1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (5 page)

Kramer studied her.

“There's nothing to worry about,” he said and got to his feet. “Well, I'm off to the airport. We'll get back around half past twelve. See you, sweetheart.” He patted her behind with a heavy hand, brushed his lips across her cheek and went out of the room.

Helene went back to her chair and sat down. Her legs felt suddenly weak. Moe Zegetti! Her mind went back to those years when Moe was Jim's right-hand man. She had nothing against Moe personally: it was what he stood for that frightened her. An ex-convict! Here in Paradise City when she and Jim had won their way into Paradise City's society and were regarded as two nice, respectable people, always wanted when a party was thrown. Suppose someone found out that Moe had had lunch with them? She put her hand to her face. What was Jim thinking of?

* * *

Inspector Jay Dennison and Special Agent Tom Harper, both of the F.B.I., were waiting impatiently in the airport lobby for their flight to Washington to be announced. Dennison, a burly, muscular man with a ginger moustache and a bridge of freckles across his thick nose, was getting on for forty-eight: a sound, hard-working Federal Agent whose headquarters was in Paradise City. Harper looked a stripling beside the inspector. He was tall, lean and some twenty years the inspector's junior and making his way. Even Dennison, who was a hard taskmaster, was satisfied with the way Harper was shaping. The two men had grown to like each other, and now Harper was planning to marry Dennison's daughter.

It was while they were sitting away from the swirl of the crowd that Dennison suddenly put his hand on Harper's arm.

“Look who's blown in,” he said. “That fat little punk just passing through the arrival gate.”

Harper spotted the short fat man with greying hair and a fat, round, sweating face who had just walked into the lobby. He meant nothing to Harper, who looked inquiringly at his chief.

Dennison got to his feet.

“Play this gently,” he said. “This punk interests me.”

The two men moved casually after the little man who was carrying a brand new suitcase. As he reached the double glass doors leading out into the parking lot where lines of taxis and cars waited, Dennison paused.

“That's Moe Zegetti,” he said, watching Moe as he stood looking to right and left uncertainly. “Remember him? You wouldn't have met him . . . before your time, but you'll remember his record.”

“So that's Zegetti,” Harper said, his lean face showing his interest. “Sure, I remember his record. He was Kramer's stooge and he was one of the top boys in the rackets at one time. He went down for six years and has been out two: since then he has been behaving himself. Looks as if he's done himself pretty well. That's a nice suit he's got on.”

Dennison glanced at Harper and nodded approvingly.

“That's the punk. Now I wonder what he is doing here.”

“Look . . . to your left. There's Kramer himself!”

A voice distorted by the loudspeaker system announced that all passengers for Washington should go at once to Gate 5.

The two Federal Agents paused long enough to see Kramer wave a big hand and Moe Zegetti start towards him before they reluctantly turned away and walked with the crowd to Gate 5.

“Kramer and Zegetti . . . an unbeatable combination,” Dennison said thoughtfully. “Could mean trouble.”

“You don't imagine Kramer is coming out of retirement?” Harper said. “He wouldn't be that crazy with all his money.”

Dennison shrugged.

“I don't know. I've been asking myself why Solly Lucas shot himself. He looked after Kramer's money. Well, we'll keep tabs on them. I'll alert the boys when we're on the plane. I've waited twenty-one years to get Kramer. If he's coming out of retirement. . . this could be my chance.”

Unaware that he was being watched, Moe started across the tarmac towards Kramer who came to meet him. As they approached, both men looked searchingly at each other, curious to see any change since last they met some seven years ago.

To Moe, Kramer looked bronze and fit, although a lot heavier. He had lost that restless, springy walk that Moe was familiar with, but this didn't exactly surprise him. After all, Big Jim must be sixty now, and at that age, you don't walk like a young man. Kramer was wearing a nigger brown suede golfing jacket, fawn gabardine slacks and a white peak cap. He seemed to be prosperous and relaxed.

Kramer noted that Moe was overweight and pale. He looked unhealthy and soft. This discovery made Kramer look more searchingly at Moe. He then became aware of the uneasy, almost frightened expression in the dark eyes and the nervous way Moe's lips tightened and slackened.

On the credit side, Kramer thought, Moe looked prosperous enough. He couldn't have slipped too far back to wear a suit like the one he was wearing.

“Good to see you again,” Kramer said, grasping Moe's hand. “How are you?”

Aware of the iron grip, Moe stiffened his own flabby grip. He said he was fine and how good it was to see Kramer again. The two men walked over to a gleaming black Cadillac.

“This yours, Jim?” Moe asked, impressed.

“Yeah, but I'm trading it in for the new model,” Kramer said, unable to resist boasting. “Get in. Helene is preparing a special lunch for you. I don't want my ears knocked off for being late.”

Kramer asked after Doll as he drove onto the highway.

Moe told him of the situation.

Kramer was shocked. He was fond of Doll.

“She'll pull through,” he said. “She's tough, Moe. You see . . . this kind of thing happens to us all sooner or later, but we come through, and so will she.”

Casually, he asked about San Quentin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Moe's hands turn into fists. Moe said in a tight strangled voice that it had been pretty rugged.

“I guess,” Kramer said soberly and shook his head. This was something that haunted his dreams. He knew he had escaped San Quentin by the skin of his teeth. “Well, it's behind you. That's the way to look at it . . . it's behind you.”

During the rest of the twenty-mile drive, the two men chatted about this and that, recalling the past, mentioning names of people they had known, the places they had visited together. There was no talk as to why Kramer wanted to see Moe.

Lunch passed off fairly well. Helene had provided a good meal, if a trifle heavy, but Moe was quick to realize that his visit wasn't welcome by her, and this upset him a little.

Halfway through the meal, Helene asked him bluntly what he was doing now.

Moe said he had a restaurant and it was doing all right.

“Then what are you doing in Paradise City?” Helene demanded, scarcely concealing her hostility.

As Moe hesitated uneasily, Kramer cut in, “He's looking for another restaurant. It's a great idea. We could do with a good Italian restaurant in Paradise City.”

After lunch, Helene said she was going down town and then on to the Bridge Club.

When the two men were alone, Kramer said, “Let's go into my study, Moe. I want to talk to you.”

Moe, who had been enormously impressed by Kramer's house, garden, the elaborate furnishing and decor, followed Kramer into the study. He stared through the big window at the rose garden and shook his head enviously.

“You've certainly got yourself a place, Jim,” he said as Kramer waved him to a chair. “You must be pretty pleased with it.”

Kramer sat down, pushed a box of cigars towards Moe, before helping himself.

“It's okay,” he said, paused and then went on, “You remember Solly Lucas?”

Moe frowned, then nodded.

“Sure. What's he doing these days . . . still working for you, Jim?”

Kramer sat forward, his fleshy face granite hard.

“He shot himself a couple of weeks ago. He did the job before I could get to him.”

Moe flinched and sat back in his chair, staring at Kramer.

“Yeah,” Kramer went on. “He put me in the hole for four million bucks. This is between you and me, Moe. Helene doesn't know, and I don't want her to know.” He grinned mirthlessly. “I guess you have more dollars right now than I have cents.”

Moe was so stunned that he could think of nothing to say. He just stared at Kramer. Big Jim . . . taken for four million bucks! It was unbelievable!

“I've got to make myself another lump of money,” Kramer went on. “It can be done, but I'll need help. You're the first guy I thought of. You and I have always worked well together. We can still pull off a big job.”

Still Moe could find nothing to say.

“I have an idea,” Kramer said, after a pause. “It's worth a heap of dough if we play it right. I'll organize and handle it, but I need you. Don't look so scared, Moe. I'll tell you this: there's no risk! I promise you that! No risk . . . understand?” He looked searchingly at Moe. “I wouldn't have called you in, Moe, if there was any chance of trouble. I know how tough San Quentin must have been. Listen . . . I give you my word you'll never go back there if you work with me. There's no risk in this job, otherwise, at my age, I wouldn't be sticking my neck out or risking yours.”

Moe suddenly lost all his fears. If Big Jim said he could make him a quarter of a million dollars with no risk, incredible as it sounded, that's what Big Jim would do.

During the fifteen years that Moe had worked with Kramer, he had never had any fear of trouble. He still had utter faith in Kramer: when Kramer promised something with that bleak look in his eyes . . . it was a promise.

“What's the deal then?” Moe asked, excitement showing on his face.

Kramer stretched his long legs and blew a cloud of rich smelling smoke towards the ceiling.

“Have you ever heard of John Van Wylie?”

Looking bewildered, Moe shook his head.

“He is a Texas oilman. You may not believe this, for it is hard to believe, but he is worth more than a billion dollars.”

Moe blinked.

“No guy can be worth that much,” he said. “A billion dollars! How can a guy be worth all that dough?”

“His father struck oil back in the nineties,” Kramer said. “The old man bought acres of land in Texas in the pioneer days for a song. Wherever he probed for oil, he found it. He never once hit a dry hole . . . imagine that! His son took over when the old man died, and he was a much smarter businessman than his father. For every dollar his father made, John Van Wylie had the touch to turn that dollar into ten dollars. I tell you, now he is worth more than a billion dollars.”

Moe mopped his sweating face.

“I've heard of such things happening, but I've never believed it.”

“I've been keeping tabs on Van Wylie for years,” Kramer said. “The guy fascinates me.” He got to his feet and unlocked a drawer in his desk. He lifted out a file of newspaper clippings. “Every one of these clippings refers to the Van Wylie family. I now know nearly as much about them as they know about themselves.” He dropped the file back into the drawer and returned to his chair and sat down. “Now and then, I amuse myself working out schemes to make big money, but I didn't think I would have to get back into the game again. Well, I have to get back and these ideas of mine are now going to pay off.” He tapped ash off his cigar and then went on, “Van Wylie lost his wife . . . cancer. There is a daughter. She happens to look like her mother. I know for a fact that, she is the one thing in Van Wylie's life that means anything.”

Kramer gazed for a long moment at the glowing end of his cigar, then he said, “Van Wylie has everything any man needs. He can't possibly spend all the money he has made. He values nothing because if he loses something, he has. the money to replace it.” A long pause, then Kramer said, speaking softly, “but he can't replace his daughter.”

Moe said nothing. He waited, aware that his heart was beginning to thump uneasily.

Kramer leaned forward, his face harsh, his eyes glittering.

“So we snatch his daughter and make a nice, safe private deal with him for four million dollars.”

Moe stiffened. His heart skipped a beat. His dark eyes open very wide.

“Wait a minute, Jim!” His voice shot up a note. “That's a Federal rap! We could land up in the gas chamber!”

“Do you imagine I haven't thought of that?” Kramer asked impatiently. “I've told you: this is going to be a nice, safe, private deal and that's what it is going to be. Think about it for a moment. Van Wylie loses his daughter . . . the only possession he sets any value to. Four million dollars is peanuts to a man like Van Wylie. Imagine what you would do if some hood snatched your daughter and offered to return her, safe and sound, for twenty bucks. You'd pay up, wouldn't you? You'd be glad to have her back for chick feed. Would you call in the Feds? You damn well wouldn't! You'd be glad to do a deal. Four million dollars to a man of Van Wylie's wealth is chick feed! Can't you see that? He gets his daughter back, no fuss, no trouble and he loses what to you would be twenty bucks.”

But Moe wasn't convinced. He had a horror of any job that carried the death sentence.

“But when he gets her back, he'll stick the Feds on to us,” he said, thumping his fists on his fat knees. “A guy like that isn't going to part with all that money without trying to hit

back.”

“You're wrong,” Kramer said. “I'll convince him if he tries anything smart like that, no matter how carefully the girl is guarded, one day someone will arrive with a shotgun and that will be the end of his daughter. I'll put the fear of God into him. I'll convince him that sooner or later she will be fixed even if it takes a couple of years. He'll see reason. You can't guard a girl for years. He'll see that.”

Moe considered this for a long moment, then he nodded.

“Well, okay, Jim. I've always relied on you. If you say so, then it is so.” He hesitated, then asked, “Just what do you want me to do?”

“You'll have the easy end of it,” Kramer said. “You'll handle the snatch . . . not alone, of course. We'll need two other guys. That's where I 'm relying on you. I used to know plenty of punks who could help out, but I've lost touch now. We need a couple of young, tough kids with good nerves. Their cut will be five grand . . . no need to throw our money around. For five grand, you should be able to dig up someone.”