Have a Nice Night Page 3

  Maria thought he was the most horrible, vulgar old man alive. Even when Wilbur had hinted he, too, would like children, she had stared bleakly at him.

  'Later. Let's be happy and free while we are young. Children always bring trouble.'

  Anita Certes was one of the many bedroom maids employed by the Spanish Bay Hotel. At the age of twenty three, she was of squat build, dark complexioned, hair like a raven's wing and a Cuban. She had been working at the hotel for the past twelve months. Her job was to clean the bathrooms, change the bed linen daily, dust and clean.

  Anita had 'done' Wilbur's bathroom. That was no problem. He even folded his bath towels, and there was no mess, but Maria's bathroom made Anita boil with suppressed fury. What a goddam slut this rich, spoilt woman was! Anita thought as she surveyed the mess she was now faced with to clear up.

  Sodden towels lay on the floor. (Did she take the towels into the bath with her? Anita wondered.) Face powder and eyelash black splattered the mirrors. A trodden lipstick smeared the floor tiles. The toilet hadn't been flushed.

  The rich! Anita thought as she gathered up the sodden towels. Even if she was worth millions as this bitch was, she would never dream of leaving a bathroom in this disgusting state.

  As she worked, her mind shifted to her husband, Pedro. They had been married for two years. They had come, on Pedro's urging, to Florida in the hope of bettering their economic condition which had been hard in Havana. Anita had been lucky to have got the cleaning job at the Spanish Bay Hotel, but Pedro could find only occasional work, street cleaning, which paid little.

  To her, Pedro was the most handsome man alive, a slim, dark man. She loved him fiercely and possessively, accepting his bad tempers, his complaints, giving him everything she earned. They lived in a one room walk-up in Seacomb which was on the outskirts of Paradise City and where the workers lived. She was so in love with Pedro it didn't occur to her that he was a wastrel.

  After a few days with a brush and cart street cleaning, he had given up. His one thought was to return to his father's small sugar cane farm, although a year ago his one thought was to leave it. Anita, listening to all his bitter complaints, had kissed him, telling him that something good for him would turn up. Cutting sugar cane was no way to live. She would work harder and she would provide. Pedro had smiled. Okay, so they would wait.

  As she worked, clearing up the mess in the bathroom, she wondered what Pedro was doing. He told her he would be walking the streets, trying to find a job, but she wondered. At the end of each week, he had spent all the money she had earned. Often, there wasn't money enough to buy more rice, and he had complained. Anita, adoring him, promised to work harder.

  While she worked, making Maria Warrenton's bathroom immaculate, Pedro Certes was sitting in a shabby bar in Seacomb. With him was Roberto Fuentes. Both men were drinking beer. Fuentes a Cuban, had lived in Seacomb for the past three years. A short, over-fat man with glittering hard eyes, he had carved out a small living on the waterfront, cleaning and helping to service the many yachts of the rich.

  He liked Pedro and listened to Pedro's constant complaints. This evening, he had decided that Pedro was ripe for a job that could make Fuentes some three thousand dollars. Fuentes believed that risks were not for him. If a man could pick up three thousand dollars and find someone to take the risk, the idea was worth considering.

  Speaking in a low voice, he said, 'Pedro. How would you like to pick up a thousand dollars?'

  Pedro twiddled his glass of warming beer, then looked at Fuentes. 'Why talk this way? A thousand dollars? With that money I could take my wife and myself back to my father's farm. What are you saying?'

  Fuentes smiled. His smile was like the flickering tongue of a snake.

  'It can be arranged. It depends on you. A thousand dollars! Nice, huh?'

  Pedro nodded.

  'More than nice. Keep talking.'

  'You know where my room is on Coral Street? The big block of walk-ups?'

  'I know it.'

  'There are seventy tenants in this block. Each of them pays sixty dollars a week rent. That makes a take of forty two hundred dollars. Right?'

  'So what?' Pedro asked.

  'You and I could grab that dough. To you, it'll be as easy as screwing your wife.'

  Pedro's eyes narrowed. A thousand easy dollars!

  'Keep talking,' he said. 'You've got me interested.'

  'Living in this block is Abe Levi. He works for the people who own the block. He's their rent collector as well as the janitor. Every Friday he goes from flat to flat and collects the rent money: forty two hundred dollars. He goes back to his flat, writes the amounts up, then the following morning takes the money to the rental office. He's been doing this for years. I've watched him. Now Levi is a creep without spine. If you waved a gun in his face, he would faint. He is fat and old. All we have to do is to walk in while he's counting the dough, wave a gun in his face and we have got forty two hundred dollars. I tell you, Pedro, it's as easy and simple as that.'

  Pedro's eyes sparkled.

  'I like it,' he said. 'So . . . tomorrow?'

  'Yes.' Fuentes gave his snake's smile. 'But you have to handle Levi. If I walked in, he would recognize me, but you, waving the gun, he wouldn't know. I stay outside, you do the business . . . right?'

  Pedro's eyes lost their sparkle. He thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  'So you don't take a risk, but I do . . . right?'

  'There is no risk.' Fuentes leaned forward and patted Pedro's arm. 'You walk in, wave the gun, Levi faints, you collect the money, and we're both happy.'

  'For this, I want two thousand,' Pedro said firmly.

  Fuentes grimaced.

  'Because we are friends, I am offering you the chance to make money. I can get anyone to do this job. It's so easy. No. Two thousand is out.'

  'Fifteen hundred or you find someone else.'

  Fuentes hesitated, then gave his snake's smile.

  'Agreed.' He leaned forward, 'Let's talk about it.'

  When Anita climbed the five flights of stairs and entered her one room home, she found Pedro lying on the bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a contented smile on his face.

  Anita was off duty until 20.00 when she returned to the hotel to once again clean the penthouse suite. The time now was 17.00, and she was feeling tired and depressed, but seeing Pedro so relaxed, she brightened.

  'You have found a job!' she exclaimed. 'I can see it on your face!'

  'Saturday we return to Havana,' Pedro said. 'I'll have the money for the flight, and enough for us to help my father.'

  Anita stared at him. 'But that is not possible!'

  'Yes it is.' He put his hand under the pillow and produced the .38 revolver Fuentes had given him. 'With this, anything is possible.'

  Anita sat down abruptly, feeling faint. For some time now she had suspected that Pedro would be driven to do something desperate.

  'Darling, please! You mustn't!'

  Pedro pushed the gun under the pillow.

  'I have had enough.' His thin face turned vicious. 'I must have money to return home. Fuentes and I have discussed this. There is no risk. Saturday, I go. If you want to stay, then stay. I'm going home with fifteen hundred dollars. That is final.'

  'There is always a risk,' Anita said, her voice trembling.

  'Not this time. Saturday we leave. Now get me something to eat.'

  Anita had made friends with the third chef at the Spanish Bay Hotel. She allowed him, from time to time, to put his hand up her skirt for a gentle feel, and, in return, he gave her leftovers: bits of good steak, bits of chicken and sometimes even a slice of fruit tart. As she sat, staring at Pedro, she nursed the plastic sack the chef had given her, and Pedro was looking hungrily at the sack. He hadn't eaten all day.

  'You really mean you are going to steal, my darling?' she asked.

  'You heard! Get me something to eat!'

  She got slowly to her feet and walked unsteadily into the tiny
kitchen.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Detective 1st Grade Tom Lepski liked Fridays. Unless there was some emergency, and in Paradise City this was rare, he could sign off and return home for the weekend. Okay, there was Carroll his wife, to nag him to do the lawn, but he was away from the detectives' room and even household chores were minor compared to sitting around waiting for crime.

  He looked at his watch. Another ten minutes, and he would be off. Carroll had told him there would be a chicken and ham pie for dinner. Lepski liked his food, and chicken and ham pie was one of his special favorites.

  Max Jacoby, Detective 2nd Grade, was thumping out a stolen car report. He and Lepski worked well together.

  'Chicken and ham pie!' Lepski exclaimed. 'Man! I dig that pie!'

  Jacoby paused in his typing.

  'There are times when I envy you, Tom,' he said. 'To be married to a great girl like Carroll! When I sign off, I'll be going to Fung-U for a take-home dinner . . . ugh!'

  Lepski looked smug. 'It's time you got married, Max. That junk food is not for me. Carroll would flip her lid to think of me eating that kind of swill.'

  'I guess.' Jacoby sighed and resumed his typing.

  The telephone on Lepski's desk came alive. He snatched up the receiver and bellowed. 'Detective Lepski! What do you want?'

  'Lepski! Do you have to be so common and shout like that?' Lepski groaned, recognizing his wife's voice.

  'Oh, it's you, honey,' he said, lowering his voice.

  'Yes, it's me,' Carroll said. 'Really, Tom, you should try to be more refined when answering the telephone.'

  'Okay.' Lepski loosened his tie. 'I'll be home in twenty minutes. How's the pie looking?'

  'That's why I'm calling. I had Mavis here. She was telling me about her husband. Really, Tom, the way that man behaves! I just sat listening, speechless.'

  Lepski shifted restlessly in his chair. 'Okay, feed me the details when I get home. How's the pie looking?'

  There was a pause, then Carroll said, 'There was a little trouble. When Mavis was telling me about Joe, I sort of forgot the pie was in the oven. The things that man does to her! You can't believe it! I was absolutely speechless!'

  Lepski began to drum his fingers on his desk.

  'You forgot the goddam pie was in the oven?'

  'Don't swear, Lepski. It's vulgar.'

  Lepski picked up a pencil and snapped it in two.

  Jacoby stopped typing and sat back to listen.

  'What's happened to the pie?' Lepski bawled.

  'I wish you wouldn't shout. I'm calling to tell you to stop off at Fung-U's take-home shop and bring us something to eat,' Carroll said. 'Otherwise, we'll have nothing,' and she hung up.

  Lepski slammed down the receiver and glared at Jacoby who quickly resumed his typing. Snorting, Lepski stormed out of the detectives' room.

  As he reached the charge room, about to sign off, Sergeant Joe Beigler appeared. Beigler, a big, fleshy, freckle-faced man, was in charge of headquarters while Chief of Police, Fred Terrell, was absent.

  'I have a job for you, Tom,' he said.

  Lepski glared at him. 'I'm signing off!'

  'You'll love this one, Tom. I could give it to Max, but I've decided you were the boy.'

  'Give it to Max. I've got to buy dinner! Carroll's burned my goddam chicken and ham pie!'

  'If I gave it to Max, you'd never forgive me,' Beigler said, grinning.

  'So what's the goddam job?' Lepski demanded, getting interested.

  'A complaint has just come in about the G-String Club,' Beigler said. 'A Mrs. Abrahams took her husband there last night. She says the girls there weren't wearing their G-strings.'

  Lepski's eyes popped wide open. 'You mean they were going around starkers?'

  'That's what Mrs. Abrahams says. Can't have that, Tom. You'd better talk to Harry. If the mayor gets to hear of this, he'll slam the club shut.'

  'Wouldn't want that to happen,' Lepski said.

  'Just warn him, huh?'

  'You bet. No G-strings? What's one old bag's poison, is another man's meat,' Lepski said, his eyes glistening. 'Do me a favour, Joe. Call Carroll. Tell her I won't be home. Tell her I'm on a smash and grab.'

  'Leave it to me,' Beigler said, knowing Carroll. 'I'll make out you're being a hero.'

  'Don't overdo it, Joe. Carroll is tricky. Just say I've been called out on a smash and grab. Right?'

  'Leave it to me, Tom.'

  Harry Atkin, the owner of the G-string Club, was a good friend of the police. His club, situated on a side street off Seacomb's main street was well patronized. When the rich felt in the mood to slum, they spent most of the night at the club, eating excellent sea food, served by gorgeous girls who were topless and wore G-strings. His was a thriving business.

  From time to time, when Lepski was in the district, he would drop in and shoot the breeze with Harry, have a couple of free drinks, admire the girls then go about his business. This was something he didn't mention to Carroll, knowing she wouldn't approve.

  Around 19.45, he arrived at the club, walked down the stairs into the big room where three blacks were polishing and cleaning, getting ready for the night's entertainment. Harry Atkin, a short, fat man with fiery red hair, was behind the bar, reading the evening paper. He looked up and his smile was wide when he saw Lepski.

  'Hi, Tom! Haven't seen you in weeks. How are they hanging?'

  Lepski climbed onto a stool, shook Harry's hand and pushed his hat to the back of his head.

  'Fine,' he said. 'And you?'

  'Couldn't be better. There's going to be a big crowd here tonight. Had a big crowd last night.' He reached for a bottle of Cutty Sark, knowing this was Lepski's favourite tipple, and poured a big drink, added ice and pushed the glass across the counter.

  'Harry,' Lepski said, after a long pull at the drink, 'There's been a complaint.'

  Harry nodded. 'I was waiting for it, Tom. Just one of those things. That old bag, Mrs. Abrahams, huh?'

  'That's the one. What's going on, Harry? She complains the chicks weren't wearing their G-strings.' Lepski leered. 'I'd like to have been there, but you can't do that sort of thing. It'll get you a bad name.'

  'She's lying. I'll tell you what happened. We had a couple of rich drunks, sitting at an adjacent table where this old bag was, plus her creep of a husband. Lu-Lu was serving fish soup, and she was bending over with her arse in the air.'

  Lepski who had seen Lu-Lu and thought she had the sexiest bottom of all the girls in the club, nodded.

  'So one of the drunks snipped Lu-Lu's G-string and the goddam thing fell into the old bag's soup!' Harry burst out laughing. 'It was the damnedest thing, with the old bag having hysterics, her husband getting a hardon for the first time in years, and Lu-Lu clutching her pussy. The two drunks had a real ball. In fact, everyone in the joint loved it, except the old bag.'

  Also laughing, Lepski mopped his eyes. 'I love it! I'd give my right arm to have been there.'

  'Yeah. I got Lu-Lu out of sight, tried to pour oil on the old bag, but she grabbed her husband and left, shouting she was going to complain to the mayor.'

  'Okay, Harry, relax. I'll put in a report. Don't worry your brains. When I tell the boys back at headquarters, they'll split their sides. No other girl lost her G-string?'

  'I'll have you know, Tom, my girls are respectable,' Harry said, looking serious. 'The last thing they are going to lose is their G-strings.'

  Lepski laughed. 'For God's sake, Harry, what else have they to lose?' He finished his drink, looked at his watch, saw it was now after 20.00, and remembered he had to buy dinner. 'Do me a favor, Harry. Carroll has burned the pie we were going to have. How about one of your pizzas?'

  'Wouldn't think of it. For you, Tom, I'll fix a real meal. How about chicken in mushroom and white wine sauce? All your good lady will have to do is to put it in the oven for twenty minutes.'

  Lepski's eyes glistened. 'Sounds great.'

  'Okay. Help yourself to anot
her drink. I'll fix it with Charlie.'

  As Harry hurried off, Lepski reached for the bottle of Cutty Sark. There were times when police work paid off, he thought.

  A cool hand took him by the wrist. 'Let me do that for you, Mr. Lepski.' Looking up, Lepski was confronted by a pair of small breasts with shell-pink nipples and found a girl, wearing only a G-string and black, high-heeled shoes, smiling at him.

  'I'm Marian,' the girl said, fluttering long eye lashes. 'You heard about Lu-Lu? Wasn't that terrible?'

  Lepski opened and shut his mouth, but no words came. His eyes feasted on this gorgeous little body right by his side.

  Smiling, Marian poured the drink, added ice and placed the glass in his hand.

  'Mr. Lepski,' she said, sitting on a high stool by his side. 'I think, and so do all the girls, you are the most handsome cop in the city. You know?'

  Lepski beamed. Police work! he thought. Who wouldn't want to be a cop?

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Across the narrow street, opposite the G-String Club was a high rise of one or two room apartments, strictly for the workers. Abe Levi hated Fridays. This rent collecting drag was slowly killing him. There was always some whining excuse not to pay, and he always had to turn tough, which was against his nature. The Syndicate who owned the high rise had told him there was to be no credit. If the jerks couldn't find the rent, out they went. It hurt Abe to deliver the message. He wanted to be on good terms with the tenants, but threatening them made this impossible.

  'Look,' he would say, 'don't blame me. Pay or you're out. That's what the boss says. It's nothing to do with me.'

  Squeezing the rent from so many tenants took time, and when he had visited the last apartment, collecting the rent with a struggle, it was well after 20.00. He was anxious to return to his ground floor two room apartment and have supper.