The Specialists (11 page)

Simmons opened the can of creosote. He dipped a hand into it, capped the can, headed over toward the garage. A short, stocky, well-muscled young man was polishing one of the cars, the Mercedes. He had already finished with the Lincoln, and it gleamed.

He said, “Yeah?”

Simmons held up a hand. “Wondered if I could have the use of a rag. Creosote, the can dripped.”

The man waved a hand at a pile of rags. “Help yourself.”

That wouldn’t do; the rags were a long way from the Lincoln with the man in the middle. Simmons picked up a rag and walked along with it, rubbing ineffectually. He passed the man and approached the Lincoln. But out of the corner of his eye he saw that the clown was still watching him. “She don’t come off,” he said. “Y’all have some turpentine?”

“Beats me. I just started here.”

Rice’s replacement, Simmons guessed. From the looks of him, Manso would have his hands full.

“Ah’d look around,” he said, putting the plantation accent on, “but Ah’d shore hate to mess up the boss man’s things and all.”

“Yeah,” the bodyguard said. “Yeah, well. I suppose I could look. You said turpentine?”

When he turned, Simmons got the beeper from his pocket. It was two inches square and three-eighths of an inch thick, and it did something electronic that Simmons couldn’t understand. He bent over and stuck it to the underside of the Lincoln’s rear bumper. A magnet held it in place.

He was leaning against the garage door when Gleason turned to tell him there wasn’t any turpentine. Simmons thanked him and left. There was turps in the back of the truck, and he used some to get the damned gunk off his hand. By the time it was all off, Murdock was climbing down from his last tree.

FIFTEEN

One of the guards said, “You got a package, hand it over.”

“Has to be signed for.”

“So I’ll sign.”

Manso shook his head. “Personal delivery,” he said. “And it’s not a package, it’s a letter. It has to be signed for personal by Mr. Albert Platt.”

“Listen, I sign for everything. He’s a busy man, Mr. Platt. He don’t have time to see delivery boys.”

Manso straightened his cap. It was navy blue with a glossy plastic peak, and the badge on it said
WELLS FARGO
. Manso had bought the cap in a surplus store in Tenafly. He found the badge in the toy department at Kresge’s. The cap cost $1.69. The badge was supposed to cost 29¢, but there was a line at the cash register, so he just put it in his pocket.

Now he said, “Look, it’s only a job with me. I get my orders.”

“So do I, fella.”

“So I’ll just go back and tell the boss I couldn’t get through to Platt, and he’ll get on the phone, and you can explain to him why you never even bothered to let him know I was here.”

The other guard wagged the rifle at Manso. “You beat it,” he said. “You just get the hell——”

“Hold it, Jack. I’ll call, it can’t hurt.”

He picked up a phone. Manso didn’t try to hear the conversation. The guard put a hand over the mouthpiece. “He says is it from Lucarelli or what?”

“Nobody told me a name.”

The guard was on the phone for a few more seconds. Then he told Manso to get out of the car.

“I got to frisk you,” he said “Then we walk up to the house. The car stays here.”

“Sure.”

The frisk was cursory. The guard never even touched Manso’s arms. It wouldn’t have mattered if he did; the knife was now taped to the sole of his shoe. They walked together up the curving driveway to the house. The guard didn’t say anything and neither did Manso. He had a manila envelope in one hand, a receipt book in the other.

Platt was waiting in the entrance hall. The man at his side was built like a fireplug. Platt said, “Okay, kid, go ahead,” and the guard left the house. To Manso, Platt said, “What is this crap that I gotta sign for some letter?”

“Just doing my job, Mr. Platt.”

“Yeah. Well, hand it over.” Manso gave him the envelope and Platt looked at it without opening it, then thrust it into a pocket. “Now gimme your pad.”

“You have to read it first, Mr. Platt.”

“I have to what?”

Manso nodded. “What I was told. You have to sign that you received the letter and read it.”

“Who the hell sent this?”

“They didn’t tell me.”

He held his breath while Platt tore the end off the envelope, drew out the single sheet of paper. He looked at Platt, then at the man next to him, watching one for his reaction while estimating the force and speed of the other. The heavy didn’t look too bad, but Platt was a study. His face ran through a full range of emotions, registering surprise and shock and irritation and anger.

He said, “Okay, kid. Who’s this from?”

“Me.”

“You sent it yourself?”

“That’s right.”

“And the crap with the messenger outfit?”

“Just to get past the gate.”

“What the hell do you know about Buddy?”

“I listen close, I hear things.”

Platt turned to the fireplug. “Get this. ‘Mr. Platt: I am your new bodyguard and chauffeur. I can do anything Buddy Rice could do. Also I’m alive and he isn’t.’ I’ll be a son of a bitch.” To Manso he said, “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“It says in the letter. Your new bodyguard,”

“Somebody put you up to this?”

“No. My own idea.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the best one you ever had. The job’s taken, punk. Now get your ass out of here.”

Manso nodded at the bodyguard. “Who’s he?”

“His name’s Buddy. Scram, punk.”

“Another Buddy?” He straightened, rested his weight on the balls of his feet. “I’ll tell you, Mr. Platt. You want me to go, tell Buddy here to throw me out.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he can’t.”

Platt stared at him, then suddenly grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you do that thing, Buddy. Throw the punk out. You want to mess him up a little while you’re at it, you go ahead.”

Buddy hadn’t shown any expression until then. Now he came close to a smile. His hand dipped inside his jacket and came out with a gun in it. “Out,” he said. “Now.”

“Jesus, take it easy! No problem!” Manso’s eyes were wide with terror, and his hands went up in surrender, and as they did his right foot also went up in the air. Buddy was still looking at the hands and the eyes when Manso’s foot caught his hand and sent the gun looping overhead.

Manso snatched the gun out of the air and pointed it at Platt.

And everybody froze.

“Bad,” Manso said. “Very bad. I’ll tell you, Mr. Platt, I heard good things about the other Buddy, but this one stinks on ice. Anybody who can’t even hold onto a gun deserves what he gets. But the main thing is a bodyguard doesn’t stand like a lump when somebody waves a gun at the body he’s supposed to be guarding. Now what I would have done, Mr. Platt, is thrown myself between you and the gun.”

Platt was nodding.

“And then, when I was in the way, I’d have rushed the gun. But standing like a lump, that’s no good at all.”

Gleason said, “Mr. Platt, all this prick is is tricky.”

Manso ignored him. “And another thing,” he said. “If my boss told me to throw somebody out, and the somebody was mouthing off that he could do my job better than I could, well, Mr. Platt, I wouldn’t toss him out by waving a gun at him. I would want to make a good impression in front of my boss and show how good I could be without a gun.” He turned the smile on Gleason. “You want another try, Buddy?” He turned and put the gun on a table behind him. “Ready when you are, tiger.”

Buddy blew his cool. Manso had played him to do just that, and he was ready for it. Buddy came straight on with his arms out and his head down, and Manso leaned to the left and jabbed the bunched fingers of his right hand into Buddy’s diaphragm.

Buddy doubled up and collapsed. He couldn’t get his breath. Manso smiled at him.

“Now tell Mr. Platt you resign, Buddy.”

Buddy caught his breath and got to his feet. His hand went inside his jacket again and Manso hoped it wasn’t another gun and that he could be fast enough if it was. But it was a knife, a switchblade stiletto. Buddy held it low, blade up. He came on in a crouch, arms out in front, eyes wary.

“Now that’s better,” Manso said. “That gives me a chance to look good, Buddy. I appreciate it.”

Buddy watched Manso’s eyes. That’s usually enough, but in this case it was a mistake and Buddy should have known better. He already knew Manso was good. With a good man, you forget the eyes and watch the feet. A good man feints with his eyes.

Manso glanced one way and moved another, and Buddy thrust with the knife and cut empty air. Manso had moved to his right, turning inward as he did so, and his right elbow dug into Buddy’s solar plexus. Manso’s left had fastened on Buddy’s wrist while his right hand caught the man’s arm just above the elbow.

Manso put his knee behind the elbow, applied pressure against the joint. The switchblade dropped to the floor.

He said, “He really stinks, Mr. Platt.”

“Yeah. He does.”

“Whether you hire me or not, Mr. Platt, you sure don’t want him working for you. He’s just no damned good.”

“He’s fired.”

“Maybe he wants to resign. Buddy, tell Mr. Platt you quit.”

Buddy didn’t say anything. Manso increased the pressure and repeated the order. Buddy was shaking, and saliva dripped from a corner of his mouth.

“I quit!”

“Jesus,” Platt said.

“You need him for anything at all, Mr. Platt? You got any further use for him?”

“I wouldn’t let him take out the garbage.”

“Well, then,” Manso said, and broke Buddy’s arm at the elbow.

He took Buddy outside, dropped him alongside the front entrance. He felt loose and cool. The conversational mannerisms he had adopted seemed to help; as long as he stayed in character it was easy to ride with the play. One thing was sure. He was absolute hell on Buddies.

When he got back in the entrance hall, Platt had the gun in his hand. It was pointed at Manso, and for an instant he thought he was going to be shot. He came perilously close to panic.

“I surrender,” he said lightly.

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Edward. I suppose I’ll have to change it to Buddy, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I think it’s a bad luck name.”

Platt’s mouth tightened. “You were very good there. You’re as fast as I’ve seen.”

“Thank you.”

“Shut up when I’m talking. You’re fast, and you played a long shot and you think it came in, and you’re busy being cocky. You don’t want to do that. I could shoot you right now and bury you in back. I could have you tied up and let half a dozen guys take turns with you until you told ’em things you didn’t even know you knew. You get the picture?”

“Yes, Mr. Platt.”

“I seen you somewheres. Where?”

“Vegas. The Desert Palms.”

“You were out there? Why?”

“To have a look at you.”

“For who?”

“For myself.”

“Why?”

“I wanted Buddy’s job.”

“Oh, cut the shit.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Did you kill Buddy?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, but for my money you just answered the question. You said yes to it. What’s your angle?”

“I want Buddy’s job.”

“Why? God damn it, who
are
you?”

Manso hesitated.

“You said a name before.”

“Edward.”

“And a last name?”

Manso looked at the rug.

“You want Buddy’s job but you won’t even tell your name?”

“I didn’t want it to go like this,” Manso said quietly. “I thought I could start out working for you and then we could see where it went I thought I could——”

“See where what went?”

Manso sighed, then raised his eyes to meet Platt’s. “I thought my name was Edward Mann, Mr. Platt. For years I grew up thinking that was my name, that was me, Eddie Mann.”

“So?”

“Well, now it looks as though my name isn’t Mann after all. I’ve been trying to check on it, but I can’t get anywhere one way or the other. See, the way it looks, the last name ought to be Platt.”

He swallowed. “Don’t expect me to prove it,” he went on. “I can’t even prove it to myself. But well, you see, I think maybe I’m your son.”

SIXTEEN

“Her name was Florence Mannheim, but she cut it to Mann when I was still in diapers. That was the same time that we moved out to Astoria.”

“From where?”

“East New York. When she told me all this, when I started to check things out, I found out we lived on Pitkin Avenue. I went over and looked at the building. Nobody lives there now. All the windows broken, the door kicked in.”

“Pitkin Avenue,” Platt said.

“She always told me my father was dead. He died in the war, she said. Before I was born. She said his name was Edward like mine and he was in the Air Force and his plane was shot down over Germany. I checked that, too, and there was no record he ever existed. And Mannheim was her maiden name. She was never married, at least not in New York. There’s no record of it anywhere. So I don’t know if you’re my father or not, but whoever it was, he wasn’t married to my mother.”

“Florence Mannheim,” Platt said. He was no longer holding the gun. “This is crazy. I never had a son.”

“She said she never told you about me.”

“I never heard of a Florence Mannheim.”

“She said you probably wouldn’t even remember her. It was hard for me to follow her. She was dying. I was just back from the service and she was dying and she said she had to tell me something, and I said to just take it easy, just rest, and she sat up and started telling me that there was no Edward Mannheim and that my father was a man named Albert Platt. She said she went out on the Island and had me at a nursing home and the birth was never registered. I’ve never been able to get hold of my birth certificate. When I was sixteen, I had trouble getting a driver’s license. I had to go to the school for proof of age.”

Platt’s eyes were half-lidded, his brow ridged. “You’re how old?”

“Twenty-eight in February.”

“So that’s when? Forty-one?”

“Right. I would have been conceived in nineteen forty, say late May or early June.”