. How much do you want? I'll do what I can.'

  'Not the kind of money I need, Art,' Mike said.

  'What's that mean?' Art asked. 'I could lend you the money, damn it! I could give you a couple of grand.'

  'I'd need at least fifty thousand,' Mike said.

  Art gaped at him.

  'You crazy? What the hell do you want all that for?'

  'It's to take care of Chrissy. I've talked to the doctor who runs the home. He's a good guy. He tells me she has a malformation of her heart. It's the usual thing with Mongols. She won't live for more than a few years if we give her the best attention, and I know she'll get the best attention at this home. It's going to cost big dollars, and that will take care of her for the rest of her short life.'

  'But Mike! You're earning! I'll chip in. You don't have to have all this money at once. You can pay month by month.'

  Mike nodded. 'That's what I thought, but I'll be dead in six months or so.'

  Art stiffened. Looking at his brother, seeing the drawn face and the sunken eyes, he felt a chill crawl up his spine.

  'What are you talking about? Dead? Don't talk crap! You're good for a long time.'

  Mike stared at the whisky in his glass for a moment, then looked straight at his brother.

  'I have terminal cancer,' he said quietly.

  Art closed his eyes. He felt the blood drain out of his face.

  There was a long silence, then Mike said, 'The last two years I have had odd pains. They'd come and go. I didn't tell Mary. I thought it was nothing. People have pains, and it is nothing, but these didn't go away. When I lost Mary and the pains got worse, I got worried about Chrissy, so I talked to a specialist at Northport, Long Island. That's why I'm here. I saw him a couple of days ago. He told me I had around six months to live. I'll have to stay in the hospital in a couple of months, and I won't be coming out.'

  'God! I'm sorry!' Art said. 'This quack could be wrong.'

  'He isn't. Forget it. Let's talk business, Art.' Mike said.

  Mike looked straight at his brother. 'Now, you told me what your racket is: finding men to pull a crime. There is no way that I can raise fifty thousand dollars with only a few months to live, but I've got to do it. I don't care what I have to do as long as it pays fifty grand. For Chrissy, I'll even go to murder. Can you get me a job that'll pay fifty grand?'

  Art took out his handkerchief and mopped his sweating face. 'I don't know, Mike. I see your reasoning, but fifty grand for a job is pretty scarce work. You're an amateur. You have no police record. My people wouldn't want to work with you. A job that pays that big is kept in the family, so to speak.'

  'Skip that, Art,' Mike said, 'I'm relying on you. Whatever the job is, I'll do it, and I'll do it well. I have a month's sick leave. I'll stay here until you find something. I'm at the Mirador Hotel.'

  He got to his feet. 'Anything -- repeat anything -- that pays fifty grand. Think about it, Art. I'm relying on you. Okay?'

  Art nodded. 'I'll do what I can, but I can't promise anything.'

  Mike stared at him. 'In your bad days,' he said, 'I stayed with you. Now I expect you to stay with me. So long for now,' and he left.

  Art had done his best, but his regulars would have nothing to do with an amateur, and this morning he sat at his desk, at his wits' end to find a job that would pay his brother fifty thousand dollars. He wondered if he should sell stock, but he knew Beth wouldn't stand for that. He had discussed the situation with her and she had been unsympathetic.

  'Dotty brats should be smothered at birth,' she had said. 'One thing you don't do, Art, you don't sell stock and give our money to Mike. Is that understood?'

  A week had passed since his brother's visit. Art had heard nothing from him, but the memory of those sunken eyes and the look of despair haunted him. Interrupting his dismal thoughts, Beth put her head around his office door.

  'Ed Haddon on the line, Art,' she said.

  Art stiffened to attention. Haddon was his most profitable client. He had supplied Haddon with many top-class thieves, and Haddon paid generously.

  Picking up the receiver, he said, 'Hi, Mr. Haddon! Good to hear from you. Something I can do?'

  'I wouldn't be telephoning just to hear your voice,' Haddon snapped. 'I want a man: good appearance, a dead shot, able to handle a Rolls Royce and act the part of a chauffeur.'

  Art drew in a long deep breath. This looked custom made for Mike.

  'No problem, Mr. Haddon. I've got just the man. What's the job?'

  'A big one. It'll pay around sixty thousand.'

  Art closed his eyes. This was too good to be true.

  'No problem, Mr. Haddon.'

  'Who's your man?'

  'My brother. He's a top-class shot and needs the money. You can rely on him.'

  'What's his police record look like?'

  'He hasn't one, Mr. Haddon. Right now he is a Musketry instructor in the Army. He looks good, talks well and is a certain shot.' So anxious was Art to get his brother fixed, he went on, 'I will guarantee him, Mr. Haddon.'

  The moment he had said this, he regretted it. How did he know that Mike would deliver to Haddon's satisfaction? Haddon was ruthless. So far, Art had given him more than satisfaction, but he knew for sure, one slip and Haddon would deal with him no longer. Haddon's account with Art was the guts of his agency. If Haddon dropped him, so would all his other clients drop him. He broke out into a cold sweat, but he had shot off his mouth, and there was no retreat.

  Haddon said, 'That's fine with me. If you guarantee your brother, that's good enough for me. Okay, tell him to report to Cornelius Vance at the Seaview Hotel, Miami at ten o'clock Sunday the twenty third.'

  'How about the gun?'

  'Vance will give him that. And Bannion, there is to be no violence. No one gets killed, but this man has to be a dead shot.'

  'When's the payoff, Mr. Haddon?'

  'When the job's done. It'll take around a couple of months. This is a big one, Bannion. You screw it up, and you'll be out of business,' and Haddon hung up.

  Beth stormed into the office.

  'I was listening,' she said, her face cherry red. 'You gone out of your mind? That pin-head of a soldier? We have dozens of dead shots on the cards. Why pick on him, a goddam amateur?'

  Art glared at her.

  'He's my brother
. He needs help. Go away!'

  When Beth, grumbling, had gone, Art dialled the Mirador Hotel number and asked to speak to Mr. Mike Bannion. He expected his brother would be out on this mild sunny morning, but Mike came on the line immediately.

  Art thought: The poor bastard has been sitting in his dreary hotel room, waiting for me to call. Well, I've good news for him.

  When Art had told him the news, Mike said with a catch in his voice, 'I knew I could rely on you, Art. I owe you more than thanks. I won't let you down, I'll get going right away, but I'll need money.'

  'That's okay, Mike. I'll send you three thousand in cash to your hotel. Don't skimp on the chauffeur's uniform. It has to be convincing. My client is important.'

  There was a long pause, then Mike said, 'No one gets killed?'

  'That's what the man said.'

  'Okay, Art, and thanks again. You can rely on me.'

  As Mike hung up, Art sat back in his chair wondering if he should consider himself a saint or a sucker.

  Chapter 2

  Anita Certes entered the second bathroom of the penthouse suite of the Spanish Bay Hotel, bracing herself for what she knew she would find. The penthouse suite, the most luxurious and most expensive suite in the hotel had been taken by Wilbur Warrenton, the son of Silas Warrenton, a Texas oil billionaire, just married to Maria Gomey, a South American, whose father owned a number of silver mines. Wilbur had decided that Paradise City would be the place to spend their honeymoon, and Maria, difficult to please, had agreed.

  At the age of twenty nine, Wilbur had not, as yet, joined the Texas Oil Corporation over which his father reined. He had had a Harvard education, taking a Master's degree in economics, had spent a year in the Army as Major (Tanks), had travelled the world in one of his father's yachts, had met Maria, fallen in love and married. When the honeymoon ended, he was to become one of the ten vice-presidents of his father's vast oil kingdom.

  His father, Silas Warrenton, a tough oil man, had no love for anyone except his son. Silas's wife had died a few years after Wilbur's birth, and Silas, who had been deeply in love, had transferred this love to his son. When Wilbur told his father that he wanted to marry and had introduced Maria, Silas had stared thoughtfully at her. Her dark complexion, her slim, sensual body, her big sexy eyes and her hard mouth gave him doubts, but he knew of her father with his billions, so he mentally shrugged. If this piece was what his son wanted to marry, he would raise no objection. After all, he told himself, she was worth screwing and divorce was easy. So he gave her a crooked smile, patted her shoulder and said, 'I want grandchildren, my dear. Don't disappoint me.'