The Peddler (21 page)

“Tony,” he said. “Tony. Stop, wait a minute, Tony.”

Kill him now, thought Tony. I killed two guys already, I’m in it good now. Kill this bastard before something goes wrong. Let him get out of this and you’re dead for sure. Kill him and you’re in, you’re the Top. Kill him, kill him.

The words danced in his brain as Angelo’s face seemed to blur before him. Angelo was speaking rapidly, a flood of words that meant nothing. Tony stepped closer, the gun held in front of him. Angelo shrank back against the wall. He screamed, “No, Tony, no—” and thrust his hands up before his face as Tony fired the gun.

The automatic leaped in Tony’s fist as the heavy bullet tore through Angelo’s hand, slamming it back against his mouth. Angelo’s head thudded against the wall, and the moment afterwards he crumpled to the floor, limp, hfeless.

After the sound of the shot there was noise at the door of the adjoining card room. Tony whirled and saw the knob turn. The door was locked, but somebody banged on the door and Tony heard a muffled shout. He walked to Angelo’s desk, sat down in the chair behind it. He put the gun on the desk top and wiped his hand on his coat, his mind frozen. He sat there for long seconds, staring at the gun. Well, he’d done it, he finally thought, his brain working sluggishly. Angelo was dead. Christ, just a little squeeze of one finger and Angelo was dead. God, how easy it was. Tony bit his lip. He was in now—but he’d have to work it right. Have to be careful now, not mess it up. He had to convince everybody he was the boss. He glanced at the locked door; somebody was still pounding on it. He forced himself to think. Have to be careful what he said to the Chicago men. What was he going to say? He shrugged, shook his head. He’d handle that when it happened. And there was Maria, too. Had she put the bug in Angelo’s head? He didn’t know; but she could have. Probably she had. The bitch, just because he’d slugged her for yakking her fool mouth off. She’d had it coming. Maybe she hadn’t said anything to Angelo, though. Christ, he couldn’t think straight. The hell with it. Figure it out later. Got to get rid of Angelo, get him out of here.

Something heavy crashed into the door. Tony got up, lit a cigarette. He had to be the boss now, the Top, himself. He walked to the door and slammed his hand against it twice. The noise on the other side stopped. Tony licked his lips, then shoved the automatic into his coat pocket. He opened the door.

Joyce burst into the room, followed by young Kelly. Joyce stopped. “What the hell’s going on?” He started to look around the room, a gun held in his right hand. “Where’s the boss? What—”

“I’m the boss. Get that, Joyce, and get it fast.” Tony pointed with his left hand, right hand around the gun in his pocket. “There’s what was the boss.”

Joyce gasped and Kelly swung his head to stare at Tony. Joyce slowly turned his head and Tony snapped, “Get rid of that. Get rid of it good and do it fast.”

jQyce hesitated, blinking his pale eyes. This was too sudden for him. Tony knew he had to keep the initiative while he had it; if the men were able to give him trouble now there’d be plenty more later. He stepped closer to Joyce, put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him toward Angelo’s body. “Didn’t you hear me? Get rid of that. Now!”

Automatically Joyce moved toward the body, Kelly following. Tony walked behind the desk, sat down where Angelo had always sat.

The men moved numbly, carried the body out. Tony walked to the office door and unbolted it, then sat down behind the desk again. The visitors Angelo had expected should be here soon. He waited, thinking, realizing that he’d meant to kill Angelo all along.

When the knock came on the door, Tony called, “Come in,” took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Two men stepped inside, both medium-sized, conservatively dressed in dark single-breasted suits. They looked more like prosperous businessmen than anything else. Which, thought Tony, they were.

The first one in, a dark-skinned man with a wide, square chin, walked up to the desk. The other one, slimmer and a little shorter, followed.

Tony said, “Sit down, gentlemen.”

The dark-skinned man hesitated. “We were to see Angelo.”

“Angelo had … an accident. I can talk for him. I’m Tony Romero.”

The man nodded, glanced at the slim guy, then back to Tony, the two men sat down. The first man said, “I’m George Mint. This is Saul Rash.” He indicated the slim man.

Tony merely nodded. Mint said, “What kind of an accident did Angelo have?”

Tony said quickly, knowing they’d soon learn the truth, “He got himself killed.” He pointed to the bullet hole in the wall and the stain around it. “Just a little while ago.” He paused. This was the bad part; no telling what these guys might do. “But,” he went on, “there’s no reason why that should affect the … business you wanted to talk about. I know everything that goes on in San Francisco. As a matter of fact, I’m the man who actually runs the houses. Angelo had very Uttle to do with that end.”

He waited. He waited for quite a while before either of the men spoke. Mint was the one who finally broke the long silence. “I see. Perhaps we can still do business. It would be unfortunate if this forced any changes in our plans. Or delayed things.”

“I’m sure it won’t. The name’s Romero instead of Angelo, that’s the only difference.” Tony was nervous. There was a lot about this that he didn’t know—and, too, although Tony knew almost all of Angelo’s channels and contacts, he didn’t have them under his thumb the way Angelo had. But, he thought, that part wouldn’t take too long; he’d manage it.

They talked for another fifteen minutes, discussing what had been previously arranged with Angelo, agreeing on the new policy and partnership. It was simple enough. About all that Tony had to do was agree, nod his head, or explain some facet of the business, locations and kind of houses, amount paid for “ice” or protection. With all of that Tony was perhaps even more familiar than Angelo had been.

He thought the men were quite satisfied, but after they got up and were ready to leave, Mint said, “Mr. Romero, all of this sounds satisfactory, but I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our decision. The fact that Angelo is dead means we’ll have to discuss this with others. I’m sure it will be all right. You don’t mind waiting another day, do you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Say we meet tomorrow.”

Tony nodded.

Mint looked at Rash. Rash, who had taken very little part in the discussion, said, “Pop’s?”

Mint nodded and turned to Tony. “What say we meet about two in the afternoon at Papa Sol’s? You know where it is?”

“Don’t remember it.”

“Little Italian spot; good food. Have lunch there and wind this up. AU right?”

Now Tony remembered the place. Why the hell did they want to meet way out there? It was clear the hell past Twin Peaks on Junipero Serra Boulevard. He didn’t like it. It sounded too much like going out to “look over” that closed-up night club.

Tony said slowly, “I’m afraid that won’t do.”

Mint and Rash both gazed at him from sleepy-looking eyes. “Oh?” Mint said.

‘Too far out. I’m going to be plenty busy tomorrow, won’t have much time. Make it someplace closer to downtown and it’d be better all around.”

Mint glanced at Rash again. Rash sighed and said pleasantly, “You name it, Mr. Romero. I suggested Papa Sol’s for the Italian food, that’s all.”

“How about Bardelli’s then? It’s on O’Farrell.”

They both nodded and Rash said, “We’ll be there. See you tomorrow at two, then, Mr. Romero.”

“Sure.”

After they left, Tony stood looking at the closed door for a moment. They’d agreed to his suggestion readily enough. Tony felt as if he’d won a small victory there. But he wasn’t sure.

He waited till Joyce and Kelly came back, their job finished, told them he was going home and would be down at nine in the morning. Then he left. There was plenty to do tomorrow: make sure there was no stink about Angelo that couldn’t be quashed; start seeing some of the late Angelo’s contacts; check into the current status of Floyd Bristol, the “cop-killer.” There were a million things to take care of, but once things got rolling smoothly he’d really be on his way. He relaxed a little for the first time in hours, feeling weariness tugging at his muscles.

He drove toward his apartment, thinking. If things went well, Tony Romero might be on his way to becoming one of the most important men in the United States, a really big one. He smiled slightly, plans already forming in his head. If he got in with the Syndicate O.K., he might even get a slice of other rackets—maybe the gambling and narcotics. Terrific dough in the narcotics game. He’d have to watch his step from here on in, but with a little luck he’d have it made. A guy like Tony Romero could always get bigger and better spots, more dough, more power. He was still jumpy and keyed up, but he was starting to feel pretty good. If only his luck held—but hell, he thought, a guy made his own luck. He’d known that from the beginning: a guy had to help make his own breaks. He’d made his own, and they’d paid off.

He wondered what Betty would think of him when he got up to the top, one of the really big ones. She might be O.K. when she dried out behind the ears a little. He parked and went up to his apartment, let himself in, still thinking of Betty, feeling something that was nearly hate for her. He stopped inside the door, looking around. Something was different, out of place. For a moment he didn’t get it and fear swelled in his throat at the thought that maybe Mint and Rash hadn’t gone for his spiel back there, might have planned to get rid of him, take over completely—then he saw what it was that had stopped him inside the doorway. There were clothes draped on the couch, women’s clothes, and two suitcases there. He glared at them as Maria came out of the bedroom carrying another traveling bag.

He swung toward her, the remnants of the fear that had been in him combining with the long-drawn-out tenseness of the last few hours.

“What the hell you doing here?” he asked roughly. “I told you to beat it.”

She didn’t answer. She placed the bag by the others, opened it and stuffed the clothes from the divan into the already half-filled suitcase.

Her silence infuriated him. “Goddammit, answer me.”

She rose and faced him. “I came for my things. They’re mine.” Her lips were puffed out, ugly, and she moved them only slightly as she spoke. “I won’t be here long. It makes me sick to be here.”

“You bitch,” he said. “Maybe you’re here because you didn’t think I’d be back. Maybe you thought Angelo would be here instead. That right?”

She frowned at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you know what I mean. You thought I wouldn’t be able to come back, that I’d be dead. Well, Angelo’s dead instead. I bet that breaks your heart.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing. “Tony, you’re rotten. There’s no trust in you any more—maybe there never was. You know that anybody’s a fool to trust you, so you can’t trust anyone yourself.” She stopped, then said calmly, “You’re rotten, Tony; I hate you. It took you a long while, but you finally made me hate you.”

He stepped toward her, anger darkening his features, and grabbed her arm. She jerked away from him, lips twitching. “Don’t touch me. I think if you touch me again, ever again, I’ll—I’ll vomit. You make me sick, Tony.”

He stopped close to her, glaring down at her, breathing heavily. Damn her, she was giving him the same stufif again, the same kind of yammering Betty had given him that night when she’d run from the car into the house.

“Shut up,” he said. “Shut up and get out of here. I got no more use for you.”

“No more use for me,” she said bitterly. “Or Alterie, or Leo, or Swan—or Angelo now, I guess. You’ve got no use for people when they can’t help you. Well, Tony, I’ve no use for you. Nobody else has, either. Don’t you know that?” She paused. “You haven’t a friend in the world. You haven’t anybody. Not even me, now.” She smiled slightly, twisting her bruised lips. “How about your girl? Your Betty? Where’s she, Tony?”

“Shut up. I’m warning you—”

She laughed shrilly. “Everybody hates you, Tony. I hate you. I think you hate yourself. And how about your Betty—”

Tony’s teeth were pressed together until his jaWs ached. Why didn’t she shut up? She was driving him nuts with her yakking. He shouted at her, but she kept on, taunting him.

“All right, you bitch,” he said violently. He swung his fist up from his hip, felt it jar against the side of her face, felt a strange, savage pleasure course through him as his fist struck her flesh and she reeled away from him, stumbled and fell. He stepped toward her, stood over her, waited till she sat up. He bent toward her, his face contorted. “I told you,” he said. “I told you, I told you,” over and over in an unthinking chant, “You bitch. Shut up, shut up!”

Her face was bloodless, the puffed lips pulled back from her teeth, the white teeth looking like bones gleaming from a fracture. She spit at him, clawed at his face with her nails and raked them across his cheek, ripping separate strips of flesh from his face. He slapped her with the back of his hand, brought it forward hard, the heel of his palm thudding into her jaw.

She fell on her back, her skirt sliding up over her knees, baring the white thighs. “You bitch,” he said again. “You lousy whore. Well, I touched you. I make you sick, huh? Throw up. Go ahead, vomit, that’s what you said, isn’t it? I’m not through touching you, damn you.”

She stared at him, conscious but stunned, her hands beneath her pressing against the floor. He reached to the neck-hne of her dress, grabbed the cloth and jerked it, ripping it down the front. With both hands he seized the dress and tore it from her body, ripped the white slip and pulled it from her, threw it across the room.

She stared at him, swore filthily into his face, called him the lowest names she could think of, and her hate and icy contempt fed his fury. He grabbed her arm and wound one hand in her hair, pulled her over the carpet into the bedroom, then picked her up and threw her onto the bed. He stared at her sprawled half across the bed, feeling a perverse, dark passion rising in him, swelling hotly in his stomach and loins.