Well Now My Pretty Page 2

  For the past twenty-seven years, Perry had earned a living by hiring out his gun. He was an expert shot, utterly amoral, and human life to him meant as little as something he might have stepped in on the sidewalk. But he was a free spender and was always short of money: women played a major role in his life . . . and when there were women, you spent money.

  He was around sixty-two years of age: a short, heavily built man with close-cut, mow-white hair, a round fattish face, wide- spaced eyes under bushy white eyebrows, a thin mouth and a mall hooked nose. He dressed conservatively. Now, he was wearing a slate-grey tropical suit, a blood-red tie and a cream- coloured panama hat. He was always smiling, a grimace more than a smile, and if he had had any friends he would have been nicknamed 'Smiler', but he had no friends. He was a solitary, ruthless killer without a soul, and with no feeling for anyone, not even himself.

  He drew up behind the car in front of him and waited while the two police officers checked the papers of the passengers. Then, when they waved the car on, Perry let the Cutlass creep up to the waiting men.

  He regarded them with his fixed grin.

  "Hi, fellas," he said, waving a fat hand. "Have I done something wrong?"

  Patrol Officer Fred O'Toole had been on duty now for the past four hours. He was a big, dark Irishman with alert, bleak eyes. He was sick to death of all the people who had crawled past his check point in their luxury cars with their corny jokes, their servile smiles, their contempt and often their arrogance. They were all heading for a good time: gambling, the best food, the best hotels, the best whores while he stood with burning feet in the hot evening sun waving them through, knowing as soon as they were out of his hearing, they would make some derogatory remark about this goddam Mick sonofabitch.

  O'Toole took an immediate dislike to this fat, elderly, grinning man. He had no real reason for this dislike, but the grin, the empty washed-out blue eyes made his hackles rise.

  "Got a passport?" he snapped, resting his gloved hand on the car's window frame and glaring down at Perry.

  "What do I want a passport for?" Perry said. "I've got a licence . . . that do?"

  O'Toole held out his hand.

  Perry gave him the licence that had cost him four hundred dollars: an expensive little item, but worth it. The right forefinger print had been most skilfully altered, and such alterations cost money.

  "What's your business here?"

  "Plenty of eating, plenty of gambling and plenty of girls,"

  Perry said and laughed. "I'm on vacation, buddy . . . and boy! am I going to have me a vacation!"

  O'Toole continued to glare at him, but he handed back the licence. Jackson, the other patrol officer, looking at the big holdup O'Toole was causing by his questions, said testily, "Aw, for Pete's sake, Fred, there's a mile of the bastards still waiting."

  O'Toole stepped back and waved Perry on. Perry's grin widened, his foot squeezed down on the gas pedal, and the Cutlass gathered speed.

  Well, he had made it, he thought, as he snapped on the radio. He had fooled those two jerks and now . . . Paradise City, here I come!

  Washington Smith had to be much more careful how he arrived in the City. Negroes weren't encouraged anyway even if they were respectable, and Washington Smith was now far from being respectable. He had been out of jail for two weeks. His crime was hitting two police officers who had cornered him and were about to put the boot in. He had been stupid enough to have taken part in a freedom-to-vote march. The march had been ruthlessly broken up, the marchers scattered and because Wash — as his friends called him — was a little guy, two big cops had chased him up a cul-de-sac and had got set to have themselves a ball. But Wash happened to be a welter-weight contender for the Golden Gloves. Instead of meekly accepting the beating, he flattened both officers with two beautiful left hooks to their jaws. Then he had run, but not far. A bullet in his leg brought him down, and a club descending on his head knocked him unconscious. He drew eight months for resisting arrest and he had come out of jail savage and determined that from now on he would be an enemy of the Whites.

  When he received the summons to Paradise City, he had hesitated. Could this be a trap? he had asked himself. The message was brief.

  A very profitable job is waiting to be done. Mish recommends you. Be at The Black Crab Restaurant at 22.00 hrs on 20th February if you are INTERESTED IN MAKING A VERY LARGE SUM OF MONEY. The inclosed is for your travelling expenses. Police watch all entrances to the City. Be careful. Ask for Mr. Ludovick.

  It could be a hoax, Wash had thought, but an expensive one. There had been two one-hundred dollar bills inside the envelope.

  Besides, he knew Mish Collins whom he had met in jail and whoa a he liked and respected. A very large sum of money! That's what he needed right now. Without big money, a negro had no life o his own. He decided he had nothing to lose.

  He arrived in Paradise City under a load of crates of lettuces on their way to the Paradise-Ritz Hotel. He had lain hidden as the truck had been waved through the police check point, his heart thumping, his nerves crawling.So he, like the other three, beat the police cordon set up to protect the rich of Paradise City.The first move in Serge Maisky's plan to rob the richest Casino in the world had succeeded.

  * * *

  The Black Crab Restaurant was contained in a three-storey wooden building, built on stilts, thirty yards into the sea and reached by a narrow jetty. It was the meeting place for the sponge divers of the Florida Marine Manufacturing Co., and very few tourists, and certainly none of the residents of Seacombe, ever visited the place. It was notorious for heavy drinking, brawls and excellent sea food.

  On the top floor of the building there were three private diningrooms. They were reached by an outside staircase, and people with important matters to discuss could be sure of complete privacy. The negro waiter who officiated on the third floor was a deaf-mute.

  In the largest of the private dining-rooms that had a view of the distant lights of Paradise City and the harbour with its anchored yachts, preparations had been completed for a dinner of five covers.

  Mish Collins was the first to arrive. Jos, the negro waiter, regarded him, nodded, and then silently handed him a tumbler containing a treble rum, lime and cracked ice.

  Perry and Chandler arrived together, and, a minute or so later, Washington Smith slid uneasily into the room.

  Mish took over the duties of the host.

  "Welcome, fellas," he said. "Make yourselves at home. The dinge is deaf and dumb. Don't worry about him." He beamed at Wash, holding out his hand. "H'yah, bud. Long time no see."

  Wash shook hands, nodding, while Perry eyed him with a quizzing, bleak stare.

  Chandler refused the rum and lime, and asked for a whisky and soda. Jos stared blankly at him, then returned to his task of opening oysters that lay in a tub of ice.

  "Help yourself," Mish said. "The stuff's all there. I told you, didn't I ! . . . he's a deaf-mute."

  Still staring at Wash, Perry said, "Who's he? What's he doing here?"

  "What are we all doing here?" Mish said and laughed. "Sit down, fellas. Let's get to know each other." He pointed to Chandler who had made his drink and was now looking out of the window at the view. "He's Jess." The thick finger pointed to Washington Smith. "He's Wash." He nodded to Perry. "That's Jack. I guess you all know who I am. Come on, fellas, relax," and he went over to a chair and sat down.Wash had refused a drink. He stood uneasily by the door. He was always awkward and on the defensive in the company of Whites.

  Perry chose a chair away from Mish. He sat down, nursing his drink, a dead cigar gripped firmly between his small white teeth.

  "What's this — a party?" he asked, his washed-out blue eyes flickering around the room.

  "That's it," Mish said happily. "A party."

  Chandler turned. His handsome face showed irritation.

  "Do you know anything about this deal?"

  "Not much."

  "Who is this guy Ludovick?"

  "Yeah
. . . I know about him." Mish shook his head in awe. "Sure, I can tell you about him. For one thing, that's not his name. Hisname is Serge Maisky. I met him in Roxburgh jail. He had a job there . . . dispenser."

  "What the hell's that . . . a dispenser?" Perry demanded.

  "He was in charge of the pill and drug joint in the prison," Mish explained. "The croaker ordered you a pill and Maisky supplied it. He worked there for ten years . . . a real, bright boy. He and I got pretty pally. I'm a great one for pills. Before he retired, he told me he had an idea for the biggest take of all takes. He told me when he had set it up he would send for me and he wanted three others. I picked you three. You can thank me later." Mish's rubbery face creased into a broad grin. "I'll tell you this, fellas. This little guy looks harmless, but, boy, he's as harmless as a rattlesnake, and brains . . . ! He's the original H. bomb! I'll tell you this: when he says the take is big, I'm sold. That's why I'm here. I don't know what the job is, but . . ."

  "That's why I am here . . . to tell you," Maisky said gently from the door.

  Perry stiffened. His hand moved for a brief moment towards his hidden gun. Chandler gave a start that slopped his drink. Wash stepped quickly away from the door. Mish was the only calm one: he continued to grin.

  Maisky shut the door. He shook his head at Jos as the negro reached for a glass, then he regarded the four men steadily, slowly in turn.

  "Gentlemen," he said in his quiet, clear voice, "I am very happy to meet you. I hope none of you had any trouble getting here." The grey eyes probed. "Did you?"

  The four men shook their heads.

  "Excellent. Then let us eat. I am sure you must be hungry. Then, and not until then, we will discuss business."

  An hour later, Mish pushed back his chair and released a soft belch.

  "Fine meal," he said. "Pretty different to the slop we got at Roxie, huh, doc?"

  Maisky smiled.

  "Let us forget those painful memories." He lit a cigarette, offered his pack to Wash who shook his head, then seeing Perry was lighting a cigar and Mish and Chandler were already smoking, he returned the pack to his pocket.

  During the meal, Maisky had dominated the four men. His quiet, gentle manner baffled them, except Mish who knew him and beamed on him like a proud mother displaying her brilliant child. Maisky talked of politics, travel and women. Words flowed from him, but every now and then, he would ask an abrupt, probing question of one of the men, listen carefully to the answer, then continue his monologue. He ate very little, but during the hour, he succeeded in some miraculous manner to reduce tension, to get the four men at ease with one another. Even Wash was now relaxed.

  When the deaf-mute had cleared the table and set two bottles of whisky, ice and glasses within reach and had gone, Maisky cupped his pointed chin in his clawlike hands and said, "Well now, gentlemen, let us talk business. I have a proposition to make to you. Mish may have told you that for three years he and I were in contact. I have yet to meet a man who can swallow so many pills as Mish. During the time we were together, I formed the opinion that he is a very clever technician, and I learned he knew other technicians. This is why I asked him to contact you gentlemen. As for Wash . . . he is not quite like us. He isn't a criminal." The gentle smile broadened, "but he is necessary to my plan and he needs money and he has a grudge."

  The other men looked at Wash who eyed them uneasily.

  Chandler crushed out his cigarette impatiently.

  "Who cares?" he said. "Let's hear the proposition. What's all this crap about the biggest take?"

  Maisky's expression was benign, but reproving.

  "Please . . . I know you have had many successes, my friend, but try to be patient with me. This is a team . . . we must understand each other, and we must work closely together or we will fail."

  "What's the proposition?" Chandler repeated.

  "We are here to take two million dollars from the Casino," Maisky said.

  There was a long pause of absolute silence. Even Mish suddenly lost his smile of confidence. The four men stared at Maisky with startled, unbelieving eyes.

  "Two million dollars?" Chandler said, the first to recover. "Look, I have things to do. What the hell is this pipe dream . . . two million dollars?"

  Maisky waved his hand to the whisky.

  "Please, help yourselves, gentlemen. Unhappily, I can't . . . doctor's orders." He turned to Perry. "You heard what I said. Jess, I can see, doesn't believe me . . . do you?"

  Perry blew a thin cloud of cigar smoke towards the ceiling. "Keep talking," he said. "Don't worry about buddy boy. He's a natural worrier. You keep talking. I'm listening."

  Chandler swung around and stared at Perry who stared back. His washed-out blue eyes sent a prickle of fear up Chandler's spine. He wasn't a man of violence and the look Perry gave him chilled him. With a forced, indifferent shrug, he reached for the whisky bottle.

  "Okay . . . then talk," he said.

  Maisky settled back in his chair.

  "For years I have dreamed of finding the big take," he said. "With a few well-chosen men, who know their job, I have finally decided the big take is right here. We can take two million dollars out of the Casino, but only if you all have the necessary nerve, and if you will do exactly what I tell you. If you can't conform to these two simple rules, then let us forget it." His eyes, now ice cold, stared fixedly at each man in turn before he said, "Can you conform?"

  Mish said, "Anything you say, doc, I go for. You count me in."

  Maisky ignored him, he was staring at Chandler.

  "You?"

  "Rob the Casino?" Chandler said. "It can't be done. A couple of years ago, a guy put up the very same proposition to me. He thought of walking in there with ten men, but we . . ."

  Maisky's smile of contempt stopped him. Again the two men looked at each other, then Chandler said, "Well, okay, if you think you're that smart, I'll listen, but I tell you they have twenty picked guards, foolproof alarm systems and the cops are watching the place all the time . . . but okay, I'll listen."

  Maisky said gently, "You must do more than that, Jess. You are either in or you're out . . . now."

  Chandler hesitated, then waved his hand in assent. He suddenly realised he was dealing with someone as deadly as Perry, and he knew all about Perry.

  "Okay . . . okay . . . count me in. I still think it isn't possible, but if you think it is, then I'll go along with you."

  Maisky looked at Perry who grinned at him.

  "Sure, I'm with you. Just tell me," he said.

  Maisky looked at Wash.

  "And you?"

  The little negro shifted in his chair, but only because the other men were staring at him and he was always uncomfortable whenwhite men stared at him. He didn't hesitate when he said, "Of course . . . what have I to lose?"

  Maisky sat back, smiling.

  "That is very satisfactory. Then I take it, if you are convinced, gentlemen, I can rely on you?" He waited long enough for the four Men to nod, then he went on, "Well now, have a drink while I tell you how it can be done."

  There was a brief pause as the men re-filled their glasses. Mish offered Wash the bottle of whisky, but he shook his head. They lit cigarettes, sat back and waited, regarding Maisky as he took a thick folder of papers from his hip pocket.

  "First, let me tell you a little about the Casino," he said, laying the papers on the table before him. "This is the high season. On Saturday — the day after tomorrow — there will be something like three million dollars in cash in the building. If we get all the breaks, we should get away with two million. Two million dollars split up amongst the five of us makes three hundred thousand dollars each man."

  Chandler said sharply, "Not by my arithmetic. I make it four hundred thousand!"

  Maisky smiled gently.

  "You are quite right, but I will have the major share. You will each have three hundred thousand and I will have the rest because I have had a lot of expenses. I have thought of the plan, I have arranged ho
w it is to be carried out and, if it interests you, I have spent the past nine months in the City. I have had to hire this bungalow and I have had to pay out a considerable sum for information. So . . ." He waved his clawlike hands. "I have the major share."

  "Sure, doc," Mish said. "That's fair enough. Three hundred thousand dollars! Gee! That's the kind of money I've always dreamed about!"

  "You haven't got it yet," Chandler said.

  Maisky leaned forward.

  "May I continue? Let me explain about the Casino. Jess says he has already considered robbing the place with ten men walking into the gambling rooms." He laughed. "Well, of course that would not have produced results. On Saturday night, the maximum amount of money on the tables will be around a quarter of a million. The rest of the money remains in the vault immediately below the gambling rooms. When more money is needed, it is sent up in small box elevators. Two armed guards remain by each elevator during the gambling session. When money accumulates on the tables, it is sent down to the vaults. So there is a constant coming and going of money . . . up and down . . . and always heavily guarded." He paused to light another cigarette, then went on, "It became obvious to me after a few days' watching this routine that the vault itself must be our attacking point. Here, the money is kept very neatly. There are four girls in the vault and two armed guards. The girls handle the money: the guards keep watch. The vault is protected by a steel door and no one is allowed to enter except on official business. This has been going on for years. Here is the soft underbelly. So we will get into the vault, take the money and walk out."