Operation Whiplash (12 page)

“It wouldn’t be for the average citizen faced with such a charge in view of Colisimo’s documentation. Do you suppose he found out belatedly that you swung the kind of financial weight that wouldn’t let you be bulled around?”

“It depends on the bull,” my redhead said softly. She reached across the front seat and squeezed my thigh.

I patted her hand, but almost absentmindedly. “I think it’s past time I made a phone call my lumpenproleteriat brain is telling me I should have made a long time ago,” I said.

“You mean right now?”

“At the next roadside phone.”

“Who’s the call to?”

“A man I’ve neglected for quite a long time.”

Hazel asked no more questions when I didn’t elaborate. Kaiser leaned over the back seat to which he had been banished for the return trip and licked the back of my neck. Hazel pushed him back onto the rear seat. I lit another cigarette from the stub of the first one while I tried to guess what Colisimo’s reaction would be to the events of the past two nights. Bolts’s abrupt and deadly removal of Rubelli from his organization almost surely signified Colisimo’s taking a personal hand.

No one could identify me as the miscreant in the separate affairs that had taken place at the Barbarossa Restaurant and the Deakin Trucking Company warehouse, but it was highly doubtful that Colisimo was going to be in any doubt about where the trouble had originated. He had lost the lid on the trash can of his Hudson, Florida, undertaking, and the man wouldn’t be Bolts Colisimo if he didn’t react. Somehow I had to—

“There’s a phone booth,” Hazel interrupted my thoughts.

The lighted booth was a few feet off the road in a small enclave carved out of shrubbery. “This might take a little while,” I said as I opened the car door. “Roust Kaiser from the back seat and catch yourself forty winks.”

“I will if I feel sleepy,” she answered.

I reached into the glove compartment and removed the small leather sack of quarters I always kept there. In the phone booth I dialed the long-distance operator. I cracked the booth door open so the light went out. “I want to call Rudy Hernandez, person-to-person, at the Golden Peacock Nightclub in Mobile, Alabama, operator,” I said. “I don’t have the phone number.”

“One moment, sir.”

While I waited I returned to the line of thought I’d been pursuing when Hazel’s announcing the roadside phone booth had interrupted me: Bolts Colisimo’s reaction to recent events. One loose thread bothered me more and more. Colisimo hadn’t been able to get his hands on Hazel, and he hadn’t been able to get his hands on me, but he sure as hell could get his hands on Jed Raymond. It hadn’t seemed important at the time when I used Jed’s name to get Casey Deakin to talk to me, but it would be foolish to count on Deakin’s not repeating the information to Rubelli while Robin Ford was playing inquisitioner. It was beginning to seem—

“Sir?” the operator’s voice said in my ear.

“Go ahead, operator.”

“I’m ringing your number.”

The rings continued for so long I was afraid the nightclub had closed for the evening, but finally someone answered. I listened to the operator telling the answerer that she had a person-to-person call for Rudy Hernandez.

“This is Hernandez,” Rudy said. He sounded so grumpy I wondered if he’d been balling one of the waitresses on the couch in his office.

“All ready, sir,” the operator said to me.

“Hey, Rudy,” I began. “About that piece of real estate. The surveyor says it doesn’t measure up to the deed. I don’t think—” We both heard the click as the operator cut herself out of the circuit. “Okay, Rudy,” I began again. “This is the.41 caliber man who picked up an over-and-under and a little thin steel from you last week.”

“So what?” Rudy rumbled. “What the hell d’you want at this time of night?”

“I want The Schemer’s current telephone number.”

“Jesus,” Rudy sighed heavily, but I heard him put down the phone while he presumably looked in his wallet for the information.

Robert “The Schemer” Frenz was an unusual man. He was a professional planner who set up bank jobs for a fee or a percentage of the gross. He would lay out the entire operation, supplying escape routes, local police procedures, and the most precise details on bank floor plans, alarm systems, and personnel. He never took part in a job, but his information was always impeccable. One of my most successful operations had been laid out by The Schemer, the job that had brought me to Hudson in the first place.

The Schemer changed phone numbers frequently, but there were three or four places like the Golden Peacock around the country where his current number could always be obtained if you had the right credentials.

“Yeah, you there, Forty-One Caliber,” Rudy’s voice came back on the line. “It’s Area Code 301, 589-5288.” I closed the booth door to get enough light to jot it down.

“Thanks, man,” I said. “I’ll be checking in again with you one of these days.”

He grunted and hung up.

I paid for the call when the operator came back on the line, then asked her to dial the number Rudy had just supplied. It went through more quickly. A feminine voice answered by repeating the called number. “This is Carl Kessler,” I said, employing a name I’d used with The Schemer before. “I’d like a call-back.” I gave her the booth phone number and hung up.

Robert Frenz operated behind a screen of answering services and call-backs. If he didn’t like the sound of the call-in, he made no call-back. He was unreachable when he wanted to be.

Once again I dropped quarters to match the payment the operator asked for, then waited for Frenz’s response. It came in about three minutes. “Kessler?” the smoothly calm, familiar voice inquired.

“That’s right.” In the background I heard a mechanical chunking sound followed by the noise of rapid-staccato typing much faster than a human could manage. I wondered if Frenz had gone computerized. It would be just like him.

“What happened at Massillon?” Frenz asked me.

Massillon was a bad memory from the past. Five of us had taken on a bank there. “The score was three to two against,” I answered. We’d gotten two lawmen.

“What was the first name of the other survivor?”

“Barney.”

“Correct, Kessler. Hang on. Pay no attention to the static.”

I waited. The telephone earpiece crackled, and when Frenz spoke again his voice sounded as though it were coming from inside a long, hollow pipe. It was an eerie, unreal tone, and I wondered if The Schemer had become so sophisticated that he had installed some sort of one-way scrambling device for his protection. “What do you need?” the mechanical voice asked me.

“What do you have on the Suncoast Trust Company in Hudson, Florida?”

“One moment.”

Again I waited. I didn’t want anything on the Suncoast Trust Company, but I knew Frenz would refuse to answer the next question I planned to ask unless he thought it was in connection with his specialty, setting up a bank job.

“I have almost nothing worth mentioning,” the hollow-sounding voice said. “Just a floor plan that shows no wiring details. I can’t even guarantee its accuracy since I never checked it out. Sorry, I can’t help with a full-scale scheme.”

Everything was a scheme to Frenz, never a plan or a job or an operation. That was how he’d obtained his nickname. “But you can work one up for me?” I asked.

“Of course, but it will take about a week.”

“Something that goes with it that would take a lot less time could help me make up my mind about it,” I said casually. “I have a couple of would-be partners for the job. In fact, they came to me with it. The names are Angelo Colisimo and Mario Rubelli. Do you have anything on them?”

There was a short pause. “Those names sound like The Family,” Frenz said at last.

His voice was filled with distaste. I knew that The Schemer walked a narrow path with people like Colisimo. Frenz had to take special care to avoid tapping one of their holdings. The Family types had so infiltrated legitimate business that it was difficult sometimes to keep from stepping on their toes. I knew that several years previously Frenz had set up a beautiful savings and loan association job, not knowing it belonged to a branch of The Family. The three unfortunates who pulled it weren’t very neat-looking when the fuzz found their bodies in a creek a couple of nights later.

“That’s one of the reasons I’m calling you,” I said.

“My advice to you is to cut out right now,” Frenz replied.

“The job really is a plum, Schemer. Or it could be if they’re not trying to set me up for something,” I said.

“Are, we talking no scheme, no pay?” he asked. “My time is worth something.”

“Sure it is,” I tried to soothe him. “I’ll pay you for any information you provide whether the job goes through or not.”

“A thousand?”

I hesitated. Bolts Colisimo was getting to be an expensive proposition. “I’ll mail it to you,” I promised finally.

“To Robert Adair, General Delivery, Main Post Office, Washington, D.C.,” Frenz said briskly. “But I’ll tell you, Kessler, if your track record wasn’t good with me I wouldn’t even touch it.” Frenz’ tone was positive. “Now what do you want, exactly?”

“Recent background,” I said. “Anything you feel will help me make up my mind. If you can do it in an hour, I’ll wait right here for your call,” I tried to push him along. “This could be a good touch if the parts fit.”

“I’ll call you back,” he answered.

I swung the booth door open all the way back to keep the light off after I stepped outside. I wanted no late-night drivers pulling in and pre-empting the phone, interfering with The Schemer’s call-back. I stood for a moment savoring the warm night air, laden with a piney odor from the grove of trees surrounding the booth. An occasional car rushed by on the highway, headlights boring the night. We had run out of the fog zone twenty miles back down the road, and the stars shone brightly overhead. Somewhere in the tree belt an owl hooted mournfully. After a moment another answered, and they carried on an intermittent duet.

Kaiser was asleep in the front seat and Hazel in the back when I returned to the Ford. I opened the rear door and climbed in beside her. She roused slightly, wriggled over to make room for me, kissed me sleepily, and fell asleep against me, with her head on my shoulder. I held her in my arms, my hands tracing the broad contours of her back and the swelling rondures of her ample hips as far as I could reach them. Trucks roared by scant yards away, the suction caused by the rush of air rocking the Ford’s back seat.

For the first time in days my brain was functioning at something less than racetrack speed. I continued to stroke Hazel’s warm back. When Frenz called back with his acquired information, I’d do what I had to do. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I overdid the relaxation.

The imperious ring of the telephone woke me from a light doze. I disengaged myself from Hazel without waking her, got out of the car, and went to the booth. “Kessler,” I said when I picked up the receiver.

The phone again sounded as though our connection were being put through an intricate switching system. “I’ve got two words of advice for you, Kessler,” Frenz’ mechanical voice said at last.

“Yes?”

“Cut out.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I protested. “Even rattlesnakes can be useful sometimes.”

“Not that pair of rattlesnakes.” The Schemer sounded positive. “You did say they came to you? That suggests they’ve got something going where you’ll be used, but not necessarily benefited. Rubelli is a killer, pure and simple. Colisimo’s supposed to have brains, but that seems questionable because of some of his activities. Not many maverick types are found in The Family, but Colisimo’s one. He’s tried several—”

“Maverick?” I tried to slow him down.

“Yes. Most Family operations permit no deviation from the presented script. Lately Colisimo hasn’t held to this. He takes care of Family business, all right, but he also sets up his own deals outside the code. He seems to think—”

“How does The Family feel about what he’s doing, Schemer?”

“They don’t like it. They wouldn’t lift a finger to help him awhile back when he got in trouble over one of his outside activities. He did three and a half years, very unusual for a Family type in his situation.”

“What does he have backing him in his private operations?”

“Six or seven men loyal to him personally.”

Six or seven men. Rubelli was gone, courtesy of Colisimo. I’d scragged Chris. There was no way Frank could have escaped when the falling fire escape went under the truck. The truck driver, Tony, wouldn’t be in very good shape after his brodie into the windshield. That left only the other two goons I’d seen at the Barbarossa. That was probably the extent of Colisimo’s private gang.

And Colisimo himself.

The word that Colisimo was a maverick explained his matching himself against the federals in the gunrunning scheme, something totally contrary to Family protocol. It gave me hope that if I dealt with him myself there’d be no Family aftermath. If Frenz was right, there should be a few upper-echelon Family members who wouldn’t be averse to Colisimo’s being found in a hole with shit in his face.

“Thanks, Schemer,” I said at last. “I think I’ll pass on this one.”

“Now you’re showing your usual good judgment,” the hollow-sounding voice said approvingly. “Now if you’re really in the mood for action, I happen to have packaged a beautiful little scheme, ideal for a two-man team. If you could locate Slater Holmes—”

“It would be quite a trip, Schemer,” I interrupted. “Slater was machine-gunned in Havana with two million still covered with museum dirt in the back of the bullet-ridden truck.”

“Ahhhhhh,” the voice regretted. “I’ll update my file. A pity. There’s so little fresh talent coming up the ladder.”

“I’ll send the money,” I said. “And I’ll be in touch.”

“Do that,” Frenz said cheerfully.

A drop of rain fell on the back of my hand as I went back to the car.

Fast-moving clouds were beginning to obscure the stars when I slipped under the wheel. Hazel was still asleep in the back seat. Kaiser sat up beside me and surveyed the road through the windshield. A glance at my watch showed it was 4:20
A.M
.

Frenz’ information had left me in an ambiguous frame of mind. It was a relief to know that Colisimo was a maverick who could call for little or no syndicate help for his own disrupted operations set up outside syndicate channels. It meant Hazel and I wouldn’t have to be hiding from one branch or another of the omnipresent Family groups for the rest of our lives.

It meant also, though, that Bolts Colisimo must now be a desperate man. The men loyal to him personally had been reduced to a skeleton crew. Nothing in his record indicated that Colisimo was the type to accept such a state of affairs without rebuttal.

A few hard drops of rain began to spatter the windshield. A puff of damp, rain-laden air came in the open car window, which I then rolled up. The rain increased in intensity, and the car swerved in a sudden gust of wind. Dust blew across the highway, followed by tufts of grass, twigs, and small branches broken from trees. A sharp clap of thunder crackled overhead, and zigzag lightning streaks rippled through the abrupt blackness of the sky. We’d run into a Gulf squall of the type that can be so devastating on the open water.

The wind blew fiercely and the rain came down as though a giant hand were dumping endless buckets of whitish-looking water. Visibility diminished sharply as the headlights’ range shrank under the onslaught of wind-driven rain. The thunder grew louder, and the lightning increased. I slowed the car almost to a crawl, peering through the nearly opaque glass in an effort to find a place where I could get off the highway and avoid being run down from behind.

The car rocked wildly in each renewed gust of wind. I heard Hazel stirring in the back seat as I risked a cautious edging off the road into a lighter-looking area which was seemingly unbordered by the usual trees along the edge of the road. I pulled off until I felt the wheels leave the macadam, then stopped, wary of an unseen ditch. As though the application of the brakes had been a signal, the rain came down in an absolute torrent, its loud thrumming an unpleasant dissonance against the body of the car. Kaiser looked out at the rain, looked at me, then whined.

“We’ve got to wait it out, boy,” I told him.

“Are you sure you didn’t drive into a waterfall?” Hazel inquired from the back seat. Her tone was only half-joking.

“No waterfalls shown on the road map,” I assured her.

She tried unavailingly to peer out a side window. “This is sure a ding-whistler of a thunderstorm,” she observed after a particularly loud clap of thunder which appeared to be a foot above the car roof. “And I don’t like it.”

“Okay, I’ll turn it off,” I said. I had noticed that the deluge was slackening slightly. In another moment the decrease was noticeable to Hazel, and in a third the rain almost stopped. The car’s headlights pierced the night again, disclosing that I had almost driven into a roadside picnic bench. I backed up and got out onto the highway again while the world around us dripped steadily.

“Thanks, magician,” Hazel said.

“Think nothing of it,” I returned airily.

For a couple of miles, water spurted from beneath the front wheels in a bow wave as we proceeded, but then the highway began to drain. Wind and rain-driven debris littered the road, and I steered around several larger broken-off branches. Florida’s sandy soil drains efficiently, though. By the time we passed the Lazy Susan Motel, south of Hudson, the countryside was sodden but no longer under water.

I drove on into town.

My destination was Hazel’s cabin.

All we had to do now was get out of Florida. If Colisimo didn’t have us in his hands, he had nothing. Now that I fully appreciated the fact, Hudson held no charm. We’d throw our combined few items of clothing into a couple of bags and take off before the rising sun lightened the horizon.

But man proposes and God disposes.

When we passed Jed Raymond’s office, I saw a light.

Two cars sat on the street out in front, Jed’s yellow Porsche and a car I didn’t recognize.

Even for Jed a light on at five in the morning was a bit much. And that second car—

Fifty yards beyond Jed’s office I pulled the Ford into the curb. “What is it?” Hazel asked at once. “Why did you stop?”

“There’s a light on in Jed’s office,” I said casually. I was already getting out of the Ford. “Something I should ask him before I forget it.” More than most women, Hazel has a sensory-radar system I didn’t care to test at the moment. “Lock up the car,” I said over my shoulder. I turned and closed the door as quietly as I could, aware how sound travels in the mild Florida night.

I walked back up the street, avoiding an occasional puddle. Toward the east the first hint of dawn was in the sky, but in Hudson’s business section it was still full night. Streetlights and an occasional store-light reflected from the wet street.

I circled the unknown car to make sure no one was hiding in it. I stood on the sidewalk in front of the first-floor variety store and listened. I could hear nothing upstairs. Jed might have a girl up there, and my appearance could earn me a cold welcome.

I moved toward the weatherbeaten wooden stairs leading upward to Jed’s second-floor office.

And at once the die was cast.

Damp spots on the worn stair treads showed where large shoes had squeezed excess moisture from the wood. Someone had climbed those stairs just minutes ago.

I climbed the stairs, too. The footsteps ended in front of Jed’s office door. I could hear voices now, although not clearly enough to distinguish what was being said.

Voices, and sounds.

A sobbing moan split the night air. It was so animalistic it raised the hackles on the back of my neck. I had a sudden vision of Casey Deakin’s battered features superimposed upon Jed Raymond’s handsome young face. Or Nate Pepperman’s knife-sliced countenance.

The voices rose. A scratchy-sounding one was speaking. “—boss says Drake’s been seen witcha, Raymond, so if ya wanna look nice to the girls tell us where to find ‘im, like right now!”

“Lemme give him a little more of the treatment,” a second voice said eagerly.

Two voices.

There should have been three, if my mental countdown of Colisimo’s gang was correct. But there was no time to check the accuracy of my arithmetic.

I drew my automatic.

“Give it to ‘im, Carlie!” Scratchy rasped. “No, I’ll do it!”

“Okay, Ricardo,” the second voice said, plainly disappointed.

There was a gasp, and Jed’s voice rose in a half-scream. “I don’t
know
where he is!” he shrieked. “I don’t know!” Even through the closed door I could hear his sobbing breath. “I already told you I don’t
know!”

I didn’t try the doorknob. I didn’t want to lose time finding out it was locked. I backed off two steps, then charged. In the second before my shoulder hit the door I heard Jed whimper.

The door burst inward with a shriek of shattered wood. Across the counter I could see the tableau I’d expected. A tall, greasy-looking type, waving a thin, five-inch blade in front of Jed’s white, terrified face, was standing in front of the office swivel chair in which Jed was being held down by a second man holding both Jed’s wrists, twisting each in an effective double armlock.

Little things stood out in the instant the knifeman was turning to confront me. The tip of his knife had a droplet of blood on it. The shirt covering Jed’s chest was slit and blood oozed through it. A single thin-looking gash ran down Jed’s left cheek where the point of the knife had been traced across it.

I put a hand on the counter and vaulted over it. “It’s ‘im!” the knifeman rasped, his face contorted in a grotesque look of surprise. I wasn’t too concerned about Ricardo, the knifeman whose voice had just identified him. I was watching the man behind Jed. He had already released Jed’s wrists, and his right hand darted inside his jacket.

The gunman crouched to put Jed between himself and me. I went around the desk, away from the knifeman, toward the gunman. Not even the butt of his gun had cleared his shoulder holster when I fired. The Parabellum cartridge seriously disarranged Carlie the gunman’s face. He went down while still trying to draw. He rolled over partway onto his side, then was still.

Jed was still sitting in his chair, crying hysterically. He kept rubbing his hands over his face as though trying to reassure himself that it was still there. “I’m s-sorry. I’m s-sorry,” he kept repeating in a sobbing monotone. “Th-they were g-going to c-carve up my f-face just like they did N-Nate Pepperman’s.”

Ricardo, the knifeman, was staring at the fallen Carlie in disbelief. The knife was slack in his hand, its point dipping toward the floor. If he had a gun he’d forgotten all about it. The knife-point came up, and he began to shuffle toward me, ignoring the automatic in my hand.

“Drop it!” I ordered, motioning with the automatic toward the knife. I doubt he heard me. His slow brain was still trying to catch up with the sudden reversal in his personal fortune and the necessity for avenging his friend. I could see him draw a deep breath.

“Drop it!” I commanded again.

His knees tensed, and I leveled the automatic. Then his dull-looking features showed a glow of excitement, and he took a step backward, not forward. Ricardo and Jed, still sniffling in his chair, were both staring at the shattered door which was behind me. “Hazel!” I heard Jed gasp.

I spun around.

She was standing just inside the shattered door.

There was blood spattered on the front of her dress.

Then I saw the man behind her holding a gun in her back.

Short and fat. Pouches under bulging eyes whose dark pupils were framed by whites with a yellow cast. Long sideburns of gray hair beneath a broad-brim straw hat. Tailor-made suit, cranberry-colored shirt, white silk, wide-knotted tie. And most incongruously of all at that hour of the morning—in the lapel buttonhole of the rumpled but expensive-looking suit, a fresh-looking pure white carnation.

Angelo “Bolts” Colisimo.

He was the reason I’d checked out the back seat of the strange car. I would have liked to check further, but what I’d heard outside Jed’s door had prevented. Now Colisimo was in an excellent position to make me sorry I hadn’t taken the time.

“He smashed the car window with the butt of his gun,” Hazel said quietly. “And when Kaiser tried to jump into the back seat with me, he hit him on the head twice.” She touched the front of her dress. “This is Kaiser’s, not mine.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said.

“Shut up, both of you!” Colisimo growled from behind Hazel. “Where’s Carlie?” he demanded of Ricardo.

“Behind the desk,” Ricardo answered. “This guy shot him.”

“Who the hell are you?” I asked Colisimo as though I didn’t know.

He sneered at me, then jammed his gun into Hazel’s back, forcing a grunt from her as she took an involuntary step forward. “You, Drake,” Colisimo snarled. “Put that gun on the counter. Slowly. An’ goddam carefully, if you care anything at all about what happens to this big-assed redhead.”

I moved toward the counter in slow motion, itching to get a snapshot off. Hazel’s tall figure obscured the short-statured Colisimo almost completely, though. He was deftly using her as a shield. With the greatest reluctance I laid the automatic down on the counter top and then slowly backed away.

“Now that’s a damn nice change of scenery!” Ricardo declared jubilantly. Knife firmly clasped in his palm, he moved toward me.

“Hold it, you jerk!” Colisimo said hurriedly. “Don’t get between me an’ him!”

“Just let me touch ‘im up a little, Bolts,” Ricardo whined.

“When I say so, an’ not before,” his master growled. Ricardo’s tall figure slumped disappointedly. Colisimo prodded Hazel farther into the office, then stood himself in the doorway where he could keep an eye on everyone. “You punks got about as much brains as you can pour in a shotglass,” he berated Ricardo. “Don’t it ever occur to you to look behind you once in a while? If I hadn’t been along with you, you’d already be on the floor there with Carlie.”

Ricardo nodded dumbly.

“Find somethin’ to tie up the real estate man,” Colisimo continued. “I’ll keep the broad covered.”

Jed was still sitting limply in the swivel chair behind his desk. Panic flooded his expressive features at Colisimo’s order. I think it was only Hazel’s presence that kept him from again breaking completely. His state of mind precluded my expecting any help from him. He looked as if his entire nervous system was thoroughly unhinged.

Ricardo had found a shirt on a hanger in a closet filled mostly with office supplies. He tore the shirt up into strips, went behind Jed’s chair, pulled his hands behind him again, and knotted his wrists together. Colisimo moved slightly away from Hazel for the first time to supervise this operation, but he kept his gun trained upon her, correctly assuming it would immobilize me more surely than if it were aimed at myself.

The squat Colisimo turned and grinned at me expansively when he was satisfied that Jed’s bonds were secure. “Now, you bastard,” he said to me almost jovially, “I’m gonna arrange a nice little party for you. But first you an’ the broad are gonna sign a few papers I just happen to have with me. An’ no fuss. Unnerstand?”

“You’ve got the gun,” I replied.

He glared at me. “An’ when the papers are signed, you an’ me are gonna have a little talk about where a he-wolf like you come from.” While speaking he was removing a sheaf of legal-looking documents from the inside jacket pocket of his expensive-looking suit. He swept my automatic several feet away along the counter top before flattening out his papers on it. He was still barely a yard away from Hazel. I wanted him on my side of the counter.

“It
was
you in the Tampa warehouse earlier tonight, wasn’t it?” Colisimo demanded.

I could see no point in denying it. “Rubelli made a confession before he died, after Frank shot him in the head,” I told the gangster chief.