Killer Take All Page 4

  "You got nothing to say, is that it?"

  I sighed. "You catch on quick. Answer me a question and I'll tell you all you want to know. Who pushed me over that canyon Saturday night?"

  "You're in no position to bargain. Show him, Mops."

  It was too sudden. I expected a little talk first. But the big guy's hand exploded behind my ear like a ball bat. I fell, dropping the knife. My head cracked the desk front. Somebody yelled. I pushed against the floor, got to my knees. My hand touched the blade of the knife on the floor and I fumbled it into a tight grip. Mops stood beside me, looking down. I grabbed his belt and heaved myself upright. He cocked a huge fist and I slashed blindly with the knife. The blade caught him high in the shoulder, ripped downward across his arm.

  He screamed like a girl and reached with his other hand. Bright red leaped from the gaping cut; threads of blue cloth dangled into the wound. He tried to press the gash closed. I pivoted on my heel and pulled the little knife across his belly, low down. It was a tiny knife. And that saved him. He stumbled backward, an unbelieving expression on his face. The chaise hit at his knee and he fell upon it.

  Messner hadn't moved. His coins flipped a little faster, maybe. O'Rourke looked sick. He had the forty-five in his yellow hand, gripped loosely. I shook my head, got my feet under me. Then I stepped around the desk, slapped O'Rourke on the mouth. The gun thudded to the floor.

  "You—you cut him," he said.

  "You're clever." I turned to watch Messner. He still leaned against the wall. "I'll see you, O'Rourke. And if I find you had anything to do with running me into that ditch I'll put a bullet in you."

  I walked by Ford Messner. He still leaned negligently on the wall, flipping coins. I said, "I think you and I should talk."

  He nodded slightly. Mops lay on the couch, moaning deep in his throat. Blood was shiny on the brown leather.

  I went out through the club; no one even noticed me. I got in the car, started it. A figure stepped from the shadows. Ford Messner. He walked efficiently. The way he did everything. He stopped at the car.

  "We called a doctor for Parisi," he said. His voice was flat, neither deep nor high. "I'll see you at the Carroll after two. Know where it is?"

  I nodded. He turned away. Then he stopped, a thin smile touching his lips.

  "With you around, man, someone's liable to get killed. Try to see it isn't you."

  I could see the bit now. The fact that I'd arrived at the Cherbourg with Donetti had started everyone speculating. One of them had decided to do something about it. That eliminated Kilgallen from the list as far as the car business went. Or so I figured it. He'd been dealing when Donetti and I arrived in the fog. I stopped at a drugstore in Edson, called the Devil's Play Spot. A desk clerk got me Gina.

  ''Mrs. Donetti? This is Johnny Berlin."

  "Oh, yes." The voice was soft and full of woman. "Of course. How are you, Mr. Berlin?"

  "I'm fine. Look, I want to talk to you. How about the Club Carroll some time in the next couple of hours?"

  She hesitated. Then she said, "I can't imagine what you'd have to say to me. But—if you like."

  "You know what I have to say," I said, and hung up before she decided to play games.

  * * *

  I found a stool near the door of the Carroll. Easy to see why Carter got all the business. It was a nice place.

  "Here you are," the barman said, sliding my drink in front of me. He studied me a moment. Then he said, "Your name Berlin?"

  "Yeah. Why?"

  "Guy called here a couple of times. Tried to get you. He left a message. Just a minute."

  The barman went to the register, came back with a small slip of paper. His eyes touched mine, slid away. He seemed nervous. Like someone had told him I was a salesman for Asiatic Flu.

  "Says call Marino Donetti at this number."

  A man slid onto the stool next to mine, turned to me with a cheerful grin. He was thirty-some, medium all over. His cheeks were full and seemed polished. He wore a tie that would have been loud on Central Avenue in LA. Here it was downright boisterous. I grinned back at him. I couldn't help it.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Hello there. Want a drink?"

  He grinned harder. "Yeah. Don't mind. But look here, champ. What would you say to a hundred bucks?"

  "Hello."

  "Yeah. But I mean every hour." He pulled a black leather notebook from a pocket. "Look here."

  "Got a system?"

  "I always got a system. That's what they call me—Mickey System. But this one's a real barrel of brass. Maybe ten thousand systems I tried. But tonight I really hit it."

  The guy was a tonic. His squeaky tones rambled on about his way of beating the dice and I just had to nod at intervals. He jumped up and down, chewed a stubby pencil. He lightened my mood a thousand per cent.

  "See," he was saying. "I says to myself, Mickey, this is it. It's a mathematical certainty. A cinch. Seven you only make six ways, right? And if you take the odds without risking your line bet, the backline bet covers it, right? So you wind up with the house paying you to play. How about that?"

  "How about that indeed." I offered him a cigarette, got one for myself. "My name is Johnny Berlin."

  "I know," he said and leaned forward for a light.

  "You know?"

  He nodded. "Along with everyone else in town. You got a reputation already."

  "I'm hip. Someone tried to see if I could make a Ford fly Saturday night."

  "Yeah." The laughter fled and I glimpsed a little steel in my companion. He glanced over his shoulder, back to me. "Funny things going on, Johnny. Walk easy." He straightened. "Speaking of walking, how's that for a strut?"

  I turned. It was Gina. She really walked, that girl. Slim-legged, hips swinging. She was coolly poised as only a very beautiful woman can be. I hadn't seen half what this woman had to offer the other night. Her body was just on the verge of being too much. Ripe. Even lush. And she walked like a burlesque poser, all thrusting pelvis and steady shoulders. A clinging black jersey dress did its level best to hide the swelling lines, but only served to accentuate them. She walked right to me, took my hand.

  "Johnny Berlin," she said. Her breasts were looking up and out. "How are you?"

  "Ruined," I said. "Sit down. Have a drink." I'd forgotten my crap-loving friend, naturally enough. Till his tie blinded me again. Evidently he and Gina were old friends. While they yakked, I ordered.

  The drinks came and we had one apiece. Then Mickey took off for the game room to try his new system with larger markers. He'd checked it out with quarters. After he left we sat in silence for a while. Gina looked at her drink, fiddled with a lighter on the bar. Her perfume was dark and subtle, like crushed violets. The curve of her thigh touched my knee, left a blister. "Gina," I said.

  "Johnny Berlin." She turned. "How does one get a name like Johnny Berlin? It's so perfect for you."

  "It's easy. You pick it yourself. At the orphanage they called me little Johnny Twenty-Two. I was the twenty-second foundling that year, or something. When I got big enough to care, I made one up for myself."

  "Why Berlin?"

  I shrugged. "It was easy to spell. I got it out of a newspaper when I ran off. I'd joined a carnival as a ride boy. They wanted a name. I gave 'em the first one I thought of. I've used it ever since. It's as good as any."

  "I like it," she said. She pushed a coin around in the moisture. "Why did you call, Johnny?"

  "Why did you come?"

  She smiled, a flash of white between deep-red lips. She shook her hair and it was a midnight cloud.

  "That's not fair. I suspect you're a cad, Johnny Berlin. I also suspect you know damn well why I came. This is a small town. There isn't much electricity."

  "I guess we're both wired then." I leaned toward her, lowered my voice. "There is a feeling, Gina. You can call it anything you want to. But it's there. In the car the other night…"

  She put her hand on my arm, stopped me. "I know," she said.
"Let's dance. This is much too public."

  We danced. The floor wasn't crowded and we went very well together. She was tall and she danced like she walked, all thrusting pelvis and leggy glides. I was intensely aware of her body. My fingers tingled where I touched her.

  Her hair brushed my face and I rubbed my chin in the black froth. She stirred.

  "People are watching, Johnny. I have a husband, you know."

  "Let 'em watch. Maybe they'll learn something."

  She laughed, but her breath caught sharply. I kissed the tip of her ear, whirled her slowly and insinuatingly. She put her lips to my ear.

  "No strings, Johnny? Just a ball, a few laughs? That's the way it has to be."

  "No strings," I said. My throat was full of glue.

  She pushed me away abruptly. "I'm loose as a wet Kleenex. Get me a drink. I'm going to the little girl's and repair my equanimity."

  I held my arms wide in mock horror.

  "I never touched it!"

  Her full-throated laugh drifted over the music as she walked away. Her haunches slid under the jersey like firm chunks of Jello. I almost ran to the bar.

  Waiting for the drinks I saw Jack Kilgallen with a slim redhead down the bar aways. A fat guy with silver hair wearing about three hundred dollars worth of silk suit stood beside the pair. I figured him for Paul Carter. As I watched, the girl pulled away from Kilgallen, stumbled up the bar toward me. I heard her cussing the kid as she came.

  She stopped in front of me, stood weaving on spike heels. She had a green sheath of satin, or something like it, on her almost hipless body; her legs were long and flashing in tan nylon.

  "You're the guy," she said. "You're Johnny Berlin. You're big."

  Everybody knew me. I turned, studied her.

  "Back to your man, honey. No hassles tonight. I'm tied up."

  "He says I'm drunk," she said. Her lipstick was smeared and the green, slightly sloe eyes focused reluctantly. A pretty kid. I've seen thousands like her in my racket. Fine, healthy girls pretending hardness and abandon to hide the memory of heartache.

  "You think I'm drunk? I'm Sheila, Johnny Berlin."

  I turned all the way on the stool. She slumped against me.

  "Hey, easy. Stand up there. I'll buy you one drink. Then off you go. Okay?"

  She nodded solemnly. I gestured for the bartender, cut my eyes down the bar to Kilgallen. He and Carter were in a heated argument. The kid looked like he wanted to come running. The drink came before he did and I handed it to Sheila. She promptly dropped it and reached for me. Warm lips found mine, clung. I had to hold her up or she'd have fallen. She twisted, let her hip rest on my thigh and kissed me very thoroughly indeed.

  "I thought you were drunk," I said, drawing away from her.

  "I'm not too drunk, honey." Her voice was brassy, loud in a sudden silence.

  I looked up and saw Carter and the kid dealer surging up the length of the bar. Gina had come out of the back and stopped, an interested observer. All kinds of action. I pushed the girl upright.

  "All right, baby. You've done the job. Get off it."

  She stumbled erect, looked at me with a completely puzzled expression. But then Kilgallen and Carter arrived. I watched the rangy dealer closely. I wanted no more of those iron knuckles. I'd collected enough bruises in this town.

  "Let her go, Berlin," the kid rasped.

  "You're twisted, Kilgallen. She's holding me. And I don't like it. I think maybe you sent her. I think maybe someone wants me to be in trouble every time I turn around. I don't like that, either."

  Carter pinned me with a level gambler's stare. His smooth face showed no emotion. He pulled the girl to him, quieted her. Kilgallen and I exchanged burning looks. The kid turned away, grabbed Sheila's arm.

  "Come on," he said, jerking savagely at her.

  "Jack! You're hurting me!"

  Kilgallen wrenched the girl upright when she would have fallen, whacked her across the face with an open hand. I started from the stool. And Gina walked in front of me. I guess I looked pretty ridiculous. I sat back, watched Gina. My mind whizzed, hunting for something to say. She picked up her purse, lighter and cigarettes.

  Carter said, "Berlin, I'd like to talk to you some time. Maybe we could make a deal. Donetti can't win, you know. You'd be wise to feather your nest elsewhere. We're not going to be pushed into syndication."

  "Save it, Carter. I'm in the market for no deals. I run Dan Gurion's back room. Period. Got that?"

  "That's all?"

  "That's every damn bit. Except this—" I grabbed Gina's arm to keep her from leaving. "When I find out who wrecked my car I may expand my activities a little."

  He nodded. Gina pulled at my hold.

  "Please," she said. "I'd like to go home."

  "Oh, now wait—"

  Carter said, "Give my regards to your husband—Mrs. Donetti."

  Gina stopped, looked at him coolly. "Tell him yourself, Paul. I don't carry messages. Or tell tales."

  We got out of there. Gina had a black Buick tonight. I don't know what happened to the Cadillac. Maybe they had a stable. She got in, said nothing. The window was down.

  I took a breath, the air moist and cool. Soon it would be foggy again.

  I said, "It wasn't like that. You know that, don't you?"

  "Please, Johnny. I'm tired."

  "All right." I nodded.

  "Okay. Play it that way. But it won't work, baby. It flat won't work. And you know it."

  She revved the engine to a snarl. For one split moment I saw something in the wide eyes—something dark and raw. Then it was gone. She pulled a scrap of handkerchief out of the cleft between her breasts, stuck it in my hand.

  "Try that on your lips, darling."

  The tires grated on rock and the car leaped into the darkness.

  Chapter 6

  By the time I remembered my appointment with Ford Messner I had a pretty fair glow on. Ordinarily I sip pretty easy around the funny water. It doesn't mix with gambling. But Gina's walk-out had left me with a high burn and I had to do something to dissipate it.

  It was two-thirty and the Club Carroll was jumping. Thanks to our talent. Laddy Layton had evidently arrived early from Portland for his opening the next night at our joint. Anyhow, there he was on the bandstand, wringing sobs from one of his standards. The people were fractured. The creep was good.

  I left the bar and went into the connecting room where Layton was killing the public. I saw Jack Kilgallen and the sultry Sheila, a more sober and considerably chastened Sheila, and Paul Carter.

  Coley O'Rourke, my friend of earlier in the evening, had a table by himself. He seemed to be mentally murdering Kilgallen. At least his eyes stayed on the pair at the bar. On Sheila, really. I settled at a table by the outside door and looked around.

  If Ford Messner were here yet I couldn't see him. It was just two thirty-five. I called a waitress and ordered. Across the room I spotted Condi, the Cherbourg's bartender, sitting with Bev and Dan.

  The girl brought my drink and I dove into it. Layton's husky voice cut through the layers of smoke larded with glass tinkle and crowd murmur. It came to me that I'd spent too many of my nights in just such an atmosphere. A woman laughed shrilly. The later the hour the more shrill the laugh. I got a cigarette out, lit it, jerking savagely at the matches in the folder. Get off it, Berlin. The singer finished a number and the place erupted into sustained, enthusiastic applause. I slid down in my chair, stared at my cigarette end. Gina. What made her take the thing with Sheila so big? For that matter, who set the flaming redhead on me to begin with?

  One thing had cleared up a little; whoever had nudged me into the canyon almost certainly had done so as a result of my arriving at the Cherbourg with Marino Donetti. I was beginning to understand why the little guy carried a gun. He wouldn't win any popularity awards around here. Which reminded me of his message. Call Donetti. I'd rather call Dr. Frankenstein.

  "Could I sit here, please? The other tables are full."


  I came out of my drink and met the bluest, clearest pair of eyes I'd seen in a long time. They belonged to a young girl standing opposite me. She was blonde, very cute, about eighteen or nineteen. Her skin was tan and firm and she wore a simple dress as if it had been made by Christian Dior.

  I said, "Sure. Sit, kid. Be my guest."

  She looked at me curiously, then slid into the chair across the table. I asked her if she wanted a drink, but she didn't hear me. She had her eyes riveted on Laddy Layton, sobbing on the bandstand about how far he'd walk for the girl he loved. I watched her. She sat twisted around in the chair, the firm body straining at attention, eyes glued to the slim, elegant figure of our entertainer. The curve of her cheek was a soft pink, like a ripe peach on a window sill with the afternoon sun carving it to brightness. There was something fresh about her. Clean, like hayrides and taffy-pulls and a thousand other things I'd only read about in my wandering existence.

  Suddenly I felt old and weary. It wasn't often I doubted my own ability to shape my ends and make life what I wanted it to be. Except sometimes—like now—when a submerged something pulled at me, made me realize how little I really had.

  The girl turned. "Isn't he the absolute most? He just does me up. I mean he's so way out."

  "Oh, you bet," I muttered. I signaled a passing waitress. "You want a—well, a Coke or something?"

  The girl nodded absently, attention once more on the singer. I ordered, looked around. Quite a crowd. Everyone who hadn't had his fill of lushing by the normal closing time for the other clubs had gravitated to the Carroll.

  Way back in a corner a flash of platinum caught me familiarly and I half-stood to peer through the ever thickening haze of smoke. It was Fran. Looking like a hothouse orchid in all that din and reek. She wore white and her pale hair gleamed in the smoke like a pearl on black velvet. There was a man with her. All I could see were wide, solid-looking shoulders and a shock of brown hair. I waved, but she didn't see me.

  I downed my drink, banged on the table with the empty glass. "Hey. Little service here." My young companion turned.