1972 - Just a Matter of Time (13 page)

He felt lonely and utterly bored and sick of this thing he had agreed to do. If it wasn’t for Sheila he would have got on a bus and gone down to Miami. He had never known a woman like

Sheila. All the women he had gone with had been hard and tough and had treated him the way a tart treats any man. But Sheila was different. She was the first woman he now could call his own. She was tricky, of course, but he had come to accept all women could be tricky. There were times when she was contemptuous of him. This he accepted as he was contemptuous of himself. If he was asked why this calm, remote woman, several years older than himself, should have had such a hold on him, he would have been hard pressed to explain. The ultimate thing, he thought, was that when they were together in bed, she gave herself in such a way that he knew he owned her and he had never felt that way with any other woman. Once it was over, she became remote again, but that didn’t worry him. He knew once she was in the mood, he would get her back. She was exciting to him. She was to him like rolling dice. You never knew what would come up and this way of life was important to him. He hated routine. He wanted his life to be uncertain. He didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and do something he had done the day before. Sheila was this kind of woman: they could wake up and she was remote: they could wake up and she was biting his shoulders, her fingernails clawing his back and there was this explosion that no other woman could ever or would ever give him.

He hated the thought that this handsome banker should be having it off with her. The thought tormented him. He was uneasy that money apparently meant so much to her. He wished now he had never met Bromhead: never agreed to the plan.

Until Bromhead had arrived on the scene, Sheila was his whenever he wanted her: they had even been happy together. Then Bromhead had arrived and the scene changed.

Suppose this plan of Bromhead’s worked? he thought, staring up at the dirty ceiling. What would he do with all the money Bromhead had said would come to him? He didn’t want it! All he really wanted was Sheila, food, a couple of rooms and a car - not even a good car. It was more fun to have a wreck of a car.

To go to your car, get in and start it, knowing it would start and go was a drag. The fun with a car was not to know if it would start . . . to curse and kick it, to dig into its guts and finally persuade it to start: that was the kind of car he liked.

But with all this goddamn money Bromhead had promised him, he knew Sheila would insist that he had a reliable car, good meals, clean sheets, a clean shirt every day . . . things he despised. How sick he was of this luxurious, stinking town. There was nothing to do except spend money. You couldn’t move without spending money. Well, he had turned bitchy! He rubbed his sweating face and grinned. He had told Sheila she was to see him every night or he would quit. For once, he had seen something that could be worry come into her smoky blue eyes.

‘You come here every night or I’ll quit,’- he said to her. ‘And wear that wig . . . I dig for it. If you don’t come, I’m taking off. I’m sick of this. Every night or I quit!’

He felt safe talking to her this way. They were now hooked together and without him, she and Bromhead were sunk. For the first time since he had met her, he felt really safe to make demands on her. He was prepared to put up with the boredom of this stinking town only if he saw her every night.

He looked at his cheap wristwatch. The time was 16.40. At this time Bromhead was driving Mrs. Morely-Johnson in the Rolls to a bridge party. Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s bridge was always painful as she could scarcely see the cards, but her friends were patient and waited while she peered at the cards. Once she knew what she had in her hand she was as good as any of them.

Patterson was leaving the bank with Mrs. Morely-Johnsons’ will in his briefcase. Sheila was using the tape recorder, listening to Patterson’s voice.
I, Christopher Patterson
. . . and as she listened, her smoky, remote blue eyes lit up, knowing she was listening to a golden voice that could give her what she wanted.

There came a gentle tap on the door and Gerald frowned.

Who could this be? he wondered. Not Sheila . . . it was too early. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else so he remained quiet. The tap came again. Still he remained quiet. He saw the door handle turn and he grinned. He always kept the door locked. He watched the door handle turn full circle and then return. Again the tap came on the door. Gerald waited. Whoever it was would go away. The only person he wanted to see was Sheila and by now, she would have called out. Then he heard a searching sound which made him sit up, resting himself on his elbow. Then before he could get off the bed, the door opened and a man slid into the room, immediately closing the door.

This man was a mountain of black flesh and muscle. He was the biggest Negro Gerald had ever seen. He filled the small, hot room and his smile, gentle and wide, revealed teeth like piano keys. He wore a plum-coloured turtleneck sweater and black hipsters. His high-domed head was shaved. His bloodshot, black eyes moved restlessly from side to side. There was a knife scar running down the right side of his face from his ear to his chin: a ridge like a mountain chain on a relief map.

Gerald stared at him. The wide, gentle smile scared him more than if this huge ape had glared at him.

‘You’re in the wrong room,’ Gerald said, not moving. ‘Get out!’

The Negro continued to smile and he moved forward so he was standing by the bed, towering over Gerald who stared at him.

‘Come on, baby, you and me are travelling,’ he said. For a man of his size, his voice was high-pitched and soft. ‘Not much time, baby. The bus leaves in half an hour.’

‘You heard me . . . get out!’ Gerald swung his legs to the floor. ‘Get out . . . nigger!’

Something exploded inside his head. He didn’t even see the slap coming. He found himself flat on his back across the bed, dazed, with blinding lights flashing before his eyes, then he realized this monster of a man had cuffed him . . . not hit him, but just slapped him. Fury boiled up in him. He was not without courage. No one had ever hit him before and he wanted to hit back. He struggled off the bed and again found himself flat across the bed. The raging pain in his head turned him sick.

‘Come on, baby, you and me are travelling. Pack . . . the bus goes in half an hour,’ the Negro said gently.

Gerald shook his head, trying to get rid of the dancing lights.

He began to heave himself off the bed, then a black dry hand closed over his face and slammed him flat.

‘Look, baby . . . see what I’ve got for you.’

Gerald stared up at the enormous black fist held close to his eyes. Each finger, looking like a black banana, carried a ring and on each ring was fixed a sharp, cruel spike.

‘If I hit you, baby, in your generating system with this, you’ll be singing alto in the choir.’ The Negro smiled. ‘Do you want to sing alto in the choir, baby?’

Gerald cringed away. He had never seen such a terrible weapon and looking up into the black eyes, at the gleaming white teeth and at the scar, he knew this was no bluff and he also knew one violent punch with this spiked horror would emasculate him.

His fury and courage drained out of him.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, his voice trembling.

‘Pack, baby. You and me are travelling.’

Gerald, in spite of his terror, thought of Sheila.

‘Where are we going?’

‘L.A., baby. You and me are going to have a fine time. You’ve nothing to worry about . . . everything paid. I’m going to be your friend.’ The Negro widened his smile. ‘I’m Hank

Washington . . . you call me Hank . . . I call you Gerry . . . okay, baby?’

His face still aching, sick fear making him tremble, Gerald began to pack. He had few things and the packing was done in minutes. The Negro picked up the battered suitcase.

‘You see?’ he said, smiling his gentle smile. ‘I carry your bag. You and me are friends . . . you call me Hank . . . I call you Gerry.’

Gerald flinched. He saw the rings on the Negro’s hand had disappeared. He wondered if he should make a run for it and the Negro, watching him, seemed to know what was going on in his mind.

‘Look, baby, don’t let’s have any trouble. I’ve got something else.’ He put his hand inside his jacket and a long stabbing knife appeared in his black hand. The thin, menacing blade glittered. ‘Baby, I’m a real artist with this sticker.’ The knife disappeared. ‘It’s all going to be fine. Nothing to worry about . . . just don’t make trouble, Me and trouble never get along together. You make trouble . . . you sing alto . . . you go along with me . . . you have a fine time . . . okay, baby?’

‘Yes,’ Gerald said huskily and followed the Negro out of the room.

* * *

The telephone bell rang in Bromhead’s room and he lifted the receiver.

‘Jack?’

He recognized Solly Marks’s wheezing voice.

‘That’s me.’

‘Your problem’s taken care of.’

‘Thanks.’ Bromhead replaced the receiver. He sat for a long moment, thinking. It had to be done. Gerald was becoming a nuisance, but Bromhead now thought uneasily how much his operation was costing him. Solly Marks had agreed to take care of Gerald, have him under constant supervision, feed him and keep him occupied for the sum of ten thousand dollars. Marks didn’t seem to operate under a fee of ten thousand dollars.

Bromhead had signed yet another I.O.U., knowing he was in the red with Marks for $22,000. He also knew that Marks didn’t lend money unless he was certain of collecting. This operation had to succeed!

He continued to think. It looked set, but there could be snags. Things happened that you didn’t think of or couldn’t foresee, but the overall plan was working well. He had listened to the tape Sheila had played on the old lady’s recorder. What an artist Sheila was! If he had written the script for her, he couldn’t have done better. And this inspiration of buying the tape recorder for the old lady! This was something he wouldn’t have thought of. How this must have shaken Patterson when he had seen it! He was sure he had Patterson now where he wanted him. Now thanks to Solly Marks, Gerald had been removed from the scene and would be kept on ice until the time was ready to use him. Yes . . . the operation was going well!

He got to his feet and left his room. The time was 19.10. Mrs. Morely-Johnson would be having cocktails with friends on the terrace. He entered the hotel lobby and crossing to one of the telephone booths, he called the penthouse. Sheila answered.

‘Jack,’ Bromhead said.

‘Come up,’ she replied and replaced the receiver.

Bromhead nodded approvingly. No words wasted . . . like him . . . a professional.

He walked into her office, hearing the chatter of people on the terrace, sure it was safe for them to talk for at least half an hour.

‘He’s gone to L.A.,’ Bromhead said, standing by her desk. ‘You don’t have to worry about him now.’

Sheila stiffened.

‘Gerry’s gone? What happened?’

‘Don’t let’s waste time . . . he’s gone and he’s safe. You must now talk to Patterson.’

‘I can’t believe it! You really mean Gerry’s gone?’

‘Stop worrying about him . . . he’s gone.’

She drew in a long breath. Perhaps for the first time, she really realized she was dealing with a man who would let nothing stand between himself and money. She thought of Gerald. He wouldn’t have gone unless he had been under some kind of pressure. She looked at Bromhead who was regarding her thoughtfully. She got no clue from his expression as to what had happened.

‘Patterson . . .’ Bromhead said quietly.

‘Yes.’ She tried to dismiss a frightened Gerald from her mind.

‘Don’t worry about Patterson,’ Bromhead said. ‘He’s hooked. I bet by now he will have read the will. I don’t have to tell you what to do?’

‘No.’

‘He is having dinner with the old lady tomorrow. You’d better contact him. After dinner, he can come up to the 19th floor and you can have him in your bedroom to talk.’

‘Yes.’ She thought for a moment, then picked up the telephone receiver and dialled Patterson’s home number. The call was immediately answered.

‘Chris?’

‘Oh . . . Sheila! I was expecting to hear from you.’ Patterson’s voice sounded bland.

‘You will be dining with Mrs. Morely-Johnson tomorrow evening,’ Sheila said. ‘When it is over, come to the 19th floor and walk up to the fire door on the 20th floor. You will find it open. I will be waiting for you.’

‘I’ll do just that, Mata Hari,’ Patterson said and hung up.

Sheila looked at Bromhead.

‘He could be difficult.’

Bromhead shook his head.

‘No one is ever difficult when he wants money,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

* * *

Abe Weidman, short, thickset, balding, walked with Patterson across the lobby of the hotel to the exit. The two men had been in the bar for a nightcap. As Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s attorney, Weidman imagined he and she were the only people to know that the old lady was leaving Patterson one hundred thousand dollars a year for life. He now regarded Patterson as one of his important people: a future client. He also liked this handsome man and he conveyed this by holding Patterson’s arm as they walked across the soft pile of the carpet to the revolving doors.

‘An excellent dinner,’ he said. ‘A first-class claret. The old lady still knows how to entertain.’

‘Yes,’ Patterson said. In a few minutes, he was thinking, he would have to face Sheila. His mind was excited. He had read the will and knew for certain that he was to inherit this big income. But he had still to cope with Sheila. It needed will power to appear relaxed and interested as he walked by Weidman’s side.

‘She looks well,’ Weidman said, pausing at the top of the steps. ‘Of course, none of us are getting any younger. Still, she could last for years. Can I give you a lift?’

‘Thanks . . . no. I have a telephone call to make.’

‘You bankers . . .’ Weidman patted Patterson’s arm. ‘You’re always busy.’

Patterson laughed.

‘You know how it is.’