1955 - You've Got It Coming Read online

  “Be at West Pier at half past ten tonight,” Ben snapped and slammed down the receiver.

  For a long moment the man who called himself Harry Green leaned against the side of the pay booth, the receiver in his hand while he stared through the grimy glass panel of the door into space. He experienced a feeling of triumph, mixed with uneasiness.

  One more step towards the big steal, he thought: one more milestone. In four days' time he would be on the airfield waiting for the night plane to San Francisco to take off. He replaced the receiver and limped over to where he had left his suitcase.

  Lamson looked up from the paper he was reading.

  “Your room's at the head of the stairs. Want me to carry your bag?”

  “No.”

  He climbed the stairs. Facing him was a door marked 32. He pushed the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door.

  He walked into a large room. A double bed with iron rails at the head and the foot, ornamented with tarnished brass knobs, stood in a corner. The carpet was threadbare and dusty. Two armchairs stood either side of the empty fireplace. A picture of a fat woman, peeling an apple and looking through a window at a hill scene, done in strident poster colours, hung over the mantelpiece.

  Facing the door was a full-length mirror and setting down his suitcase and shutting the door, Harry moved to the mirror and looked at himself.

  The transformation was incredible, he thought. The man he saw in the mirror had not the slightest resemblance to Harry Griffin.

  Apart from the scarred, full face, his figure was that of a man over forty; thick in the middle with a distinct potbelly, whose muscular frame had turned to fat.

  Harry took off his hat and trench coat, still standing before the mirror. The blond, thinning hair was a cunningly constructed hairlace wig, firmly fixed to Harry's scalp with spirit gum. The scar from his right eye to his mouth was fish skin covered with collodion.

  The moustache had been built onto his upper lip, hair by hair. The shape of his face had been altered by rubber pads, fixed by suction against his gums. The projecting teeth were clipped over his own teeth. The potbelly and the heavy fat shoulders were created by aluminum devices he wore next to his skin. The limp came from wearing the right shoe built higher than the left.

  Glorie had done a job. She had said he wouldn't be recognized, and Harry felt confident that even his best friend wouldn’t know him.

  Glorie had taught him how to re-fix the scar and the moustache. He would have to wear the disguise for four days and five nights. He would have to wash and shave, and the moustache and the scar would have to be taken off and put back on again. At first he had been against such an elaborate disguise, but she had insisted, and when he had seen the result he had realized she was right. He could risk being seen anywhere now. She had more than fulfilled her promise. Harry Griffin had ceased to exist. Harry Green was a live, believable person.

  Everything now depended on Delaney. Glorie had warned Harry again and again not to trust Delaney. He had felt irritated that she had taken so much of the initiative from him. After all, he told himself, this was his plan. Admittedly her idea that he should disguise himself before the job was a brilliant one, but why couldn't she leave the rest of the business to him? Because she had been so successful in creating Harry Green he had been patient with her, but he was glad to be on his o w n now, to handle the job himself without her. Her repeated warnings, her anxiety and her fears made him uneasy.

  At ten minutes past ten, he left the hotel and walked in the driving rain to the bus station. He boarded a bus for American Avenue, left it at the terminus and walked down to Ocean Boulevard.

  West Pier, used to take gamblers out to the gambling ships that were moored outside the City's limits, was dark and deserted.

  On a night like this, there was little trade for the gambling ships and only two of the taxi-boats were at their stations.

  Harry took shelter under the coverway to the turnstiles. The time was ten twenty-five. He lit a cigarette, aware of his tension and the steady thumping of his heart.

  At twenty minutes to eleven, a mustard-coloured Cadillac, as big as a battleship, slid to a standstill outside the pier entrance, and he guessed this was Delaney's car. He limped across to it, seeing the dim outline of two men in the front and one at the back.

  The non-driver in the front got out of the car: a tall, slouching figure that Harry recognized from Glorie's description to be the man who had followed her.

  “You Green?” the man asked sharply.

  “That's right.”

  “Okay, get in the back. We'll drive around while you talk to the boss.”

  He opened the rear door and Harry got into the car and sank down on to the heavily upholstered cushions. Ben Delaney, smoking a cigar, turned his head to look at him. The street lights were not bright enough for either of the men to see each other well, but Harry recognized Delaney by his trim moustache and by the way he held his head.

  “Green?”

  “Yes. You Mr. Delaney?”

  “Who else do you imagine I'd be?” Ben snapped. “Drive slowly,” he went on to the man at the wheel. “Keep going until I tell you to stop, and keep off the main streets.” He turned slightly in his seat so he could look towards Harry who sat in the darkness looking towards him. “What's your proposition?” he demanded. “Snap it up. I have other things to do besides driving around in the rain.”

  “In four days' time,” Harry said, speaking rapidly, “the Californian Air Transport Corporation are carrying a consignment of industrial diamonds worth three million dollars to San Francisco. I know which plane they will travel on and how to get hold of them. I want to sell the idea to you. This job can be handled by three men and a fourth with a car. I would be one of the men and I'd expect you to supply the other three. I would want fifty thousand dollars to do the job and no other share in the take. That's the proposition.”

  Delaney was staggered. He hadn't expected such a blunt proposal. Fifty thousand bucks! This guy wasn't afraid to open his mouth.

  “You don't imagine I'd be crazy enough to handle a set-up like that, do you?” he said. “Those rocks will be as hot as hell.”

  “That's not my concern,” Harry said. “My job is to get the diamonds. What happens to them afterwards isn't my business. If you don't want them, say so. I can always go elsewhere. My time's just as valuable to me as yours is to you.”

  Taggart, the tall, slouching man, half turned in his seat and looked at Harry. Although it was too dark to see his face, Harry could feel the threat there.

  But Delaney didn't mind that kind of talk. He preferred it.

  “Have you seen the diamonds?”

  “No. There's nothing special about them. They are industrial diamonds: as good as cash. It just means holding them for a time, then releasing them slowly. If their distribution is handled properly there shouldn't be any risk.”

  Delaney knew that was true. He had plenty of markets for industrial diamonds, and he wouldn’t have to hold on to them for long. If these diamonds were really worth what this guy said they were, he could get two million for them, even two and a half million.

  But who was this guy, he wondered. He didn't like dealing with strangers. Although Glorie had introduced him, and he felt he could trust Glorie, he wondered about him. His mind shifted to the yacht he wanted. If this job came off, here would be the means to put the order in hand. They had promised delivery in twelve months. He felt a little tingle of excitement. Maybe it didn't matter who the guy was so long as he delivered.

  “How are you going to get them?” he asked. “Hijack the van before it reaches the airfield?”

  “Not a chance. They'll send them in an armoured car with a motorcycle escort. We'll never get near them. No. I'm going to hijack the plane.”

  Ben stiffened. He saw by the way Taggart straightened in his seat that he wasn't the only one who was startled.

  “Hijack the plane? How do you do that, for God's sake?”


  “It won’t be difficult. That's why this job's a cinch. I have three seats booked on the plane that's to carry the diamonds. There will be about fifteen other passengers so your two men and myself won’t attract attention until it is too late. We take off after dark. The flight takes two hours. As soon as we have cleared the airfield, I'll go on to the flight deck, get the radio operator away from the radio, get the rest of the crew into the cabin for your two guys to look after. I'll handle the plane and land it in the desert. I want a fast car to be waiting to pick us up. I'll deliver the diamonds to wherever you want them to be delivered, and that will be that.”

  Ben sat back, his shrewd, cunning mind busy. As a plan, this was bold and ingenious. It could succeed, but everything depended on Green. If he lost his nerve, if he made one mistake, it would flop.

  “Can you handle the plane?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Harry said impatiently. “I flew every kind of kite during the war.”

  “You'll have to bring it down in the dark. Thought of that?”

  “Look, you don't have to worry about my end. I know my job. I'll get the kite down all right. With any luck there'll be a moon, but if there isn't, I'll still bring her down. Do you want to handle the stuff or don't you?”

  Ben found he had let his cigar go out: something he rarely did.

  He threw the cigar out of the window.

  “What do you want out of this again?”

  “You take the diamonds, pay your men and give me fifty thousand for the job.”

  “It's too much. I may have to keep the diamonds a couple of years before I get rid of them. I'll give you ten.”

  “It's fifty thousand or nothing. I'm taking the risk: you aren't. The police will have a description of me. I'll be on the run: you won’t. Your cut from this should be around two million with no risk. If you don't think fifty grand is a fair figure, then tell your driver to stop the car and I'll get the hell out of here.”

  “Thirty?” Ben suggested, bargaining for the sake of bargaining. “I'll give you thirty, but not a nickel more.”

  Harry felt a surge of triumph run through him. He knew he had Ben on the hook now.

  “Do I tell your driver to stop or do you?”

  Ben allowed himself a thin smile in the darkness.

  “Okay — fifty then: in cash when you deliver the diamonds.”

  “No. I want two certified cheques for twenty-five grand given to me on the afternoon before the take-off. I've got to be convinced the money is safe before I get into the plane or I don't do the job.”

  Taggart could contain himself no longer.

  “Do you want me to tap this punk, boss?” he growled, half turning round.

  “Shut up!” Ben snarled. “Keep out of this!” He looked towards Harry. “You'll get the cash when the diamonds are delivered and not before!”

  “No! Why should I trust you?” Harry's big hands turned into fists. “What's there to stop one of your thugs shooting me in the back when you've got the diamonds? The money's got to be in my bank before I do the job or I don't do it!”

  “I could persuade you to do it,” Ben said, his voice suddenly vicious. “I don't take orders from punks like you.”

  “Go ahead and persuade me.” Harry felt sweat on his face, but he was determined to have his way. “Persuade me to bring the kite down in the dark and see how you get on. I don't threaten easily, Delaney, and I'm hard to persuade.”

  The driver slammed on his brakes, pulling to the kerb, while Taggart swung around, a gun in his hand. He was about to reach over and take a swipe at Harry when Ben said violently, “Hold it! Who told you to stop? Drive on! And keep out of it, Taggart!”

  The driver lifted his shoulders and sent the car moving forward again. Taggart turned away with a grunt of disgust. Neither of the men had ever heard anyone talk to the boss like this and get away with it.

  But Ben realized that Harry held the cards. The more he thought about this job the more he liked it. Two million profit! It was cheap at fifty grand.

  “What's to stop you double crossing me if I give you the money?” he demanded.

  “You'll stop me, won’t you?” Harry said. “What are you worrying about? Your man will give me the two cheques. He'll come to the bank with me. He'll stay with me until the job's done. If you can't trust your man to see I don't double cross you, you'd better take care of me yourself.”

  Ben had already arranged in his mind to let Borg take care of Harry. There wouldn't be one man, but three, as well as Borg. He had no misgivings that Harry would have a chance to double cross him. But he didn't want Harry to think he was gaining an easy victory.

  “Well, okay. When's the plane due to leave?”

  “On the twentieth.”

  “What time?”

  “I'll tell you that when I have the money and not before.”

  “You don't trust easy, do you?” Ben said and grinned. He was beginning to gain a little respect for this odd fat man who talked as if he had no roof to his mouth. “Okay, Green, it's a deal. At noon on the twentieth my man will give you two certified cheques for twenty-five grand each. He'll stick with you until you're on the plane. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'll get you two good men to go with you on the plane, and a third to handle the car.” Ben went on. “You can work out the details with my man Borg. I'll send him along to you tomorrow night. Where are you staying?”

  “Lamson's.”

  “Okay.” Ben leaned forward and tapped the driver on his shoulder. “Stop here.”

  The driver pulled to the kerb and stopped.

  “This is where you get out,” Ben said to Harry. “If the job fails, you'll return the money: understand? Plenty of guys have tried to double cross me in the past. They're all dead. Some of them took a long time to die. I have means of finding a guy no matter where he hides and I'll find you if you run off with the dough without delivering. No diamonds: no dough. Understand?”

  Harry got out of the car.

  “Yes.” He hunched his shoulders against the rain. “You'll get them all right. You don't have to worry about that.”

  “I'm not worrying,” Ben said, a snarl in his voice. “You're the one who's going to do the worrying.”

  Leaving Harry standing in the rain, the car drove rapidly down the street and disappeared into the darkness.

  IV

  On the afternoon of the nineteenth, Ben sent for Borg.

  For the past two years Borg had been in charge of all Ben's illegal activities. Ben completely depended on him to carry out his instructions, handle the gang, take care of the rough stuff, organize a killing if a killing was necessary, and see there was no drop in the vast income that came to Ben from his vice and extortion rackets. ,

  During those two years, Borg had never made a mistake and had never failed to carry out an order: no matter how difficult the order had been. Looking at him as he sat like a big fat toad in the chair opposite Ben's desk, Ben marvelled at the deceptiveness of Borg's appearance. He knew him to be a cold-blooded and utterly ruthless killer who thought no more of taking a life than he thought of killing a fly. He knew him to be as swift as a striking snake, incredibly fast with a gun and an expert shot. There was no other member of his organization who could handle a car as Borg could. He not only drove at fantastic speeds, but his sense of anticipation and judgment of distances were incredible. Ben had been with him when he had been ambushed by the Levinski mob. Two cars, spraying gunfire, had converged on them, and Borg had got away only by brilliant and unbelievable driving.

  Unable to beat the other two cars for speed, he had swung off the side streets into the thick traffic of Figueroa Street and Ben had never forgotten that drive, and never would as long as he lived. Moving at sixty miles an hour, Borg cut through the traffic as if it didn't exist, leaving Levinski's cars standing. He had darted all over the road wherever there was an opening and shooting up on to the sidewalk when there wasn't. The ride had lasted three minutes. It had be
en the most shattering experience of Ben's life, but he knew Borg was saving him from certain death. No one got hurt, no car got smashed, and when Borg whipped the car again into the side streets, having shaken off Levinski's cars, he had been as placid and as unmoved as he always was.

  It was difficult to guess Berg's age: he might have been thirty or even forty-five. He was a mountain of soft, white fat. His complexion was greenish-white like the belly of a toad. His eyes were hooded and black, as expressionless and as hard as knobs of ebony, His black hair looked like a piece of astrakhan draped over his skull. He had a black moustache that drooped like a rat's tail either side of his mouth.

  Although Ben paid him a thousand dollars a month, plus a percentage on his vice and extortion rackets, giving Borg a considerable income, he never looked as if he owned a nickel. His clothes were stained and shabby and invariably too tight for him.

  His shirt was always grubby. His hands and nails were so dirty that Ben, who was fastidious, often complained.

  Looking at him now as he sat slumped in the chair, his dirty hands folded across his gross belly, a cigarette drooping from his thick, almost negroid lips, ash on his vest, the buttons of which threatened to fly off under the strain of keeping the gross body controlled, Ben thought he had never seen a more unpleasant and disgusting object.

  “Well?” he said. “Let's have it.”

  His ebony eyes staring up at the ceiling, Borg began to talk.

  His voice was hoarse and breathless. All the time he talked he seemed to be struggling to breathe. From where he sat, Ben could smell his stale sweat and his dirty clothes. He fancied he could smell the threat of death in him.

  “This guy's a phoney,” Borg said, speaking hoarsely and softly. “He has no background. He doesn't exist as you and I exist. Suddenly, out of the blue, is Harry Green. There are no records of him. The Army Air Force don't know him. The cops don't know him. No one knows him. I haven't dug into any guy's background as I've dug into his and found so little. I've traced him from New York, though he says he comes from Pittsburgh. No one knows him in New York. As soon as he hits Los Angeles, he starts making an impression. He tips a taxi driver five bucks. He has his photograph taken and starts a fight with the photographer. He gets tough with Lamson. He goes to the same bar every night and talks big and tough. He brags about what a hot pilot he was and how he wants to get into the air again. He acts like a man who wants to be remembered. That stinks to me. A guy who is planning a three-million-buck steal doesn't act that way unless he's crazy or has a damn good reason for doing it.”