Not My Thing Page 8

  Still feeling his heart fluttering, Jamison said, ‘I told Lucan I did not want to deal directly with you, Kling.’

  ‘Yeah, he told me, but I don’t work that way. If I do a perfect job, I deal with the top shot, not a creep like Lucan. Look, Mr Jamison, if that’s not the way you want it, I’ll take off. I’ll leave regretfully because I have a perfect plan. You want to get rid of your wife. I want your money. This is business, Mr Jamison.’

  Jamison thought of being free of Shannon. This man had said: I have a perfect plan. He stared thoughtfully at Kling. He had an instinctive feeling this man could deliver the goods.

  He said, ‘Very well, Kling, tell me your perfect plan.’

  Kling smiled.

  ‘Not that easy, Mr Jamison. I don’t give away secrets of my trade for nothing. It is understood you and I are now in business? I get rid of your wife without any blow-back, and you pay me three hundred thousand dollars. Right?’

  Jamison hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s agreed.’

  ‘Fine. Now how will I be paid?’

  ‘As you like,’ Jamison said. ‘Cash, gold, you name it, you can have it.’

  ‘I have a Swiss numbered account,’ Kling said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. ‘How about transferring the money to Switzerland?’

  Jamison shrugged.

  ‘That presents no problem.’

  Kling nodded. He realized he was dealing with Mr Big who would certainly have banking accounts all over the world.

  ‘Fine. I will want a hundred thousand dollars in my Swiss account before I begin the operation.’

  Jamison moved restlessly.

  ‘That’s no problem if you can satisfy me you have a perfect plan.’

  Kling relaxed back in the car seat and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Okay. I got information about your wife from Lucan. There are several possibilities, but none of them are a hundred per cent safe. For instance, I could fix it she drowned on her morning swim. I could fix it she fell off her horse on her afternoon ride, but these thoughts didn’t jell with me. There could be witnesses. You want a perfect lethal death with no blow-back, no cops, so I’ve dug up another solution.’

  Jamison listened to this quiet, hard voice. It came into his mind that he and this professional killer were actually planning to murder Shannon! For a very brief moment, he felt a qualm, then his mind shifted to Tarnia. With Shannon out of the way forever, he would be able to marry Tarnia and have a son.

  ‘What solution?’ he asked, aware his voice was unsteady.

  ‘People who have regular routines, Mr Jamison, are easy targets. Probably you don’t know that Mr O’Neil, the Irish rep at the United Nations, attends Mass every morning and Mrs Jamison also attends. It seems a regular thing.’

  Jamison’s fingers began to drum on the car’s steering-wheel.

  ‘What has this man to do with your thinking?’ he demanded, impatiently.

  ‘Well, Mr Jamison, here is the perfect solution you want,’ Kling said. ‘At the end of the service, the priest goes to the church’s entrance to shake hands. Mr O’Neil, being the snob he is, goes with your wife. They pause to shake hands with this fat, old priest. At this moment a member of the Irish Republican Army will throw a bomb. Goodbye Mr O’Neil and, more important, goodbye Mrs Jamison. She appears to be an innocent bystander to a political killing. The cops will hunt the bomb-thrower, but won’t find him. A nice, clean job, Mr Jamison, with no blow-back. Like the idea?’

  ‘A bomb?’ Jamison said, feeling his heart give a lurch.

  ‘Let me explain that, Mr Jamison,’ Kling said, lighting another cigarette. ‘I am a professional. I’ve done bomb jobs before. I have access to the new US army’s hand-grenade which is completely lethal. All I have to do is to stand across the street, and when I see your wife and O’Neil come out of church I lob the grenade, and that’s it.’

  Jamison sat back in the car seat as he considered this shocking suggestion.

  ‘But this will be mass murder,’ he said, not caring, but for face-saving, making a minor protest. ‘A bomb! Some of the congregation and certainly the priest will be killed.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Kling said, tossing his cigarette butt out of the open car window. ‘You want a perfect job, Mr Jamison, so why worry about a fat priest and a few old has-beens who should be dead anyway?’

  Jamison thought about the priest, and his fingers tightened on the steering-wheel. This priest was the man who had persuaded Shannon that divorce was against her religion. This priest had poured his slimy, sanctimonious poison into Shannon’s ears. Who cared if he died?

  He sat still, thinking, while Kling, relaxed and in no hurry, smoked another cigarette.

  A political murder! Shannon unlucky to have been among the dead. What an idea! What a perfect plan! Jamison thought of the consternation this bomb outrage would cause among his many friends. How they would rush to send their condolences. He thought of Tarnia, safely in Rome. She would never suspect that he could possibly have had anything to do with this mass murder in which Shannon had died. He would at last be free!

  He hesitated no further.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I agree to your plan. When?’

  Kling regarded him. In his evil eyes there was a slight light of admiration. This was a man after his own heart, he was thinking. Some man! Tough, utterly ruthless, not caring a goddamn about how many people died so long as he got his own way.

  ‘As soon as I get a hundred thousand dollars in my Swiss account, Mr Jamison. I’ve already got the grenade. I just want to hear from my bank that the money has arrived, and on the following morning the job will be done.’ He took from his wallet a card. ‘That’s my account number and the address of my Swiss bank.’

  Jamison took the card, glanced at it, then said, ‘The money will be in your account the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s nice news. Okay, Mr Jamison, you can now leave it to me. On Friday morning, at eight thirty in the morning, you will be a widower.’ Kling smiled, opened the car door and got out. Leaning forward, and staring hard at Jamison, he went on, ‘You will send the other two hundred thousand dollars to my Swiss bank when you’ve read the newspapers…’

  ‘Agreed,’ Jamison said, and started the car engine.

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then Jamison engaged gear and drove up the sandy lane to the highway.

  * * *

  At midday, Lepski stormed into the Detectives’ room and flung himself down at his desk. He tore off his hat and rumpled his hair, then glared at Beigler who had just come on duty and was about to read the night’s crime sheet.

  Beigler, sensing trouble, regarded Lepski uneasily.

  ‘Hi, Tom,’ he said. ‘You’re early. How did it go?’

  ‘Listen, Joe,’ Lepski snarled, ‘when next you offer advice, I’ll spit in your right eye! Flowers! Perfume! Candy! When I got home, Carroll actually apologized to me! She said she had told her girl friends and they had split their sides, and she was all over me in the sack! Then when we went down to get lunch, she saw the flowers, the perfume and the candy. Okay, I forgot to put water in the vase and the roses looked terrible. She said the perfume was fit only for a hustler and she didn’t eat candy as she was weight-watching. Then she flew in a rage and accused me of being drunk last night and squandering money! So, okay, I blew my stack, and we had a row that brought the goddamn neighbours into their gardens to listen. So, from now on, keep your big mouth shut!’

  Beigler heaved a sigh, drank some steaming coffee by his side and shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. These things happen.’

  Lepski snorted.

  ‘And how come you are always drinking hot coffee? Charlie never bothers to give me any.’

  ‘Well, Tom, it’s a quid pro quo.’

  Lepski gaped at him. ‘

  Quid pro… what?’

  Beigler looked smug. In his spare time, he studied a book of quotations and, when the opportunity ar
ose, he trotted out a cliché.

  ‘That’s Latin, Tom.’

  ‘Latin, huh?’

  ‘That’s right. Translated it means ‘You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours’.’

  Lepski made a noise like a train approaching a dark tunnel.

  ‘Who the hell wants to scratch Charlie’s hairy back?’

  ‘Never mind, Tom. I’ve got a little job for you,’ Beigler said. ‘Right up your alley. I could have given it to Max or one of the other boys, but I kept it especially for you.’

  Lepski regarded him suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, yeah? What job?’

  ‘I have a complaint from the Mayor’s office about Lucy Loveheart. According to the complaint she is getting a shade too blatant.’

  Lepski’s face showed interest.

  Every cop, every wealthy resident, every rich visitor, knew Lucy Loveheart. She ran an expensive, de luxe brothel on a side street off Ocean Boulevard. She owned a five-storey house with twelve lush-plush apartments, a vast lounge, a bar, and a black band that provided soft, good swing.

  Lucy Loveheart had become a tradition in Paradise City. Born of Russian parents with an unpronounceable name, she had come to the city in her early teens. Her beauty and sexual technique quickly found her rich clients. She saved her money, bought this house and set up a de luxe call-girl service. None of the girls lived on the premises. They came to work when Lucy called them, did what was required of them, received a handsome fee and returned to their own apartments. Lucy’s establishment was the acme of discretion.

  ‘What’s she been up to?’ Lepski inquired.

  ‘The complaint comes from the Mayor’s secretary: that prissy old fink who would complain if she saw a dog water a tree,’ Beigler said. ‘She writes that when passing Lucy’s house, she observed an intimate woman’s garment out on one of the balconies.’

  Lepski pointed like a gun-dog.

  ‘What garment?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The old fink didn’t say. You’d better go talk to Lucy. The old fink could cause trouble. Just nice, gentle stuff, Tom. Don’t forget Lucy sends us all a turkey and a bottle of Scotch on Thanksgiving Day.’

  Lepski put on his hat and got to his feet.

  ‘Right up my alley, Joe,’ he said, his good temper restored. ‘I haven’t chatted to Lucy in months.’

  ‘Don’t forget you are a married man, Tom,’ Beigler said gravely, concealing a grin.

  ‘Just pipe down, Joe! You talk too much!’ and Lepski hurried out of the Station house. He paused long enough to eat a hamburger at Joe’s bar, wondering what Carroll was giving herself for lunch, and now wishing he had kept his cool when she started to bawl him out. He hoped, by the time he got home, all would be forgiven, and she would have cooked him an edible dinner.

  Leaving his car on Ocean Boulevard, he walked the short distance to Lucy’s residence, mounted the marble steps and rang the bell.

  The door immediately opened, and Lepski was confronted by a gigantic black, dressed in a purple shirt, black silk trousers, his black shaved head glistening. Lepski knew of him. This was Sam, who took care of the trouble-makers, who vetted all visitors, who was Lucy’s right hand.

  The black regarded Lepski, then his thick lips peeled into a water-melon grin, showing big white teeth.

  ‘Mr Lepski,’ he said and bowed. ‘A pleasure, sir.’

  Is Mrs Lucy available, Sam?’

  ‘For you, Mr Lepski, sir,’ Sam said, stepping aside. ‘It is a mite early, but if you wait a few minutes.’

  He conducted Lepski to a luxuriously furnished ante-room.

  ‘Perhaps a drink, Mr Lepski?’

  ‘No, thanks. Tell Mrs Lucy I’m in a hurry,’ Lepski said, staring around the room, thinking it must have cost a small fortune to furnish with its antique furniture, the good modern paintings on the walls, the thick Turkish carpet.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sam said, bowed and withdrew, shutting the door after him.

  Lepski pushed his hat to the back of his head and wandered around the room. He didn’t like to sit down in one of the antique chairs. They looked as if they could break under his weight.

  A few minutes later, Sam appeared.

  ‘If you will follow me, sir,’ he said. ‘Mrs Lucy will receive you.’

  He conducted Lepski to an elevator that silently whisked them to the first floor.

  Lucy Loveheart was standing in the doorway of her office, smiling a greeting.

  Lucy Loveheart was short and plump with a mass of curly hair, the colour of mashed carrots. She had large violet-coloured eyes, a cupid-bow mouth and an aggressive jaw-line.

  She owned to forty-four years of age, although she was actually well into her late fifties.

  She was wearing a severely cut coat and skirt and a frilly white blouse and, when she extended her hand, diamond rings flashed on her plump fingers.

  ‘Why, Mr Lepski, how nice to see you. You’re looking as handsome as ever, and how is your beautiful wife?’

  ‘She’s fine, thank you,’ Lepski said and followed her into the big office, furnished with antiques and a big Dali painting dominating the wall behind the desk.

  ‘Have a drink, Mr Lepski,’ Lucy said, waving to a chair padded with red leather.

  ‘No thanks, Lucy. This is business,’ Lepski said, twiddling his hat and sitting down.

  She moved behind the desk and settled herself.

  ‘Business? Well, Mr Lepski, we are both busy.’ She smiled. ‘What’s the business?’

  ‘We’ve had a complaint from Mrs Hackensmidt, the Mayor’s secretary,’ Lepski said and grinned.

  ‘That old prune… what’s her moan?’

  ‘She says when passing your house, she observed an intimate woman’s garment hanging from a balcony.’

  Lucy raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Extraordinary. What intimate garment?’

  ‘She doesn’t say.’

  ‘There are five balconies to my house, Mr Lepski. Which balcony?’

  ‘She doesn’t say.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘She doesn’t say.’

  ‘And the police have to waste their time and mine on a stupid complaint like this?’

  ‘Well, she’s the Mayor’s secretary,’ Lepski said with another grin. ‘She draws a lot of water.’

  ‘So do I!’ The violet-coloured eyes were suddenly hard. ‘Forget it, Mr Lepski. I will talk to the Mayor. It’s time that old battleaxe was put out to grass.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Lepski said. ‘Just for the record, was there some garment on one of your balconies?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Lucy snapped. ‘This is a respectable house, Mr Lepski.’

  ‘Maybe the Mayor won’t go along with that,’ Lepski said cautiously. ‘When we get a complaint, he’ll want to know what we’ve done about it.’

  ‘There’ll be no trouble with the Mayor. He’ll fix her. Just forget this, will you?’

  Lepski nodded.

  ‘I guess you’ll be able to handle it. Okay, Lucy. Her letter will get lost.’

  For a brief moment, her face hardened as she said, ‘And so will she!’ Then, getting to her feet, she smiled.

  ‘If you have half an hour to spare,’ she said, ‘Lulu is upstairs with nothing to do. Would you care for a little fun with her entirely on the house?’

  Lepski got hurriedly to his feet.

  ‘Thanks, Lucy, but I’ve things to do.’

  ‘You poor police officers, how you work!’ Lucy patted his hand. ‘Anytime when you feel in the mood, it’ll be on the house. Sam will fix you up with one of my best girls.’

  Lepski, embarrassed, blew out his cheeks.

  ‘Thanks a lot. Well, be seeing you sometime, Lucy.’

  The door opened and Sam entered to conduct Lepski to the front door. In a slight daze, Lepski walked back to his car.

  As soon as Sam had closed the front door, he took the elevator to the first floor.

  Lucy was sitting at her desk, her fac
e like stone.

  ‘Get me the Mayor,’ she snarled, her expression vicious.

  Recognizing the danger signals, Sam hurried from the room to the small switchboard and dialled the Mayor’s unlisted telephone number.

  * * *

  Completely relaxed, Ernie Kling sat beside Ng Vee who drove up the sandy lane and headed for the Star Motel.

  At the back, Lucan, sweating, his heart thumping with fear, blurted out, ‘For God’s sake, Ernie! What happened? What did he say?’

  ‘Stop flapping with the mouth,’ Kling snapped. ‘I’m thinking.’

  It wasn’t until he and Lucan were in Kling’s cabin, and Ng had given them both drinks, that Kling was prepared to talk.

  ‘Well, Lucky, you’ve made yourself ten thousand bucks,’ he said.

  Lucan stiffened.

  ‘You sold him your idea?’

  ‘Of course. I said I would handle it, and I’ve handled it.’

  ‘What about me? I’m scared of that sonofabitch. Did he say anything about me?’ Lucan demanded.

  ‘Don’t worry about him. The trouble with you, Lucky, is you’ve a yellow streak.’

  ‘He’s dangerous. So, okay, I’m nervous. I admit it. What’s been arranged?’

  ‘Yeah… a good question.’ Kling stretched out his long legs, enjoying Lucan’s fear. ‘Now, Jamison is a real hellion. I’ve worked for lots of mean bastards, but he takes the Oscar.’

  Lucan was leaning forward, his eyes wide with apprehension.

  ‘What’s the plan, Ernie?’ he asked, his voice a little shrill.

  ‘It has to be perfect,’ Kling said, paused to sip his drink, enjoying keeping Lucan tense. ‘No blow-back. No cops. Not easy. This morning, Lucky, I went to Mrs Jamison’s church to case the joint. The whole setup fell into place. Now, relax and listen carefully.’ In a soft, hard clipped voice, Kling told Lucan of the plan: the assassination of O’Neil in which Jamison’s wife would be involved. The IRA claiming responsibility. Too bad Mrs Jamison was also wiped out.

  Lucan listened with growing horror.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ he gasped, scarcely able to speak. ‘A bomb! How about the rest of the congregation? The priest?’

  ‘Oh, sure. I pointed that out to Jamison. A shrapnel bomb would certainly knock off the priest as well as O’Neil and Mrs Jamison. The old fuddy duddies waiting to shake hands would be knocked off too. He thought about this, then shrugged. He could see it was the perfect plan to get rid of his wife. Who cares about O’Neil? The priest? The oldies? He gave me the green light to go ahead, and is paying a hundred thousand dollars into my Swiss bank as an advance. You’ll get ten thousand of it.’