Killer Take All Page 7

"You forget our appointment?"

  He looked at me. He stood poised and neat in his brown suit, maroon shirt; he clutched a tan leather attaché case in one hand. Messner was one of those fortunate guys who never wrinkle a suit. After the long night, the wilting events just past, he still looked fresh and natty. His white eyebrows raised at my question and one corner of his mouth quirked just a little.

  "Let's say it's called because of wet grounds."

  I stepped close to him. His eyes narrowed and one hand closed into a fist.

  "Listen, Messner. I'm not connected in any way with this local hassle. Got that? I don't know from syndicates and I never met Donetti in my life before Saturday night. Now you get that. And you pass it around. Because from now on I'm going to be as touchy as a sun-burned chorus girl. It would be a whole lot better if everyone left me alone."

  I turned and started off.

  "Berlin."

  I stopped. He hadn't changed position or expression.

  "You got lucky last night at Coley's," he said, thin lips barely moving. "Don't push that luck too far."

  Then he was gone. He drifted into the crowd eddying around the main door before I could get my jaw unhinged.

  Gina was waiting in the Ford. She sat staring blankly at the wall of the club, one arm out the window, a forgotten cigarette burning in her slim fingers.

  "Any trouble?"

  "No," I said. "No trouble."

  I slid into the Ford, got it started and we got out of there. I drove fast, pouring the Ford around the twisting road as fast as it would take the curves. I watched the flashing, morning-wet asphalt and worked out some of my resentment through the vibrant steering wheel, the squealing tires. Gina just sat, head thrown back to the breeze.

  She laughed out loud and I spared a glance from the rushing road. Gina had her face in the rush of air from the wind-wing, laughing in the cool surge. The black hair streamed and whipped across her face.

  "Johnny," she called, still laughing. "Johnny, we're alive and it's summer!"

  "You're crazy."

  The Ford nosed over the small rise and there was Devil's Lake, bluer than blue, nestled in the timbered shoulders of surrounding mountains. There was a long, narrow pier and some boats and a swimming float out from a white beach, bobbing slightly in the sapphire swell.

  The Devil's Play Spot lay in the slight depression. It was quite a layout. I'd been prepared for a pretty smooth operation since Gurion's description. A crushed rock drive bellied out in a circle from the entrance road. The casino sat facing us as we drove slowly down into the declivity. It was a symphony in sea-foam candy sprinkled with diamonds. Glass and neon and creamy stucco. Atop the main building, a huge figure of a red-caped, horned and tailed devil crouched. Streaks of neon, flames when they were lit, surrounded the figure. Spotted around the driveway that went around the hotel were cottages and bungalows of pink stucco with red-tiled roofs; all alike and all gleaming in the early sun. The front of the casino was glass and white marble, the entrance to the lobby flanked by stacked pillars of fieldstone.

  Gina motioned me around to the right as I slowed approaching the parking lot at the side of the hotel-casino. Not one single sign of life disturbed the modern exactness of the decor. Lights showed from the lobby's gloom; undoubtedly someone was on duty within.

  "That cabana all the way down on the right," she said. "The blue one."

  "All the rest are pink," I said, wheeling the Ford in accordance with her instructions.

  "Darling, you're a brilliant conversationalist."

  I grinned. "I been sick."

  She pushed against me, bit lightly at my neck and murmured something. I got the car into the carport anyhow. The blue cottage was right on the water, the last in the line. A little larger and a little smarter than the rest.

  It was quiet. A bird cried somewhere and the waves lapped the shore softly.

  "Doesn't seem to be much activity."

  Gina stirred against me. She raised her head, blinked at the swaying water.

  "It's eight in the morning, Johnny."

  "Yeah, but this is a resort. Isn't it?"

  She laughed deep in her throat. She twisted on the seat, back to the steering wheel, fell across me. Her arms slid around my neck.

  "It's not that kind of a resort, darling."

  She framed my face with her hands, looking into my eyes. Hers were dark and all pupil, half-shrouded by drooping lids. A pink tongue came out, ran slowly over the purple pads of her lips. I pulled her roughly against me, bending to meet her mouth.

  "Don't be a caveman, Johnny," she said against my lips. "Slowly, darling. Slowly. We have all the time in the world."

  "Not too much of this," I said. "I can't stand too damn much of this."

  She nuzzled for a moment, then pulled away abruptly. The wild black of her hair spilled streaks of light from the sun's fingers.

  "Well, look at us," she said. Her breasts rose up and down with her rapid breathing. "Your hand is warm, darling."

  "Gina..."

  She kissed me quickly.

  "Say it again." "Say what?"

  "My name." She leaned back, dropped her lids. "Just say my name, Johnny."

  I freed my hand, slid it under her upper arm and held her away from the steering wheel. Her fingers traced my face, my lips fondled her ear.

  "Gina," I said, making it a promise.

  She closed her eyes, pulled against me suddenly. She lay against me. Her lashes brushed my neck. My fingers tingled wherever I touched her.

  "How about the car? Is it wise to leave it right out in plain sight?"

  Gina pulled away, slid off my lap. Her hands worked at the wild tangle of black hair.

  "The hell with the car," she said. Her nostrils were flattened; the black skirt had climbed to mid-thigh.

  She pushed open the door, slid her legs out, then turned to look at me. "Coming?"

  There must have been a front room to the bungalow, but I didn't see it. I didn't see much of anything except the swirling pink dots and the figure of Gina striding ahead with her curious glide. Her hands tore at her clothing and by the time we got to the bedroom, she was down to wispy under-things, holding her skirt in her hand.

  "You going to pull the curtains?" I asked.

  She threw the skirt on a chair, kicked off her shoes. Then she came to me, posed with one hand on her hip.

  "Don't you want to see what you're getting?"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, don't be coy. I was thinking about you. I don't give a damn."

  "Then don't worry about me, darling. Just be good to me."

  I grabbed her and she stopped me with a whispered, "Wait."

  "What now?"

  She turned. "Unfasten me, Johnny."

  Somehow we got to the bed and the waves outside the window kicked reflections into the room, speckling the walls and ceiling.

  She said my name over and over and I didn't say anything at all. I couldn't have said anything, even for the deed to Las Vegas. And oddly, in the midst of my fatigue and passion and the overpowering excitement of the woman in my arms, I thought of Fran Cole. Cool Fran. Blonde and tight and poised no end.

  "Your hands, Johnny," Gina said through her teeth. "Oh, I love your hands!"

  She whimpered and pressed against me and blood rushed through my veins like tiny knives cutting me off from life for one pulsing instant.

  Chapter 9

  A faint shout drifted in from one of the bathers on the beach; a motor boat chattered on the lake. The late afternoon sun flooded the cheerful, yellow-and-silver room, made the rumpled bed cozy.

  I stared at the ceiling. "Gotta go."

  Gina moved her leg, let the warm length of it touch me. "You sure?"

  "Yeah. I'm sure. You're a doll and I dig you, but I promised Dan I'd be there early tonight. The opening bit, you know?"

  She nodded, said nothing. I liked it. Just lying there, rested from the few hours sleep, sated from a memorable experience. Nothing sloppy, nothing sticky. Ju
st a ball; a healthy, uncomplicated woman, a lot of fun and nobody hurt. Not like it would be with Fran Cole. That would be a production. If you ever managed to get her into bed. Tears and protestations of undying I'll-never-forget-you love, with messy indecision and foolish fumbling. Not for me, not for Johnny Berlin.

  "Johnny. You know anybody in Frisco? Any of the big gamblers?"

  "Huh? What kind of question is that?"

  "Well, you came from that direction. You're a dealer. I figured you'd know some of 'em, maybe could give me a line I could use when I leave here."

  "When you leave? What's the angle? You got a pretty good deal here, seems to me. Or was that just Donetti?"

  She nodded. "Marino. He never told me anything. I had nothing to do with the business."

  "How about the—I mean I heard about a high-class..." I didn't know how to put it so I stopped.

  "The girls?"

  "Yeah, all right. The girls."

  She shrugged, handed her stub of cigarette to me. "We got 'em. Part of the scene. Joy boys with expense accounts fly up from Frisco, down from Portland. Some from farther away. It's quite a layout. I'll show you if you want."

  "No. I just wondered about Donetti. I met him, you know."

  "Everybody knows, Johnny. After the wreck, when I picked you up in the car, I asked Marino about you. He seemed surprised. About the wreck. I told him your name. He said he'd offered you a job and you turned him down." She flopped over on her stomach, rested her head on a bent arm. Her eyes were inches from mine. "What are you doing here, Johnny? You come with my husband? From his friends in Frisco?"

  "You too, huh?"

  "Yes, me too." She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Everybody likes to know where they stand. I don't even know who he worked for, whether he has any money coming —nothing. Where does that leave me?"

  "I wouldn't know, doll. But believe it, you got no worries from Johnny Berlin. Except..."

  "Don't," she said. "I'm serious. If you came to help him, say so. Then maybe I can make a move and know what I'm doing."

  "Why don't you sit tight," I said. "Somebody'll be here from the outfit that bank-rolled the joint. They'll take care of you. Somehow."

  "That's not good enough, Johnny." She sat up, put her spread hand on my chest. "Look, man. Don't hold out, huh? If you can steer me, I'll appreciate it. And I'll prove it."

  "No kidding, Gina. I'm an innocent bystander."

  The eyes got hard for a moment. Then she mustered a smile that didn't mean much. "Okay, Johnny. If that's the way you want to play it."

  I sat up, swung my legs over the bed. I leaned on my thighs, looked out of the big window at the gently moving lake, rippled by widening wakes from motor boats and water skis.

  "You better check at the hotel," I said. "See who's running the show. And find out about the operation upstairs— the broads."

  "An assistant is running the place. He'll take care of everything. I wouldn't know what to do. And 'the broads,' as you call them, aren't upstairs. They have cottages. And you know them better than I. You had one on your lap in the Club Carroll."

  "The redhead? Sheila? Well, what do you know..."

  * * *

  I stepped on it back to town, got there about six. Dan would be having a fit, trying to locate me. There are always a thousand and one last-minute details.

  Condi answered the phone at the club. He told me Dan was running around like mad, wanted to see me as soon as possible. I told him I'd be there in about an hour, after I cleaned up.

  The barber shop had an opening and I got it. The man was slick and expert so I went for a shave, massage and trim. It was six-thirty when I got to the Kenyon, took the ancient elevator to my floor. The corridor was deserted and the heavy, impersonal silence of a small-town, second-rate hotel hung there. I walked slowly down the long hall, scuffling my shoes on the worn runner. No reason why I should feel low. Good job, excitement in the offing. All kinds of good-looking broads around. What else is there?

  But I did feel low. An awful lot of years had gone down hotel corridors, rolled across green baize tables, dissipated sugar-like in sweaty bedrooms, heavy with the unmistakable odor of sex. I tried to think of a joke to match the mood, something funny to remove the lingering melancholy that for damn sure wasn't usual with me. All I could think of was a man bleeding and a young girl crying.

  I stuck my key in the lock. Another hotel, another empty room.

  Only this one wasn't empty.

  The first thing I saw was a smooth, well-tailored back; a small man wearing a hat. He was calmly tearing the hell out of my bureau. He didn't even look up when I kicked the door wide, stepped through cursing like a trooper.

  "Don't get loud."

  The voice came from behind me. Another one, who I hadn't been able to see behind the opening door, had a black gun clutched in one rock-steady hand. My belly fluttered and tightened where the snout pointed.

  "Stand right there and don't get loud," the one with the gun said.

  He was young, tall and hard-looking. He wore a month's salary in gray worsted and a light-weight hat, white shirt and a subdued tie. A hoodlum. But a real bad one. Young, but bad as hell. I could tell and you can bet your life I didn't get loud; I didn't get anything. The gunman leaned against the door, watched with cold eyes as his partner threw my shirts around.

  I had no idea who they were or what they might be looking for. The searcher was another one. Cut from the same mold. Smaller, more deadly. He was about five-and-a-half-feet tall, dark and wasp-waisted; his nose was huge and he had a squint for little, jet-black eyes under heavy brows. I cleared my throat and he turned.

  "Siddown," he said. His voice was a bass rumble.

  I sat. The kid nudged with the cannon. He didn't need to. I sat and I burned. But I sat.

  After a minute, I said, "You guys cops?"

  I knew they weren't, but I figured I could put them on the defensive by mentioning law. No dice. They were pros. I didn't even get an answer. They had a job to do and they went about it calmly and expertly.

  It didn't take long. The little one finished tearing up the place, kicked through my suits which lay on the floor. Then he walked over to me, stood looking down. His face told me nothing.

  There was a knock on the door. I jumped. Literally. In a situation like that, any noise is a bad noise. For the first time in my life, I was hoping the cops had come for me. I twisted in the chair, watched Laughing Boy at the door. He didn't seem surprised. He reached behind him without taking his eyes off me and pulled the door open.

  A short, flawlessly dressed man stood there, smiling under a gray, military mustache. He was poised and assured, with the trim, stocky figure you get from daily squash and workouts on the rubbing table. Flannel suit, white shirt, small-figured tie—even a cane. He stepped into the room, took off his roll-brimmed hat. He looked for all the world like a bank executive.

  "You are Mr. Berlin," he said and it wasn't a question.

  "I'm Mr. Berlin. And what the hell's the idea? I walk in, find these refugees from lineup ruining the joint. What gives?"

  He smiled. A patronizing smile that really didn't say anything. He walked around the room; there was no doubt as to who was the boss. He had a fringe of white hair surrounding pink scalp and he rubbed it mechanically as he looked over my shattered domain.

  "I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Berlin. Have patience."

  He looked at me directly. He had eyes like soft-boiled lemon drops. Except for them, he made a perfect picture of a successful banker or stock broker. He called the small man aside, his name was Marc, and the two conferred. Marc murmured and the older man nodded.

  I could sit there all night and nobody would tell me anything. I got tired of it. What could they do anyway, kill me?

  "Hey," I said. "I got a job. We open a new show at the joint where I work tonight and I'd like to be there. Is that reasonable? And if you'll tell me what the hell you're looking for, I'll give it to you."

  The b
anker turned. "Yes, Mr. Berlin. That would be the Club Cherbourg, wouldn't it? Yes, Dan Gurion, I believe. Well, bear with me, please. I'll guarantee you will not miss your opening." He brushed a bent forefinger over the clipped hairs on his lip, nodded. "You'll get there, I'm sure."

  He crossed quickly to the window, held the slats of the blind apart with the polished tip of his cane. A watch with a band of what looked like solid platinum glinted on his wrist. All he needed was a tall glass and a Dalmatian.

  "Nothing but the gun, Marc?"

  "That's all, Mr. Gilbertson." The small man's voice was flat. "Hasn't been fired. Nothing else of interest. Except maybe the kit."

  "Kit?"

  Marc shrugged. "He's a dealer. Got a hustler's kit. Dice, cards..."

  "I see," the banker said. He rubbed his pink scalp for a moment, looking at the floor. Then, "Mr. Berlin, get dressed for work. We'll take you."

  I did and they did and wow! The guy, Marc, must have been a race driver. He tooled the big car through the tricky curves of the Clover Canyon Road like it was the Salt Flats at Bonneville. If I hadn't been so busy answering the questions the banker put to me about Donetti's murder and the events leading up to it, I'd have been scared green.

  It wasn't all one-sided. I found out, and it was about time, that Marino Donetti really had been playing with fire. He was Syndicate. So were my banker friend and his Ranger Platoon. Donetti had advanced a plan for tying up the area. The whole thing. All gambling, prostitution, what have you. His Gambler's Protective Association was to have been the opening gambit.

  Somebody checked him in one move. And that's what my three escorts had come to find out. Who pushed Donetti. What they'd do when they found out wasn't hard to figure. A little guy in the syndicate gets dead. Comes immediately the flying corps because when you're with it, brother, you are forever with it, and nobody leans too hard without bringing down the wrath of the organization. I got the idea they didn't care so much about Donetti; it was the principle involved.

  Some principle. Kick my cat, I'll kill your whole family.

  Chapter 10

  The Club Cherbourg was in for quite an evening. The parking lot was jammed. The streets adjoining the building were solid with parked cars, as was the motel driveway and the apron of the service station across the way. Even the weather was in Dan Gurion's favor. The night was soft and warm and the stars seemed glued to rooftops in a sky so dark blue you could almost feel its nearness.