1955 - You've Got It Coming (7 page)

The driver scowled across the black, glistening sidewalk at the entrance to the hotel. A dim, yellow light showed in the transom of the double swing doors leading into the hotel. Six worn, dirty steps led from the doors down to the street It wasn't often that he brought a fare to Lamson's. He couldn't remember when he had brought the last one. The people who stayed there hadn't money to waste on cabs. They either walked or took a bus. It was the cheapest and the most sordid hotel in Los Angeles: a joint that was used chiefly by streetwalkers and crooks just out of jail in need of a roof until they planned their next petty theft.

The driver's fare got out of the cab, shoved a five-dollar bill into the driver's hand and said in an odd-sounding voice, “Keep the change. Buy yourself a new cab with it. You need one.”

The driver was so astonished that he leaned out of his cab to stare at his fare. He hadn't expected a tip. He had been prepared for a wrangle about over-changing. Five bucks! The guy must be crazy!

His eyes took in the tall, bulky figure, wearing a shabby trench coat and a dark brown, shabby hat. Massively built he was at a guess around forty-five; a fat, tough-looking customer with a straggling blond moustache, a nasty-looking scar that ran from his right eye down to the corner of his mouth, puckering the skin and slightly pulling down his right eyelid, giving him a sinister appearance. In his left hand, he carried a shabby fibre suitcase, and in his right, a thick walking stick, tipped with rubber.

“This for me?” the driver said blankly, looking at the bill.

“There's only a buck twenty on the clock.”

“If you don't want it,” the fare said, “give it back to me and you can whistle for your goddamn fare.”

His voice sounded as if he had something in his mouth, an odd, strangled sound. Maybe, the driver thought, he's one of those guys who hasn't a roof to his mouth. When he spoke, he showed gleaming white teeth, like the projecting teeth of a horse. They thrust his upper lip and his moustache forward, giving him an aggressive, hostile expression.

“Well, it's your money,” the driver said and hurriedly put the bill in his pocket. “Thanks, mister.” He hesitated, then went on, “Are you sure you want a dump like this? I know a place that's cleaner further down the road. It's not much more expensive. Here the bugs don't wait to come out at night. They're with you all the time and they've got teeth like a bear trap.”

“If you don't want your snout pushed through the back of your head,” the fare snarled, “keep it out of my business.”

He moved across the sidewalk, limping badly, and leaning on his stick. He climbed the steps and disappeared into the hotel.

The driver stared after him, frowning. A nut, he concluded.

Five bucks and staying at a joint like Lamson's! He shook his head, thinking of the oddities he had driven in his cab; this was another for his memory book. He engaged gear and drove away into the rain.

The lobby of Lamson's hotel was even more dingy than its exterior. Three wicker chairs, a dusty palm in a tarnished brass pot, a strip of coconut matting with several holes in it, and a fly-blown mirror made up its furnishing. Over the whole dismal scene there brooded a smell of stale sweat, cabbage water and defective plumbing. To the right of the lobby, facing the main entrance, was the reception desk behind which sat Lamson, the owner of the hotel, a fat man, wearing a derby hat at the back of his head. He was in shirt sleeves which were rolled back to show hairy, tattooed arms.

Lamson eyed the limping man, not moving. His small, hard eyes took in the heavy, sun-tanned, scarred face, the straggling moustache and the limp.

“I want a room,” the limping man said, setting down his suitcase. “Your best room. How much?”

Lamson glanced over his shoulder at the row of keys, made a mental calculation, decided it would be worth trying and said, “You can have No. 32. I wouldn't let anyone have it. It's the best. Cost you a buck and a half a night.”

The limping man took out a wallet, selected a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on the desk.

“I'll t a k e it for four nights.”

Careful not to show his surprise, Lamson took the bill, smoothed it flat while he examined it, then satisfied that it was genuine, he folded it carefully and tucked it away in his watch pocket. He produced four grimy dollar bills and laid them regretfully down on the counter.

“Put it towards breakfast,” the limping man said, waving the bills aside. “I want service and I expect to pay for it.”

“That's okay, mister. We'll take care of you,” Lamson said. He hurriedly put the bills back into his pocket. “I can fix you a meal now if you want it.”

“I don't. Coffee and toast tomorrow morning at nine.”

“I'll fix it.” Lamson produced a dog-eared notebook that served as a register. “Have to ask you to sign in, mister; police regulations.”

The limping man wrote a name in the book with the stub of pencil that was attached to the book by a piece of string.

Lamson turned the book and squinted at what he had written.

In block letters the limping man had printed:
Harry Green, Pittsburgh.

“Okay, Mr. Green,” Lamson said. “Can I send anything up to your room? We got beer, whisky or gin.” The man who called himself Harry Green shook his head.

“No. But I want to use the phone.”

Lamson jerked his thumb towards the pay booth in the far corner.

“Go ahead. Help yourself.”

The limping man shut himself in the pay booth. He dialled a number and waited. After a delay a woman's voice said, “Mr. Delaney's residence. Who is calling?”

“This is Harry Green. Mr. Delaney is expecting me to call. Put me through please.”

“Hold a moment.”

There was a long pause, then a click sounded over the line and a man said, “This is Delaney.”

“Glorie Dane told me to call you, Mr. Delaney.”

“Yeah, that's right. You want to see me, don't you? Come over here at eight o'clock tonight. I can give you ten minutes.”

“Are you sure you want me to be seen at your place? Doesn't sound like a good idea to me.”

There was a pause.

“Doesn't it?” Ben's voice was sharp. “Then what does seem a good idea to you?”

“You might not want anyone to know I've talked to you if what could happen, happens. We could talk in a car at West Pier where we wouldn't be seen.”

Again there was a pause.

“Look, Green, if you're wasting my time,” Ben said finally, his voice coldly vicious, “you'll be sorry. I don't like time wasters.”

“I don't either. I have a proposition. It's up to you to judge if listening to it is a waste of time or not.”

“Be at West Pier at half past ten tonight,” Ben snapped and slammed down the receiver.

For a long moment the man who called himself Harry Green leaned against the side of the pay booth, the receiver in his hand while he stared through the grimy glass panel of the door into space. He experienced a feeling of triumph, mixed with uneasiness.

One more step towards the big steal, he thought: one more milestone. In four days' time he would be on the airfield waiting for the night plane to San Francisco to take off. He replaced the receiver and limped over to where he had left his suitcase.

Lamson looked up from the paper he was reading.

“Your room's at the head of the stairs. Want me to carry your bag?”

“No.”

He climbed the stairs. Facing him was a door marked 32. He pushed the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door.

He walked into a large room. A double bed with iron rails at the head and the foot, ornamented with tarnished brass knobs, stood in a corner. The carpet was threadbare and dusty. Two armchairs stood either side of the empty fireplace. A picture of a fat woman, peeling an apple and looking through a window at a hill scene, done in strident poster colours, hung over the mantelpiece.

Facing the door was a full-length mirror and setting down his suitcase and shutting the door, Harry moved to the mirror and looked at himself.

The transformation was incredible, he thought. The man he saw in the mirror had not the slightest resemblance to Harry Griffin.

Apart from the scarred, full face, his figure was that of a man over forty; thick in the middle with a distinct potbelly, whose muscular frame had turned to fat.

Harry took off his hat and trench coat, still standing before the mirror. The blond, thinning hair was a cunningly constructed hairlace wig, firmly fixed to Harry's scalp with spirit gum. The scar from his right eye to his mouth was fish skin covered with collodion.

The moustache had been built onto his upper lip, hair by hair. The shape of his face had been altered by rubber pads, fixed by suction against his gums. The projecting teeth were clipped over his own teeth. The potbelly and the heavy fat shoulders were created by aluminum devices he wore next to his skin. The limp came from wearing the right shoe built higher than the left.

Glorie had done a job. She had said he wouldn't be recognized, and Harry felt confident that even his best friend wouldn’t know him.

Glorie had taught him how to re-fix the scar and the moustache. He would have to wear the disguise for four days and five nights. He would have to wash and shave, and the moustache and the scar would have to be taken off and put back on again. At first he had been against such an elaborate disguise, but she had insisted, and when he had seen the result he had realized she was right. He could risk being seen anywhere now. She had more than fulfilled her promise. Harry Griffin had ceased to exist. Harry Green was a live, believable person.

Everything now depended on Delaney. Glorie had warned Harry again and again not to trust Delaney. He had felt irritated that she had taken so much of the initiative from him. After all, he told himself, this was his plan. Admittedly her idea that he should disguise himself before the job was a brilliant one, but why couldn't she leave the rest of the business to him? Because she had been so successful in creating Harry Green he had been patient with her, but he was glad to be on his o w n now, to handle the job himself without her. Her repeated warnings, her anxiety and her fears made him uneasy.

At ten minutes past ten, he left the hotel and walked in the driving rain to the bus station. He boarded a bus for American Avenue, left it at the terminus and walked down to Ocean Boulevard.

West Pier, used to take gamblers out to the gambling ships that were moored outside the City's limits, was dark and deserted.

On a night like this, there was little trade for the gambling ships and only two of the taxi-boats were at their stations.

Harry took shelter under the coverway to the turnstiles. The time was ten twenty-five. He lit a cigarette, aware of his tension and the steady thumping of his heart.

At twenty minutes to eleven, a mustard-coloured Cadillac, as big as a battleship, slid to a standstill outside the pier entrance, and he guessed this was Delaney's car. He limped across to it, seeing the dim outline of two men in the front and one at the back.

The non-driver in the front got out of the car: a tall, slouching figure that Harry recognized from Glorie's description to be the man who had followed her.

“You Green?” the man asked sharply.

“That's right.”

“Okay, get in the back. We'll drive around while you talk to the boss.”

He opened the rear door and Harry got into the car and sank down on to the heavily upholstered cushions. Ben Delaney, smoking a cigar, turned his head to look at him. The street lights were not bright enough for either of the men to see each other well, but Harry recognized Delaney by his trim moustache and by the way he held his head.

“Green?”

“Yes. You Mr. Delaney?”

“Who else do you imagine I'd be?” Ben snapped. “Drive slowly,” he went on to the man at the wheel. “Keep going until I tell you to stop, and keep off the main streets.” He turned slightly in his seat so he could look towards Harry who sat in the darkness looking towards him. “What's your proposition?” he demanded. “Snap it up. I have other things to do besides driving around in the rain.”

“In four days' time,” Harry said, speaking rapidly, “the Californian Air Transport Corporation are carrying a consignment of industrial diamonds worth three million dollars to San Francisco. I know which plane they will travel on and how to get hold of them. I want to sell the idea to you. This job can be handled by three men and a fourth with a car. I would be one of the men and I'd expect you to supply the other three. I would want fifty thousand dollars to do the job and no other share in the take. That's the proposition.”

Delaney was staggered. He hadn't expected such a blunt proposal. Fifty thousand bucks! This guy wasn't afraid to open his mouth.

“You don't imagine I'd be crazy enough to handle a set-up like that, do you?” he said. “Those rocks will be as hot as hell.”

“That's not my concern,” Harry said. “My job is to get the diamonds. What happens to them afterwards isn't my business. If you don't want them, say so. I can always go elsewhere. My time's just as valuable to me as yours is to you.”

Taggart, the tall, slouching man, half turned in his seat and looked at Harry. Although it was too dark to see his face, Harry could feel the threat there.

But Delaney didn't mind that kind of talk. He preferred it.

“Have you seen the diamonds?”

“No. There's nothing special about them. They are industrial diamonds: as good as cash. It just means holding them for a time, then releasing them slowly. If their distribution is handled properly there shouldn't be any risk.”

Delaney knew that was true. He had plenty of markets for industrial diamonds, and he wouldn’t have to hold on to them for long. If these diamonds were really worth what this guy said they were, he could get two million for them, even two and a half million.

But who was this guy, he wondered. He didn't like dealing with strangers. Although Glorie had introduced him, and he felt he could trust Glorie, he wondered about him. His mind shifted to the yacht he wanted. If this job came off, here would be the means to put the order in hand. They had promised delivery in twelve months. He felt a little tingle of excitement. Maybe it didn't matter who the guy was so long as he delivered.