Act of Fear df-1 Read online

  ‘Tell us we can come in, buddy boy,’ Roth said.

  I stepped back. ‘Sure, come ahead.’

  Roth and Max Bagnio ambled into the room like the well-trained team they were. They duplicated no effort. Each surveyed a section of the room. Roth checked what had been out of sight from the doorway and checked the kitchen. Bagnio took the dark corners, the bedroom, and the bathroom. They shared the closets. They came together again in the living-room where I stood. They had been in position to cover each other the entire time, and they had not spoken a word.

  ‘Andy send you?’ I asked.

  They were still looking around from where they stood in the living-room. They had not actually looked at me since coming into the apartment. Max Bagnio seemed disappointed. I felt cold. Bagnio was looking for Marty. Little Max was disappointed that Marty was not there. I’m not even a woman and I shuddered at the thought of his hands on me. (Maybe if I had been a woman I would not have shuddered. Women have their own values.) Roth wandered around looking under pillows and cushions.

  ‘Mister Pappas sent us, peeper,’ Roth said.

  None of Andy Pappas’ men can understand why Andy lets me talk to him the way I do any more than I understand it myself. They have seen men have both arms broken for much less. This does not seem to bother Bagnio much, he is only curious. What Andy does is gospel to him, but he is interested. Roth was bothered. Roth did not like me calling his boss Andy. It seemed to annoy him.

  ‘What can I do for Andy this time?’ I asked, rubbing the first name in.

  Roth still had not looked at me again. The vulture-like gunman dropped a chair cushion as if disappointed that he had not found at least an old garter. He turned to me. He hit me flush on the mouth. I never even saw the punch coming. All I saw was Roth, a thin smile of very good capped teeth, and then I was sitting on the floor.

  ‘You’re still asking questions,’ Roth said.

  I shook my head to clear it. Roth hit hard for a skinny man. I guessed that he was all muscle, like a whip. I tasted blood. My lip had already begun to swell. A tooth felt loose. I shook my head again and got up. I got halfway up. My hand was still on the floor. Roth hit me again. He hit twice. The right caught me on the cheek, I think, and the left hit my nose. The right lifted me up, and my nose was directly in the line of the left. I remember thinking that Jake Roth had not done it properly. He had led with his right. Very poor boxing.

  ‘You talked to the cops,’ someone said. I think it was still Roth.

  I saw Max Bagnio. He seemed to be standing over me. That was odd, because he had been behind me. I wondered when he had moved. Bagnio looked bored. The little gunman was still looking around wistfully for Marty, I think. Then I realized that Max had not moved, I had. The last two punches had knocked me across the floor beyond Bagnio. I was lying flat with my head almost under a chair. I could taste a lot of blood and my nose was numb. I guessed that it was broken. My cheekbone felt red hot. There were tears in my eyes. My head seemed to belong to someone else. My legs would not move. Then Max Bagnio seemed to float away. I shook my head and Bagnio came back. So did Jake Roth.

  ‘You were told,’ Roth said. ‘We told you.’

  His voice seemed distant, in some other room, although his face was close. The tone of his voice was one of hurt bewilderment. I had been told. By Pappas. By Jake Roth. And yet I had asked questions. I had gone to the police. Roth did not understand that. I had been told. It was confusing to Roth. His face bent close down over me. I felt his hands pinching my ears. He helped me up to a sitting position. The pinching was clearing my head a little. Roth leaned me against a chair. His face bent close.

  ‘You didn’t listen, buddy boy,’ Roth said.

  His hand slapped my face lightly. On the broken nose. It hurt.

  ‘You got to listen,’ Roth said.

  His hand slapped again. There was a lot of pain. I felt the chair behind my shoulders. I leaned my left shoulder hard against the chair, pressed my left shoulder against the chair, and swung my right fist with all the strength I had. It hit Roth flush on the chin. I felt the punch go all through my arm and up to my nose. It felt good. It cleared my head for a moment. I saw Roth go over backwards and sprawl all long legs kicking in the air. He had been crouched and off balance and my punch had not been bad. I even saw a little blood on his face as he came back up. He came back up fast. He had been hit before, and I’m no fighter. But there was blood on his mouth. I guessed that he had bitten his lip when I hit. I grinned. He kicked me in the stomach.

  ‘You dirty little son-of-a-bitch!’ Roth snarled.

  He kicked me in the side where I lay doubled up. His shoes were big and pointed. I felt hands picking me up. It was Max Bagnio. He sat me against a chair again. Max seemed to be holding Roth away now. I sat there and saw them argue. Then Roth leaned down again.

  ‘You got it, buddy boy? You got it now?’

  I hit him again. My strength was pretty near gone, the punch did not even knock him down. But it must have made him crazy mad. He did not hit me, and he did not kick me. Maybe he had decided, somewhere in that vicious and cunning but not too intelligent brain, that kicks and punches were not doing the job. I felt his hands on my throat. I was lifted. And then I seemed to hurl through the air and hit a wall with a crash.

  I was on a floor, and it was cold. Somehow my brain was still working. I felt a little like the time I had been torpedoed and had had a concussion but somehow had been able to think clearly enough to get over the side and into the raft and even help row the raft. I knew that I was not functioning, not well, but perhaps enough. Anyway, I felt the coldness of the floor and realized that Roth had thrown me into the kitchen. By the neck like a chicken. I think it was that thought that made me mad — like a goddamned chicken.

  I shook my head and looked around. Roth was coming towards the kitchen. It all seemed to be in slow motion, distant. I got to my knees and counted the drawers in the kitchen cabinet. I opened the one I wanted. I took out the heavy, fifteen-inch butcher knife. It had a razor-sharp edge. I had sharpened it for Marty myself. I fell back down with my back against the cabinet, sitting up, the butcher knife in my hand. I made a hell of an effort, and the room came clear. Roth and Bagnio were both in the kitchen doorway.

  They had their automatics in their hands. I suppose that was actually a reflex action for them as soon as they saw the butcher knife. They both stepped into the kitchen. They stood apart so that I could only get to one of them at a time. The kitchen was small with little room to manoeuvre, and I was sort of wedged into a corner against the cabinets. I looked straight into the muzzles of those two guns. Roth laughed.

  ‘A stinking shiv against two guns! You’d die real quick, sucker. I’ll gun you before you move a hair.’

  ‘Put it down, Fortune,’ Bagnio said.

  ‘No closer,’ I said. My voice sounded strange even to me. My lips were swollen like balloons. My jaw hurt. My nose had begun to throb like a hammer.

  Roth was pale. ‘I’ll kill you, buddy.’

  ‘You’ll have to,’ I said. I held the knife.

  Bagnio took a step. ‘Listen, Fortune…’

  I flicked the knife in front of me. ‘You’ll have to kill me. Get close again and I’ll kill you. You want me, you better use those guns. Come near me and I’ll kill you.’

  I meant it then. I had been hit hard enough and often enough to mean it. I really meant what I said. I had had enough. But I was also thinking. Roth and Bagnio had no orders from Andy to kill me; I was sure of that. I counted on that. I hoped I was right. Not that it mattered. If they had orders to kill me, they would do it one way or the other. There was a chance that if they shot, I might be able to knife one of them. No, there was no chance. The automatics were both. 45 calibre. Roth pointed his.

  ‘Jake,’ Bagnio said.

  ‘Beat it if you don’t like it,’ Roth said.

  ‘Let’s go, Jake,’ Bagnio said.

  I heard his voice. Bagnio was uneasy. I was sure of it. Ba
gnio was nervous. Something was bothering Little Max more than a beating should have bothered him. Especially a beating ordered by Andy Pappas. Maybe I was wrong.

  ‘This dirty bastard punk,’ Roth said.

  ‘We done the job,’ Bagnio said. ‘He got the message.’

  I’m not even sure when they left. I found myself alone on the kitchen floor. I thought I remembered Max Bagnio looking back in the kitchen doorway, saying, ‘Take it easy, Fortune.’ A testimonial. Max Bagnio was giving me a salute, man to man. The way the Zulu warriors had saluted the surviving British soldiers at Roark’s Drift after about one hundred British had held off eight thousand or more Zulus for a whole day and night and the Zulus had given up. Bully. That was why the Zulus had lost in the end.

  I remember the pain building.

  I remember thinking that not only my nose was broken when the pain grew in my side and chest.

  I remember Marty’s face bending over me.

  I think I remember the doctor.

  I know I remember the pain.

  Chapter 13

  The first time I woke up I concentrated on where I was. That is an old reflex of a drifter like me. I was in a bed. There was sun outside drawn shades. The furniture was not my own bedroom. It did not look like the room in the Hotel Manning. It was not jail, and it was not a hospital. It was a problem, but I gave it up. I was more interested in the pain.

  The second time I woke up I concentrated on how I was. My head was light and not attached to my neck. There was a headache in the head that floated somewhere above the bed. My face was swollen. There was a bandage of some kind on my nose. I ached all over. I seemed to be strapped across the ribs. But I also seemed to be all there.

  I thought about what had happened. I knew I had been beaten by Jake Roth, but the details were confused. The thought of Roth must have been on my face.

  ‘You look like you’re seeing a ghost.’

  It was Marty. I was, of course, in her bedroom. She stood with a tray. I saw orange juice, coffee, a bowl of something that steamed. I was hungry.

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘Mine.’

  She put the tray down on the bed table and gave me the juice.

  ‘You found me last night?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘In the kitchen. You had a butcher knife. Did you…?’

  ‘All take and no give,’ I said.

  Then I recalled my two punches. That pleased the hell out of me. At least Roth would have a sore mouth today. I also remembered my ultimatum. That made me feel cold. It is one thing to take a chance like that in the heat of action and another to think about it later. Jake Roth wasn’t a man filled with logic or self-control. He could have lost his head.

  ‘When I saw you I nearly fainted. I saw the knife, you looked dead. When I found you were just out cold, I called the doctor. He said it looked worse than it was.’

  ‘It feels worse than it looks,’ I-said. ‘What’s the score?’

  ‘Broken nose; you won’t be so handsome.’

  ‘That could help.’

  ‘Facial bruises, a lot of them. Cuts inside and outside on your face. A mild concussion and a cracked rib. Some torn ligaments in your chest, too. I’m so sorry, baby.’

  ‘I bet I look grand,’ I said. I smiled. It hurt.

  ‘You’ll need a visit to the dentist, too. Who did it, Dan?’

  ‘Just forget it,’ I said. ‘You should have shipped me home.’

  ‘Yes I should have!’ Marty said. ‘Now eat. Soup is good.’

  I had the soup. It was good.

  ‘What did they want?’ Marty said.

  ‘No questions,’ I said. ‘I was stupid to come here.’

  ‘Finish your soup.’

  I finished the soup and the coffee. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched me until I had finished. Then she leaned and kissed my forehead. She stood up.

  ‘You stay here.’ she said. ‘And try to do something more constructive than being a human punch bag.’

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I said.

  ‘Work, baby,’ she said.

  ‘Work?’

  ‘It’s almost nine o’clock.’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘The doctor gave you a shot. He said you need at least two days in bed — alone.’

  ‘I slept all day?’

  ‘You did, and you looked cherubic,’ Marty said.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘Two days the doctor said.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You go to work.’

  ‘You’ll be here when I get back, Dan?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘No, baby, I doubt it.’

  ‘Meaning you might come back, but first you’ll go.’

  ‘The best defence is a good offence,’ I said.

  She kissed me again. ‘Be careful.’

  Her hair shone red in the soft light of the bedroom as she left. She was wearing a turtleneck black sheath tonight, and carrying the suede coat. I wished she did not have to go. I wished that I did not have to go. But she had to work and so did I.

  It looked like Pappas was a hell of a lot more involved, and worried, than it had seemed. Andy had never had me worked over before. I must be getting awfully close to some sensitive toes. They figured to be Pappas’ toes, and yet I still did not like the setup. If Andy wanted me out of the way, he would be more direct, I was sure. And I trust in Gazzo’s judgment. Not all the way, I could not rule Pappas out of it all, but if Gazzo did not see Pappas or his boys as the killer of Tani Jones, he was probably right. So if Pappas was not the killer, he must be looking for the killer. Then why work me over? To get to Jo-Jo exclusive? Yes, that made sense — Pappas-sense. He wanted Jo-Jo all to himself. It had to be. And that meant Jo-Jo had real problems. If I was to do anything but run away from it I had to get moving.

  I started by getting out of bed. I was sore everywhere. The tape on my ribs helped, but it was hard to breathe. It was harder to breathe through my broken nose. My clothes were gone. I began to swear at Marty, when I opened the closet and found a whole change of clothes. She must have called Joe. It was good to have friends. I dressed and then took my first look into the mirror.

  The broken nose hardly showed, except for a thick piece of tape across the bridge. There was tape on my cheekbone, and on my jaw. I was bruised, cut, and swollen. My lips looked like a hamburger bun, my gums looked a little like the hamburger. But it was the eyes that were prettiest. They were both that sick shade of dark yellow-brown-black for over two inches all round. I looked awful.

  Before I got out of there I looked out of each window to see if I had any shadows lurking. I saw none. I went down the stairs warily, and before I left the entrance I surveyed all the doorways I could see. The Saturday night crowds did not make it easy. An army could hide in the mob of beat kids, students, bagel babies, and drunks. I saw no suspicious characters. Just in case, I took a few fast twists down side streets and through alleys and back yards to see if I could flush anyone. I drew a blank. No one was following me. I straightened my course for Doyle Street.

  My course was obvious — too damned obvious. I had to start around again. Whatever Jo-Jo was, he seemed to be a good rabbit. No one had found him yet; not even Pappas if Pappas was after him. One fact stood out like a bikini blonde at a Quaker meeting: Jo-Jo had not seen fit to tell his family where he was, or whoever was after Jo-Jo beside myself had a reason for not asking the family. I put my money on the former — Jo-Jo had not told his family, which gave me a lot to think about. Why had Jo-Jo not told his family? It was a new question. Maybe old Schmidt would have an answer. Or Pete. After Schmidt, Pete would be my next stop. After Pete I would finally have to start the long round of travel depots. I did not look forward to that.

  The murder block of Doyle Street was on top of the river. It was dark and deserted even on a Saturday night early. The West Side Highway stood raised at the far end, with the shadows of piers beyond it, and then the river. The apartment house where Tani Jones had died stood like a gi
ant among shabby pygmies on the north side of the street near the east corner. An alley ran beside it, as Gazzo had said. I entered the alley beside the new building and walked through to Water Street. Schmidt’s Garage was just down from the Water Street end of the alley, on the north side of the street. The alley where Stettin had been mugged was far down on the south side of Water Street near the river. I crossed Water Street and stood where I could see the alley beside the building, Schmidt’s Garage, and the far-off mouth of the alley where Stettin had been attacked.

  I could see the rear entrance to the building where Tani Jones had died. It was in the alley with a light over it. There was a ramp down to the garage of the building. The building itself towered above all the buildings on Water Street. Most of its windows above the seventh or eight floor were visible from Schmidt’s Garage. It had no fire escape. There was little cover in the alley beside the building. I walked on down to Schmidt’s Garage.

  The entrances to both alleys were in plain sight from in front of Schmidt’s Garage, but nothing more could be seen; nothing inside either alley. But someone driving up and down the street on a motorcycle could have seen almost anything in either alley. I did not search the alleys. The police would have combed them both, people walked through them all day, and cars and trucks used them by the dozen.

  I looked around to be sure I was alone. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, bumper to bumper at this hour, except in front of the alleys and the two driveways of Schmidt’s Garage. They were even parked in front of the two loading docks of a warehouse next to Schmidt’s now that it was night. I looked at the garage and saw there was light inside the office as well as in the garage itself. At least Schmidt worked late and would have time to talk to me. It was a good omen.

  Then I heard the bad omen. Silence.

  A garage is not a quiet place. With light in both shop and office there should have been noise. There was no sound of any kind. I looked into the office. It was empty. There was an open ledger and a paper coffee cup. I went into the shop section.

  I found Schmidt in the rear behind a stripped-down truck. They had worked him over good before he died. I did not think they had intended to kill him. He had just died on their hands. His white hair lay in a pool of blood that had poured from his nose and mouth. The blood was still wet. His bloody face was a mass of bruised wounds. It looked like at least one arm had been broken. I did not look for the rest of the details of what they had done to him, but a blow-torch burned on the workbench. There was a long steel rod in his right hand. It looked like he had fought back at some point. Some old man.