Killer Take All Page 3

  It was a hairpin, turning in, the outer lip dropping away to black and menacing emptiness. My tires scrambled for traction and I almost made it. Way out on the rim of the gully the fierce momentum took the little Ford. While I hung there fighting for control, the black car rammed through on the inside and crunched against my right front fender.

  For a split second everything in the world was suspended in time, even the yell of protest in my throat. I heard the guard rail pop very distinctly. And then I knew I was going over; there was nothing under the Ford and I tensed with the half-helpless feeling you get when you begin a half-gainer off a high board.

  Some forgotten instinct shoved my foot under the brake pedal; my hands gripped the wheel, stiff-armed my body back against the seat. The car rolled and rolled in the air. I felt the first bounce. And the second. Then something slapped the side of my head and I went out.

  I opened my eyes. I was twisted in the front part of my Ford. It was upside down. The roof met the tops of the doors; there was no window space left. The mass of metal was still settling. I hadn't been out long. I kicked a hole through the floorboards, climbed out and dropped to the rocky floor of the canyon. The gully was shallow at this point. My roll had ended thirty or forty feet from the road. The Ford smoked; one headlight still burned. Wisps of fog reached downward from the roadside and the light brushed them aside. I felt myself for broken bones, could find none. Just my nose. It was a mess. There was blood all over my suit.

  Twin streaks of light shot out over the gully from the lip of the canyon above. I moved around the wreck, got out of the light. I didn't know who that was up there.

  "Anybody hurt down there?" It was a woman's voice.

  "No," I said. It was pretty squeaky, but the woman heard me.

  "Shall I call an ambulance?" the voice inquired.

  "Don't call anybody," I said. "I'll be right up. You can take me to town."

  I walked to the front of the Ford, put the headlight out with a rock. Then I started up the steep side of the gully. It took everything I had to make it. I hauled myself the last few feet, crawled through the broken opening in the guard rail, and fell forward on the wet asphalt.

  Someone was talking. I opened my eyes and there in front of me appeared the most wonderful pair of female legs I have ever seen. Or ever hope to see, for that matter. A very beautiful, dark woman with a belted trenchcoat and no hat stood above me. Her mouth was full and a little petulant. Her hair, whipped by the rising wind, was darker than shoe polish.

  "Are you hurt? Do you feel any pain?"

  I grunted, sat up. "I heard a joke like that once. It went—"

  "Please," the woman said. "Get up and I'll take you to the hospital."

  Her hands wormed under my arms, lifted. I stood, looked down at her. She had a rounded face, pale and evenly featured. Her eyes were light-colored.

  "No hospital," I said. "But I'll take the ride."

  "What happened?"

  We started for the car, her arm around me. Her body was soft where it touched me. She reminded me of Bev, firm yet yielding, curved where it counted.

  I said, "I don't know. Lost control, I guess."

  I saw that she was headed in the same direction I'd been going; she wouldn't have seen the dark car. We climbed into her car, a green Cadillac, and started for town.

  Neither of us said anything. She drove and I rested. I told her the Kenyon Hotel and she took me there. The last couple of blocks I rolled my head on the seat back, watched the play of light on the woman's firmly molded breasts pushing aside the opened trenchcoat as she spun the wheel. The dark dress strained upward with each breath and her rounded arms flashed olive-dark in the light from the car's dash. An unreasoning thickness grabbed my throat.

  That's me. Aching from a car wreck, mind whirling with speculation, in a car with a complete stranger. And still I couldn't keep my eyes off her after the first look. I didn't know then that a gift to incite an unexplainable physical excitement in every man was this woman's peculiar possession. One look and you thought of going to bed with her. Just like that.

  We stopped in front of the Kenyon Hotel. The woman twisted around in the seat to face me and the weak light from the lobby streamed through her hair.

  "You sure you're all right?" she asked. "Mister..."

  "Berlin," I said quickly. "Johnny Berlin."

  "Johnny Berlin." Her voice was perfectly controlled, a light contralto. "Are you going to be around, Johnny? I'd like to see you without lumps."

  "I'll be around," I said. It sounded grim. "What's your name? I'd like to know who to thank."

  "Gina," she said. "Gina Donetti. Good night, Mr. Berlin."

  It was ten minutes after four. I got a room, told the clerk to call a garage about my car and went to the phone booth. The operator got Dan Gurion's home for me. The phone rang for a while, then Dan's deep voice came over the wire.

  "Gurion..."

  "Dan? Johnny .Berlin. Listen—that deal you mentioned. Is it still open?"

  "Open? Why sure, Johnny," the nightclub owner said. "I'll be very happy to make a deal with you. What changed your mind?"

  "You don't know, huh?"

  "I haven't any idea. But I'm glad." He chuckled. "Probably Fran Cole. She is a doll."

  "Yeah. Well, that isn't it. Someone tried to kill me after I left your place. I figure I'll stay around in case he wants to try again."

  I hung up on his shocked silence.

  Chapter 4

  The next day I went to Portland. But it was just a quick trip and Dan Gurion came along. I'd given him one reason for going; we needed dice and cards and some decent entertainment to build up the club. We'd had a big hassle over that. What I really went for was a gun. I bought one first thing.

  Portland was wet and seemed very dull to me. They had just had a clean-up, one of the periodic drives at the gambling and vice. Made me glad I'd stayed in McKaneville. Or at least dulled my frustration. We stayed overnight, did business by phone and by noon Monday we were burrowing through the moisture-laden air on our way back toward McKaneville.

  We had hired an instrumental trio fresh from an engagement at a top San Francisco supper club. For a feature we had really gone overboard. Laddy Layton, latest of the scintillating emotion purveyors, had played his latest date at a local theater and was free for three weeks. Actually it was a terrific break getting him. A freak in his schedule. The price was too much for a place like the Cherbourg but I twisted Dan's arm and we signed him. I knew damned well he'd pack the club. I didn't like him myself. But he killed the people.

  When we got back to my hotel Dan suggested slyly that I have a look around at some of the other clubs in the neighborhood.

  I got the point immediately.

  "Dan, I told you. I'm not messing in your hassle with Donetti and the Gambler's Protective Association. That's your worry. I'll run your game and make you money. That's it. I'm not a cop and I'm no Sir Galahad. I'll say this, though. If this thing touches the reason someone wrecked my car, tried to kill me, then maybe you'll find out something. But I'm not snooping on purpose. I'm looking for no holes in my pretty head."

  "You see my point," he said. "I can't stand for being victimized into joining something that will dictate my future business policy. And that's what Donetti wants. What he's wanted from the first. We've never needed to organize before. Then he moves in with that big operation at the lake and suddenly we need to protect ourselves against outside interests. They'll have to fight me."

  "What I'd like," I said, "is to find out why in the hell someone wanted to push me. And I will."

  Gurion's brow furrowed. His hands tightened on the wheel. "I wish you'd look around, Johnny. I'm over my head and I know it."

  I grunted. "If Donetti's syndicate-backed, you are. And so am I. If that's the case, I'll run like a dog. And you'll join whatever they tell you to join."

  I pushed the cylinder of the gun I'd bought, spun it on my palm.

  "I need this year bad, Johnny. I've
worked all my life. Cutting trees, setting chokers. I worked up to sawyer and that's what I'd still be if it hadn't been for Lucy. She had a little money, a little tavern. We got married. I never did love her. Not the way I love Bev. All we've had was the business. And the kids. I can't break away and leave her nothing. I owe her too much. And now there's Bev..."

  "She's a good one," I said softly.

  He nodded, said nothing.

  "Okay, Dan. I'll look around tonight—after I have a talk with young Sitting Bull. You set everything up like we planned. And don't worry. Tomorrow night we hang 'em from the rafters."

  He smiled, all the teeth jumping out white and square and strong. The glasses made him look owlish. Then he sobered.

  "You figure out a way, Johnny," he said. "I'm with you till my breath runs out."

  My room had been tidied somewhat. My bags were unpacked. Suits hung in the closet in orderly ranks and my shoes gleamed at me from the rug. I signed a chit to valet service for ten dollars and fell into a hot tub. And forgot about the whole mess in the fragrant heat and soothing steam.

  Except Gina Donetti. I didn't forget about her. Only one thing would fix that.

  Out of the tub, I called the desk and left instructions for a car to be hired for me. Then I dressed. Carefully, utilizing the best of my wardrobe. The suit was one I'd had made in Hollywood. A flannel, dark gray. White shirt, narrow tie, black shoes. I thought about the girl in the green Cadillac and marveled at the completely silly flash of jealousy I felt in thinking of her and the little man with the gun.

  I picked up my keys, comb and wallet from the bureau. The .38 winked at me from the handkerchief drawer. My hand reached for it. I thought about what a bulge it would make in my manly beauty. Gina wouldn't want a bulgy guy, now would she? A small penknife with a tiny sharp blade that I used to trim my nails lay among the clutter. I slipped it in my pocket.

  For protection. Joke. I laughed all the way down in the creaky elevator. Oh, you're a funny fellow, Berlin. You kill me.

  Damn near did.

  I drove around in the rented heap getting acquainted. A mile or so south of town I found a tiny roadside lunchroom, stopped. A dumpy waitress rustled my order while I got change, dropped a dime in the phone on the wall, dialed Fran's number.

  When the connection was made, I said, "Fran? This is Johnny Berlin."

  Her voice was just as I'd remembered it, clear and unaffected. And sort of deep for a woman.

  She said, "Oh, yes. The funny fellow. You're still around, I see."

  "Easy with the sarcasm, honey. I'm your boss as of now."

  "Yes, I heard." She stopped, the line carrying only the soft sound of her breathing. Then, "I'm trying to figure if I like that or not."

  "Look," I said finally. "What I wanted to tell you was that Dan and I went to Portland.'*

  "I know that too. And that you've made a deal to run his games. And that you had an accident last night. And that you and Bev King used to be an item in what is referred to as the good old days."

  I took a breath. Small towns. Everybody knows everything about everyone else.

  "If you know so much, maybe you know who tried to kill me? Who ran me off the highway?"

  "Tried to—" Her breath whooshed out and suddenly the strain was gone. Her voice became anxious. "Are you joking, Johnny?"

  "It was for real, but nobody knows it wasn't just an accident. Except Dan and me. And the guy who drove the car that nudged me."

  "But what for, Johnny? Did you know anyone in town? Are you in trouble?"

  "Not that I know of. Look, forget it. I'll take care of it. We got some talent in Portland. Tomorrow we open with a bang. The Cherbourg's new policy goes into effect."

  "I'm glad," she said. But there was no interest. "Johnny, where are you? What are you doing tonight?"

  "Is that a proposition?"

  "Johnny, listen. Some very funny things have been happening in this town lately. I've lived here all my life and never have I felt such an undercurrent of violence. Maybe you better not stay around here. Maybe you—"

  "Maybe you're grinding someone else's ax, beautiful."

  She said nothing. And I had nothing to say. I didn't even have a good reason for calling her in the first place.

  "Johnny?"

  "Yes?"

  "This Association thing. Do you know anything about it? It's all over town," she said. "You and Donetti. The story says you're his strongarm man."

  This was a switch. A story like that would make a fine cover for someone who was out to get me. But why me?

  Into the phone I said, "Do you believe that?"

  "I don't know what to believe." She drew a deep breath, magnified by the phone connection. "I usually just mind my own business. This time..."

  "This time?"

  "Nothing. I'll see you. Johnny—" I felt the hesitation. "Be careful," she said.

  "I'll be careful. And the way I feel right now, somebody better watch me."

  I hung up, threw the pudgy waitress a dollar and got out of there. Food no longer appealed to me.

  It was just growing dark. A faint haze came over the coast hills from the direction of the ocean. I stood in the cindered parking area and got a cigarette lit. A neon sign popped, buzzed into life over my head. I walked to the car.

  It was a plain, black Ford two-door sedan. I had the door open before I noticed anything wrong. And then it was too late.

  "Get in. And be careful. This thing's loaded."

  He was big, even sitting the way he was, slumped in the back seat. And ugly. His voice was like metal on concrete. A flat, oily shine came from the forty-five in his hand.

  "What is this?"

  "You don't care what it is. You don't care anything except you don't make me shoot you." He leaned forward into the light and I saw a scarred, lumpy-nosed face and shoulders like a young horse. "Now get in, fella, and drive like I tell you. We're going to see a man."

  Chapter 5

  Coley's Club was on the beach road about a mile beyond the Cherbourg. It sat alone on the gray asphalt, a rustic porch and a dark-blue neon. Beer signs were tacked on the weathered front. Across the road the bay lapped a rocky shore. There were no other buildings close enough to see-. It was dark now and the fog had begun to drift. Coley's Club. Not exactly the Stork.

  The goon walked me right in the front door. I saw a leather-and chrome-stripped bar, a huge fireplace with a log fire burning in it. Several couples filled the overstuffed pieces strewn round the fire. A barmaid worked the stick for a handful of early customers. My guide pushed me down a hallway to the left of the bar. There was a blue bulb burning over a door. The hallway was dark except for the single light. I slid my hand into my pocket, gripped the little knife. I don't know what I thought I could do with it, but I felt less naked with the two-inch blade opened, the whole thing palmed half up my sleeve. .

  The room under the blue light was an office. It was furnished with a worn rug and an old-fashioned, leather chaise longue, a beat-up oak desk and a wooden file cabinet. To the right, a door led out to the parking area in the rear. I could see light glinting off the cars through the slits of the blind.

  A skinny guy in a black suit that looked like it had been cut for somebody else sat behind the desk. Coley O'Rourke. The goon grabbed my arm, muscled me up to the desk. I wrenched away.

  "Keep your hands off or I'll make you use that gun."

  I saw the quick shine leap into the ape's dull eyes. I wished I had a gun. A pretty, new one, for instance, like the one keeping my handkerchiefs company in a bureau drawer.

  O'Rourke said, "Mops!" and the goon stopped. "Pat him. But do it easy."

  He settled back with a frosty smile as the ape ran his big hands over me. He touched everywhere.

  "He's clean."

  "Fine. Bring me the gun."

  Mops moved warily around me, walked to the chair and handed the forty-five to his boss. Maybe it was the only one they had.

  "Things are tough all over," I said.r />
  O'Rourke slammed the gun into a drawer, making a show of it.

  He said, "Mops, go tell Ford I want to see him."

  The ape left. I got a cigarette out and lit up, careful the knife didn't show. I wondered if I should take the guy now or wait and see what developed. I decided to wait.

  I said, "You know anything about my long trip down the short gully the other night?"

  He smiled. "I heard about it. Made me very happy."

  The big man came back then. With a slender man in a neat suit and a maroon shirt and no tie. He had brown hair and pure white eyebrows. The eyes were cold. Ford Messner. No one had to tell me that.

  "Come in, Ford. Here's that Berlin."

  The crap dealer nodded, leaned against the wall to my left. He flipped three half-dollars over each other in one long-fingered hand. He said nothing. O'Rourke leaned back.

  "Okay, sharpie. What's your story? What's your business in McKaneville? Who sent for you?"

  "My business is my own, O'Rourke. You want to play gangster, get somebody else for a straight man."

  The nightclub owner’s sallow skin reddened and his lip lost some of the droop. His sharp chin lifted.

  "All right," he said. "We can save some time. We know who you are and what you came for. Mops saw you and Donetti outside the Cherbourg Saturday night. That means he called for help from his big-time friends because we're bucking him on his Protective Association. That smells like syndicate to me. You smell like syndicate to me. You tell us what you're supposed to do—what Donetti has in mind— and you might not get hurt."

  I studied my cigarette end. O'Rourke waited. I could hear the ape breathing noisily behind me. Messner didn't change expression. His coins flicked, flicked.