Black Friday (6 page)

"That isn't their fault. It's Charley. You're all wrapped up with Charley. He's got you paralyzed."

She sent a smile past him. "You think so?"

He shrugged. "It figures." Then a carefully-timed pause. And then, "Wouldn't you say it figures?"

The smile faded. She went on looking past him. "I don't know," she said. "I'm trying to see it. Get it added up. It's kind of hazy, it won't build. Something's in my head and it's Charley's face, the sound of his voice, the way he moves around, Jesus Christ, that's what's blocking me, I can't get the bastard out of my head--"

Hart told himself to keep his mouth shut.

Frieda lowered her head and pressed her hands to the sides of her face. She began to breathe hard. She started to lift her head, then forced it down. And suddenly she shivered as though a chunk of ice was applied to the back of her neck. Her hands came down hard on the table top and again she lifted her head and her eyes took hold of Hart.

"You," she said. "You've done it."

He sat there passively, waiting.

"You've done what none of the others could do," she said. "You've sent Charley away for awhile."

His lips scarcely moved. "Have I? You sure?"

It seemed there was flame coming out of her face. She stood up and said, "I'll prove it."

He saw her moving toward him. He felt her hand on his wrist, her fingers sliding across his knuckles and entwining with his fingers.

He heard her saying, "Come on, let's go upstairs."

7

He sat there at the kitchen table and heard her saying it again. He was telling himself to sit there and not move a muscle. Now she was pulling at his arm and he smiled dimly and let his arm go limp. She gave a hard pull but in that instant he stiffened it and she felt the resistance.

She let go and stepped back and said, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Look at me," she said.

He looked at her. She had her hands on her bulging hips, her big breasts heaved and quivered. She spoke thickly. "Didn't you hear what I said? I said I'm ready."

"I heard you," he murmured.

"Come on," she said. "Come on, come on."

He didn't move. He went on looking at her. There was no expression on his face.

She gave him a side-glance, a frown getting started and deepening. "You want me to put it in writing or something? I'm telling you I'm ready."

"But I'm not."

She took another backward step. She blinked several times. Her lips scarcely moved as she said, "I don't get this."

"Add it up," he said.

"Add what?" She was near shrieking. "What's there to add?"

He didn't reply.

She was trying to calm down. She managed to breathe slower, and her voice quieted as she said, "What is it? Tell me. Let's get this straightened out."

"I wish we could," he said. He made it sound very soft and sincere. "I really wish we could."

She moved toward the table, pulled a chair close to him and sat down. She leaned forward and took hold of his hands. "Tell me," she said. "What's bothering you?"

"The blues," he said. He arranged a sad smile on his face. "I got the blues."

Frieda frowned again. "What do you mean? What kind of blues?"

"The time element," he said. "Let's call it the Calendar Blues."

She waited for him to explain that.

He said, "It goes something like this. You want me to show you a good time. You want us to go upstairs and have ourselves some fun. Well, that's all right. There's nothing wrong with that. Except I'm just not up to it. I'm thinking in terms of the calendar and how many days I'll stay alive."

She winced slightly. She gave him a side-glance and said, "That's a happy thought."

"Can't help it. It's there."

"But why? What makes you think--?"

"It's the situation," he said. "I'm here in this house like merchandise sold on a time-trial. If I meet the requirements, I'm in. If not--" He shrugged.

Frieda's eyes narrowed just a little. "You worried you won't make the grade?"

He didn't answer. He knew it was time to let her do the talking.

She said, "I can't give you no guarantees, only way I can put it is I'm betting you'll be around a long time. When you first came here I wouldn't of given a dime for your chances. But then I watched your stock going up with Charley. For instance, that overcoat business. You said you stole the coat and Mattone called you a liar, so Charley phoned the store and sure enough the coat was hot. That was something. That put you on first base."

He shrugged again. "It's a long trip to home plate."

"I think you're getting there," she said.

He waited. He wondered if it would come now.

And then he heard her saying, "What really sent your stock way up was that deal with the wallet, when you came back and handed him the money. That made a big hit with Charley. Another thing. The thing with Paul. When you helped Charley to put him in the furnace. You did what Rizzio couldn't do, what Mattone couldn't do. I think that put you safe on third."

Now he could feel it coming and he had to restrain himself to keep from leaning forward expectantly.

"So what it amounts to," she said, "you're gradually proving you can meet the requirements. You're getting it across that you're really aprofessional."

And there it was. She'd given him the tip-off he'd been waiting for. She told him he would stay alive just as long as Charley had him checked and approved as a true-blue outlaw.

She said, "You get the drift? That's the big thing, that professional angle. Because we're strictly professional and we ain't got room here for no amateurs."

There was the slightest trace of challenge in the way she said it. He could see her eyes getting narrow again. He said to himself, Don't underestimate the brains of this girl; that head of hers is no empty tool box.

Frieda was saying, "You told Charley you're wanted for murder in New Orleans. You told him the set-up, what you did and why you did it and maybe by this time he's bought your story. Unless, of course--"

He waited for her to go on. She was looking at him and her eyes remained narrow.

"Unless what?" he murmured.

"Maybe you're bluffing."

He frowned.

"If you're bluffing," she said, "it's a cinch Charley's gonna find out. Like I told you, it just ain't possible to fool Charley."

He erased the frown. There was nothing special on his face as he said, "I gave him a few facts, that's all. A few straight facts. It happened in New Orleans, it was my brother who died, it was me who did it, and it was murder."

"You said you did it for money," she said. "And that makes it professional. If you'd done it for any other reason, it wouldn't have been professional. Most murders are strictly hate jobs. Or love jobs. Or something you do when you go crazy for a minute and then you're sorry. But when it's done for money it's purely a business transaction, it puts you in a special bracket, it makes you really a professional."

He thought: She's got me, she set the trap very nicely and I'll be damned if she hasn't got me.

"The way it stacks up," she said, "the fact you murdered somebody, that ain't important to Charley. Or who you murdered. Or the way you did it. Only thing Charley wants to know is why you did it. So you tell him you did it for money. And if he buys that, you're safe, you got a membership card, you're really in. But on the other hand, if he finds out you didn't do it for the money--"

"You think I was bluffing about that?"

"I don't think anything," Frieda said. "All I'm saying is, if you told him the truth you got nothing to worry about. And if there's nothing to worry about, there's no reason to have the blues."

"You're right." He grinned. "They're gone away. No more blues."

She grinned back at him. "You sure?"

He nodded slowly.

She got up from the chair. "Well," she said, "I'm still in that same condition. I'm ready."

He stood up. "So am I."

She moved toward him and put her arm around his middle. His hand settled on the solid fat meat of her hip. The only feeling he had was the feeling of taking a ride he didn't want to take. But the thing to do was take it and like it, or anyway try to make her believe he was liking it. He thought: This is a very hungry woman and she won't settle for anything less than a first-class job. You disappoint her, you'll really be singing the blues. She's found the loophole in your New Orleans news item and all she needs to do is put a little bug in Charley's ear and next on the agenda is he does some checking and discovers you told him just one tiny untruth, you said you murdered your brother for money and Christ knows it wasn't for money, so when Charley finds out you're not a professional it's definitely the wind-up, he'll give you a kindly smile, a gentle goodbye, he'll put the bullet in you veryquick and merciful. Well, all right then, we'll try to handle it so it won't wind up that way. We'll try to keep Frieda happy. It's sure taking us a long time to get upstairs. That's your fault, you're walking too slow. Let's negotiate these stairs a little faster. Another thing, let's give her a smile, get it sort of hot and eager, come on, put it across like they do in the movies when it's just pretending but they gotta make it seem real, like the way they do it when they're aiming for an Academy Award, but then if they don't get it they can try again next year, the lucky bastards, but for you it's just this one try and if you don't make good it's all options dropped, everything dropped, everything finished. Well now, here we are upstairs in the hail and there's the bedroom. Let's stop here just a moment or so and hold her a little tighter, let's give it some preliminary action, a blazing kiss deep to her mouth to let her know what's coming later. Well, that wasn't bad. Looks as though she liked that.

Frieda was taking off her clothes as they entered the room.

8

It was a few hours later and Hart sat on the couch in the living room, reading a comic magazine. There was nothing else to read. Soon Charley came in with Mattone and Rizzio.

Their overcoats were flecked with snow. They took off the coats, doing it slowly, somewhat tiredly. Hart guessed they'd had a busy afternoon. Rizzio said, "I'm gonna take a nap before dinner," and he went upstairs. Mattone waited a few moments, then said, "I'll get some shut-eye, too," and moved toward the couch. Hart got up and took a chair on the other side of the room. Charley stood in the middle of the floor, pulling a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his suit. He unfolded the paper and stood there reading some penciled notations and a roughly drawn diagram. From where Hart was sitting it was possible to see the diagram. It showed the exterior of a large mansion and the surrounding estate, with tennis courts and a stable and a four-car garage.

Some moments passed, and then without saying a word Charley came toward him and handed him the sheet of paper. Hart leaned back in the chair, puffing gently at the cigarette, seeing what was on the paper but not getting anything from it, getting only the soft but steady pressure from Charley's eyes aiming at his face. He knew that Charley was looking for a reaction and he told himself the best reaction was no reaction at all.

For the better part of a minute he continued to focus on the diagram and the notes. Then, looking up at Charley, making it quiet and technical, "This looks very juicy."

Charley nodded. "The Kenniston estate. Ever hear of the Kennistons?"

Hart made a negative gesture.

"Society people," Charley said. "They really have it. Let's say around thirty, forty million. They got a lot of it invested in art treasures. Mostly oriental stuff, like jade and rose quartz and ivory. You familiar with that material?"

"A little," Hart said. "When'd you pick up on this?"

"Couple months ago. They loaned the collection to the Parkway Museum for a three-week exhibit. I went down and had a look at it. Mostly small items, about the size of your thumb. In terms of antique value it amounts to a big haul. Some of them things go back two, three thousand years."

Hart looked at the sheet of paper. He didn't say anything.

Charley went on, "As it stands now, it's around a million dollars' worth of goods. If we get it, I figure it'll bring around three fifty."

"That's high," Hart said. He wondered if it sounded professional.

"Yeah, I know it sounds high," Charley said. "But there's a hungry market for this kind of merchandise. They lost it ages ago and now they want it back."

"China?"

"Red China."

"Through what channel?"

"They got some people working here," Charley said. "They got other people in South America. And some in the islands. It goes from one place to another until it gets to China."

Hart glanced again at the sheet of paper. He said softly, very softly, "Three hundred and fifty grand."

"At least that," Charley murmured. He gestured toward the paper. "You like the layout?"

"I don't know yet," Hart said carefully, but with the feeling he was saying the wrong thing. And then, to himself, What else could you say?

Charley was saying, "We do it Friday. It's gonna be Friday night."

Without sound Hart said: Today is Wednesday. It's Wednesday and then comes Thursday and then Friday.

His eyes hit the diagram on the paper and stayed there and then it seemed the penciled drawing of the mansion was rising from the paper and moving toward his face. Then it was really the interior of the mansion and they were in there going for the art treasures, he was doing everything wrong and demonstrating his lack of professional acumen. Charley watched him and smiled at him and when they were outside and in the car, Charley showed him the gun and gave him a final smile and then shot him.

Friday, Hart thought. He remembered the dateline on today's
Inquirer
. It was January 11. So Friday would be the 13th. It had a black sound and he was telling himself that Friday would be a black day. But maybe not. Maybe if he could--

"The hell with it," he said aloud.

"What?" Charley murmured. "What's that?"

He grinned at Charley. He said, "I was thinking, some people are superstitious. I mean about Friday the thirteenth."

Charley was quiet for a long moment. He looked down at the carpet. He said, "Are you superstitious?"

"No," Hart said.

"Neither am I." Charley turned and gestured toward the couch where Mattone was sound asleep. "That one is."

"Friday the thirteenth," Hart said. "They call iflBlack Friday. You think he'll worry about that?"

"Let him worry. He's always worrying, anyway. Not a day passes he don't find something to worry about."

"All right." Hart gave a slight shrug. "It's all right with me."

Charley looked past him. "I wonder."

Hart grinned again. "I told you I wasn't superstitious."

"Yes, you told me." Charley went on looking past him. "You been telling me a lot of things. The more things you tell me, the more I wonder?"

Hart held onto the grin, twisted it just a little, and said, "If you don't like it, Charley, you know what you can do."

Charley looked at him. For a very long moment Charley didn't speak. Then softly, "Maybe I don't know what to do. You wanna tell me what to do?"

The grin stayed there. And his voice was just as soft as Charley's. "You can go to hell, that's what."

"You kidding?"

"No, I'm not kidding," Hart said. "You called me a liar and I told you where to go."

"Don't get worked up," Charley said. "I didn't call you a liar."

"Look, Charley." He stood up. "I don't like to be insulted. You can dish it out to Mattone, to Ri.zzio, to anyone you choose. If they wanna take it, that's their business. But I won't take it. I never take it from anybody and I'm not taking it from you."

Charley inclined his head and gave Hart a slow up-anddown look. "Tell me something--" It was almost a whisper. "What are you trying to get across?"

"You want me to say it again?"

"Just say what you really mean."

"That's another insult." Hart's mouth scarcely moved. "You're piling them up, Charley."

Again Charley gave him the slow up-and-down and then he said, "It's too bad. I didn't think we'd have this. I was getting to like you."

There was a trace of honest sadness in Charley's tone. Hart began to feel a stiffness in his spine, he told himself he'd taken it maybe a little too far. Somewhere between his spine and his brain he could hear Frieda's voice again and she was saying: You can't fool Charley.

He heard Charley saying, "I actually figured we'd get to be chums."

Hart grinned again. "Go fishing together?"

"And skiing. I've always wanted to try skis but I never had anybody to go with. You knows it's lousy when you don't have a chum. Last time I had a real chum, I think I was twelve years old."

"But now, like the Bible says, it's time to put away childish things."

"You're so right," Charley said. "When you grow up it's a cold world and the only thing you can trust is an adding machine."

It was an opening, and Hart plunged into it. "I'm not asking you to trust me, Charley. I don't trust myself, not completely anyway. It all depends on the time and the place. I might pull a caper next month I wouldn't do today. But that's for the future, and what we're dealing with now is now. I have no plans for now except to be on your payroll and do what you say."

"Only for now," Charley mused. "That's putting things on a short-term contract."

"It's the best I can offer," Hart said. It sounded genuine and as the words came out he knew it wouldn't need more words.

Charley said, "You know something, Al? I think you made a sale there."

Hart shrugged. He pressed his cigarette into an ashtray. His other hand held the sheet of paper that showed the Kenniston estate in Wyncote. He looked down at the diagram of the mansion and frowned slightly and said, "Is this according to scale?"

"Not hardly," Charley said. "But I think you can estimate some fifty yards to each half-inch. From the gate to the front entrance it looks to be some fifteen hundred yards."

"That's a long walk."

"Yeah," Charley murmured dryly. "It might be a long run."

"They got dogs?"

"We saw two," Charley said. "They were big ones. Bad ones. But that won't be no problem, we got ourselves a dog expert, Rizzio. He's really an expert with dogs."

"What are these dogs?"

"Dobermans."

"He'd better be an expert," Hart said.

From the kitchen, Frieda was shouting, "Come on in, dinner's ready."

The six of them were seated at the table in the small dining room. They'd had tomato juice and now they were eating T-bone steak and salad with French dressing. It was a fine steak, cooked medium-rare and they were all busy with it.

Hart sat next to Rizzio, the two women sat across from him, and Mattone and Charley faced each other from the opposite ends of the table. Mattone was eating with his head down close to the plate and suddenly he raised his head and glowered at the table. Then he glowered at Frieda.

"What's the matter?" Frieda asked, her mouth crammed with steak and salad and buttered roll.

"Where's the A-1 sauce?" Mattone demanded.

"Look in the kitchen," Frieda said. "On the shelf near the icebox."

Mattone looked at Myrna. "Get it for me."

"Get it yourself," Myrna said.

She said it very quietly. But there was something about the way she said it. They'd all stopped eating and they were looking at her.

"Get me the A-1 sauce," Mattone said. "And I'm not gonna ask you again."

"That's all right with me," Myrna said.

Mattone put down his knife and fork.

"All right," Charley said. "All right."

"No," Mattone said. "No, Charley. It ain't all right."

Charley looked up at the ceiling. "Get him the sauce," he said.

Myrna didn't move. She had the knife going into her steak while she steadied it with the fork. No one else was eating and they were all watching her as she sliced the steak. She wasn't even looking at the steak. It was hard to tell what she was looking at. And Hart began to have the feeling that her refusal to wait on Mattone had nothing to do with Mattone.

Rizzio pushed back his chair. "I'll get it," he said, and he started to rise. But Mattone pushed him back and said, "You sit there. She'll get it," and then Frieda said, "Aw, the hell with this. I'll get it," but Mattone motioned her to stay where she was. Mattone said, "She's gonna get that bottle of sauce for me, you hear? Her job here is house cleaning and helping with the cooking and waiting on the table. She gets paid for it and she's gonna do it."

Mattone's mouth was clamped very tightly and he was looking at Myrna. He had his hands gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white and getting whiter. Charley was watching him, studying him, and then Charley started to get up, but just then Mattone made his move, leaping up and then sideways with his arm shooting out, his fingers closing on Myrna's wrist and twisting hard so that she dropped the knife. But her other hand held onto the fork and as Mattone went on twisting her wrist it seemed she didn't feel the pain, she made no sound, her face was expressionless while she hauled off with the fork and then jabbed it into his arm just below the shoulder.

"Jesus Christ," Mattone screamed. He staggered back, grabbing at his punctured arm. He bumped against his chair, knocked it over, then stumbled over it and went to the floor.

Rizzio was up, Frieda was up, and they helped Mattone off the floor. Charley was looking at Myrna, and Hart was looking at the bloody prongs of the fork in her hand. Now it was quiet in the room and they were removing Mattone's jacket. His shirtsleeve near the shoulder was getting drenched bright red, the blood was coming out fast. His eyes popped as he watched his shirtsleeve getting redder, the stain widening. The injured arm hung loose and his other arm quivered as he started to unbutton his shirt. His fingers fumbled with the buttons and Frieda grunted impatiently, stepped in close, pulled the shirt free of his trousers, got a firm hold on the white broadcloth, and ripped it up the front.

"My shirt," Mattone wailed. "You're tearing my shirt--"

Frieda went on ripping the shirt. She sliced it all the way up the front, then over the shoulder and down the back.

"You've ruined it," Mattone screeched. He sounded almost hysterical. "Imported broadcloth--twenty-three fifty--it was made to measure--"