The Peddler (20 page)

Tony bit his lip, thinking. There was something else, another good reason: Maria. He’d slugged her around, kicked her out—and she knew about Betty; what she didn’t know for sure, she had guessed. And Tony had run off at the mouth to her, saying he could talk to the Chicago boys as well as Angelo, that maybe he’d work Angelo over a bit too. The bitch might have got in touch with Angelo, called him, told him Tony was getting out of hand, reckless, maybe was thinking of crossing Angelo himself. That would have made up the little bastard’s mind for sure; and he seemed hot for Maria, anyway. No telling how thick they’d got in the last month or two, and with Tony planted Angelo would have a clear field. The conviction grew that probably it had happened like that.

He stopped thinking about it, tried to keep his mind on what Frame was saying. He had to get out of this some way. At least his gun was still under his coat. He was holding himself tense; he tried to relax.

Frame said, “We got to go to another of them parties like that one, Tony, boy.” He had been talking about a tea party up on Nob Hill before Tony had taken over Alterie’s district.

“Sure,” Tony said, “I had a hell of a time. Maybe we can have another poker game some night.”

Frame and Rock laughed loudly. They laughed loudly with the slightest excuse. “Yeah, man,” Frame said. “This club would be a good spot—got everything practically set up there already.”

“Hey,” Tony said, “we’re gonna look the place over; the electricity on out there?”

“Why, sure. How else we gonna see to do the job?” Frame and Rock laughed again.

In another minute Rock turned off the road and went over the rutted driveway. Weeds grew in front of the empty club, barely visible in the moonlight. The car’s headlights flashed across the front of the buUding, showing the faded and peeling paint. The car stopped and Rock turned off the lights. When Rock switched off the engine, Tony could hear the faint sighing of the wind.

“Let’s go,” Frame said.

Tony hesitated only a moment, then stepped outside the car, holding his right hand close to the butt of the gun. He didn’t think they’d start anything yet; probably it was supposed to happen inside the club. The entrance was only a few feet away and Tony followed closely behind Frame as the other headed for it. Behind him Rock slammed the car door and came after them. Tony wrapped his palm around the butt of his revolver and eased it from its holster, the cold wind rippling over his skin. The flesh of his back crawled; Rock might be leveling a gun at him this very second. Frame was close ahead, though. Tony stepped up near him as Frame pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

“Go on in, Tony; I’ll get the lights.”

Tony stepped quickly through the doorway into musty darkness. Apparently it was to happen in seconds now—unless Tony had it figured wrong. He walked rapidly ahead through the darkness, waiting for the flash of light. If nothing was supposed to happen, this was still going to be danm fatal for somebody. Tony held the gun solidly in his palm, ready to start shooting as soon as there was light. He stopped and turned, the Magnum pointing toward the doorway, fear crawling in his stomach, his heart racing.

The lights blazed on. He saw Frame standing at the right of the door, one hand on a light switch, the other holding a gun. Rock stood just inside the doorway, an Army automatic held in front of him, just swinging toward Tony as light filled the room. He was hunched forward slightly, his eyes narrowed.

Tony fired a split second after the lights blazed in the room. He jerked his gun toward Rock, pulling the trigger even’ before he could aim, kept pulling it as the gun centered on Rock’s beefy, squat body. Noise cracked and echoed in the room; Rock staggered. Another gun boomed and a bullet slashed across Tony’s cheek as he saw Frame leap from the wall, a yell ripping from his lips.

Everything was blurred, shifting, to Tony, two-dimensional and unreal. His brain seemed calm, but with an icy coldness, as if this wasn’t himself at all but a robot going through motions, moving automatically. He saw Rock crumpling as his eyes shifted to Frame, saw the man jumping to the side, the automatic in his hand raised, flame spurting from the muzzle as Tony pulled the Magnum to bear on the moving body and pulled the trigger, pulled it again. Frame staggered, moved forward another two steps, then fell to his knees, toppled to the floor, the gun sliding from his hand.

Rock lay quietly, face down. Frame moved, gasped, kept trying to get up. Tony stared from one to the other, mouth open; barely comprehending that the split moment of surprise had given him enough advantage. It was all over now. At least it was almost over. He checked the Magnum. There were two unused cartridges left in the chambers. He stepped to Frame, grabbed him roughly and jerked him to a sitting position.

“All right, you bastard. How many of you were in on this? What did Angelo tell you?”

A little blood bubbled from Frame’s mouth. He shook his head, mumbling. Tony left him for a moment, picked up the automatic, then went over to Rock. Rock was dead. One of Tony’s slugs had bored from a spot near his left eye and into his brain. Tony walked back to Frame.

“Doctor.” Frame’s eyes were glazed with shock.

“Sure, I’ll get you a doctor, Frame. Get you all fixed up — after you spill.”

Frame’s head wobbled. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing, then opened them wide. “Just us. Rock ‘n me. Angelo said, get rid you. Christ, a doc, Tony. I’m bleedin’. I’m hurt bad.”

“Sure. Why the bump-off?” Tony thought again about Maria, the chance that she’d phoned Angelo, said Tony was getting wild ideas. It was hard for him to think; there seemed to be a tingling all through his body, a heady kind of intoxication in him, racing with his blood. “Why, Frame? Quick! Angelo must have told you something.”

Frame wobbled his head again, lips slack and looking bloodless, pulled back from his decaying teeth. “Nothin’. I swear it. Oh, Jesus. Just said to do it.”

Tony raised the Magnum and pointed it at Frame’s forehead. “Don’t lie to me, you sonofabitch. Angelo must have said something else. He get a phone call? Anything? What about the Chicago boys? That have anything to do with it?”

“I dunno! I swear I dunno.” Frame tried to move his head back from the barrel of the gun, panic in his eyes. He rolled his head, inched away, fell backward full length, more blood trickling from a comer of his mouth.

“I dunno. Swear it, Tony, please. Oh, God, get me a doc.”

Tony believed Frame, believed he didn’t know any more than he’d said. “Sure, man,” he said. “I’ll get you a doc.”

He stepped closer to Frame, leaned over the prostrate man and put the gun against his forehead. For just a moment Frame realized what was going to happen and his eyes stretched enormously wide. But it was for only a moment.

As the gun blasted. Frame’s body jerked once, and slowly relaxed and lay still. The room was awesomely quiet, then, j but Tony could hear his heart drumming, booming in his ears. He felt as if he were floating, as if his body were as light as air. He looked at Frame, at the awkwardly hanging, red-stained mouth.

His mind flashed crazily back over the months and years, to Sharkey’s dead face, to the first time he’d seen Sharkey, his drunken mouth hanging open later that night much as Frame’s dead one did now. It had been easy to kill Frame, he thought. It had all been easy. He remembered the poker party, Sharkey murdered with Tony’s gun; then Tony had killed that bastard cop in self-defense. Then Rock, just a moment ago—that was a case of kill Rock or be killed himself, too, but Frame had been something else entirely. He’d killed him because he wanted to kill him; a few seconds before it would have been the other way around. Frame would have murdered him in cold blood. He’d got what was coming to him.

Tony stared down at the dead man, feeling nothing except that tingling exhilaration he always felt at times like this, when he was charged up, tense, excited. He wondered for a moment if there were really something different about him, something wrong with him. That time when he’d fought with Alterie, other similar moments when he’d felt strange and good as he felt now, hardly knowing what he was doing. He shrugged, straightened up. His thoughts shifted to An-gelo. That was the sonofabitch who’d put out the word: kill Romero. Angelo, always Angelo, always in Tony’s hair, always raking in the big gravy while the guys under him did the work—like this, tonight. Tony stared at the wall, not seeing it, his mind racing. He glanced once at Frame and Rock, dropped Frame’s automatic into his coat pocket, and went out.

Tony parked Rock’s car on Market Street, got out and stared up at the tall building for a moment. Then he walked to the front door and used one of the slim silver keys Angelo had given him seven months before to let himself inside. He took the elevator up to the tenth floor, walked to the “National Investment Counsellors” and paused outside the office. Light seeped into the hall from beneath the door.

Tony breathed heavily through his open mouth, holding the Army automatic in his right hand, key to the door in his left. He knew Angelo would be in his inner office—sandwiched between this room and the card room, where some of Angelo’s men were sure to be now—but maybe the office in front of him was empty, despite the light spilhng under the door. Maybe; but he couldn’t be sure. Another thing, those guys from Chicago might be in there with Angelo now—or they might even have come and gone. Tony paused only a moment; this was no time for him to hesitate, he thought; whatever he was going to do would have to be done tonight, now. He wasn’t even sure what he would do; it depended on whether or not Angelo was alone, what he said, a lot of things.

He pressed his key into the lock, turned it, then gently turned the doorknob. A shaft of light spilled into the hall, widened as the door opened. He could see nobody inside. He went in and looked around. The room was empty, and the plain door leading into Angelo’s office was closed. Tony walked soundlessly across the carpet and slowly, carefully tried the knob. The door was locked.

He swallowed, licked his lips and put the automatic in his right coat pocket, hand around the butt, then knocked loudly. He waited. The door swung open and Angelo looked out at him. Tony jerked the gun from his pocket and jabbed it into Angelo’s stomach.

“Hold still,” he hissed. “Don’t move, Angelo.”

Angelo’s mouth dropped open, his face paling. Tony pushed the door wide and glanced past Angelo into the office, then shoved the small man backward. Angelo had been alone. Tony slammed the door shut, bolted it.

“Stand right there, you bastard,” Tony said. He crossed to the door leading into the adjacent card room, turned the bolt, then stepped toward Angelo.

Angelo hadn’t spoken. Now he said, “Wait, Tony, what’s —^what’s the matter? Why … what is it, Tony?”

“You sonofabitch, you know what it is. Your kill missed, that’s what it is. I came back to report on the club. Needs some alterations. Couple dead bodies got to be moved out. And one out of here, maybe.”

Angelo’s face was a ghastly white. Tony had never seen him really frightened before; he was frightened now. “I don’t know what you mean, Tony. Put … put away that gun.” Angelo’s eyes flicked from the gun to the door, then to Tony’s grim face.

Tony said, “Remember our talk a little while ago? About there shouldn’t be difficulties between us? Well, I know exactly what you meant now. I learn fast—you know that, Angelo. And I want to know your reason for setting up the ride tonight.”

“Why, Tony, I don’t—”

Tony stepped forward and cracked the automatic across Angelo’s cheek. The other fell, sat up shaking his head.

“That’ll give you an idea I’m serious, Angelo. You might as well tell me before you get more.” Tony moved the gun in his fist.

Angelo got to his feet, his face twisted with fear. “It was a misunderstanding, Tony. Believe me.” Tony stepped toward the smaller man again and Angelo said hastily, “WaitI Wait, Tony. I … it was the Chicago men.”

“You’ve seen them, huh?”

“No—yes! They did it.”

“Stop it, you bastard. One more lie and Fll kill you. I mean it.” The automatic was cocked and ready to fire. Tony pointed it at Angelo and tightened his finger slightly on the trigger.

Angelo put both hands out in front of him, backed away, “No, no! It—all right, Tony.”

“Have the guys from Chicago showed up yet?”

“No. That’s the truth. But they’ll be here soon, any minute. Stop and think, Tony. You can’t—can’t do anything. They’ll be here.”

“What’s the deal with them?”

“It’s simple. Just a percentage. They’ll supply giris, help run the operation—like a partnership. They’ll be here soon, Tony, just to make sure it’s all settled.”

Tony grinned. “Sounds like nothing to it. I could handle it for you, couldn’t I?”

“Yes, Tony. Of course; it’s almost settled. I’ll let you handle it.” Angelo’s words were twisted as they spilled from his mouth.

“Sure, you’ll let me handle it.” Tony was enjoying himself. Enjoying watching Angelo squirm. “Listen, why the bump-off?” Thoughts swirled in Tony’s mind again. “Was it Maria?”

“Maria?” Angelo looked puzzled.

“Did she give you any song and dance about me?”

“Maria?” Angelo ran his tongue over dry lips. “Why— yes. Yes, Maria said …” His voice trailed off. “Put the gun away, Tony. I can’t talk with that gun pointing at me.”

Tony stared at Angelo, at the man’s small, fear-stained face, feehng the contempt and hatred growing in him. Angelo, the Top, the gravy guy. Tony knew he was going to kill the sonofabitch. Angelo out, Tony Romero in. That’s the way it should have been a long time ago. And he couldn’t wait much longer. The boys from Chicago might be here any minute; Tony could talk to them, make the deal with them as easily as Angelo. At least they’d soon be here if Angelo were telling the truth. You couldn’t tell if the scared little bastard were telling the truth or not. Angelo; the only good Angelo was a dead one. With Angelo dead, Tony would be on top, in the driver’s seat. Thoughts jumped and whirled in a jumble in his brain. He stepped toward Angelo, raising the gun higher.

Angelo moved away from him, his mouth wide. He bumped into the wall and pressed against it, turning his head to the side, staring at Tony from the comers of his eyes as if afraid to look directly at him, and at the gun.