Invitation to Violence (3 page)

    Dommie walked into the lobby, carrying the machine gun under his arm as the first dull blow reverberated throughout the empty theater.

    Vince suddenly stopped worrying. Now that they were in action, there was no longer time to worry. Anyway, he felt a quick surge of confidence. It was going to work. It was bound to work.

    

    

    It was odd, odd and just a bit ironic, that he should have been reflecting upon the utter mediocrity of his life when the incident occurred.

    The seven of clubs was responsible. That is to say, the seven of clubs which Gerald Hanna had drawn to fill an inside straight during the last hand of the evening had started him thinking about himself and about his life.

    Gerald Hanna was not a man to draw to an inside straight. He wouldn't, normally, gamble on any kind of straight, even if it was the last hand. As he pushed the money into the pot and asked for the card, he was subconsciously amazed at his audacity.

    The fact that he filled, that he drew a seven to make a ten high run, so completely surprised him that for a moment or two he sat there thoroughly stunned.

    Bill Baxter had to ask him twice what he wanted to do after he himself checked the bet.

    It was the usual Friday night game, which was always held in Bill's place, Bill being the only one of the regulars who was unmarried, or didn't live with his family, or who had a suitable apartment. Bill worked down at Seaboard Life with Gerald and several of the other players.

    Dr. Harry Kline, an examiner for the insurance company, and four or five other men who were regulars, were playing that evening.

    It was a friendly kind of game, the sort of thing which happens in a thousand towns and cities where several men get together once a week for a night out. The limits were modest, usually a ten cent ante and a quarter raise with only two consecutive raises allowed, in keeping with the incomes, and the responsibilities, of the players. They were men in the six to ten thousand dollar a year bracket.

    Mostly they would drink a few beers during the evening and the money for this was taken out of the pot a week in advance, although now and then Doc Kline would bring along a bottle of Scotch which he would share with anyone who cared for a drink.

    The game started at eight o'clock and broke up sometime after midnight. No one ever got hurt very badly and there was never any ill feeling or anger. The nearest they ever came to it was the time Herb Potter got drunk and insisted on raising the limits after he'd gone for three hours without a hand. Even that was understandable and forgiven as it happened only a couple of weeks after Herb's youngster died of polio and everyone knew that he was still feeling pretty much broken up.

    They played a fair brand of poker, considering everything. It was usually straight draw with jacks or better to open, or five card stud and each player pretty much knew every other player's game. Packy Wilson was inclined to bluff and Doc Kline was overly cagey, never staying unless he had a little the best of it before the draw, but all in all they played very evenly and conservatively.

    No one, least of all Gerald Hanna, would have dreamed of drawing to an inside straight. But on this particular night Gerald did. And he filled. He raised twice and won over a pair of aces and jacks held by Doc Kline, taking in around four-eighty on the hand, which put him about six dollars ahead for the evening.

    While he was pulling in the pot, Gerald told Doc Kline that he'd filled an inside straight and Doc Kline laughed sourly and, in a good-natured way, called him the world's biggest liar.

    "Don't kid me," Doc said. "You draw to an inside straight? Boy that's one I'll never believe. I'll bet you haven't left your house on a cloudy day in the last ten years without an umbrella and your rubbers."

    The funny thing was that Doc Kline was right. Gerald hadn't.

    Bill Baxter's apartment was in the East Seventies and when they broke up, Doc Kline offered to drive Hanna home as he also lived on Long Island. Gerald rented a room and bath in Roslyn from a family who had been friends of his mother.

    Gerald explained he'd driven his own car in that morning. He didn't wait around to have the final post-game glass of beer with the others.

    "Want to get to bed as soon as I can," he said. "Got to get an early start in the morning and the traffic will probably be lousy, it being Saturday."

    They all knew what he meant.

    Each week end, after the Friday night game, Gerald went to his rooms for a few hours' sleep and then got up before dawn on Saturday morning to drive up to Connecticut to spend the week end with his girl.

    They knew all about Gerald's girl. He'd been engaged now for five years. Maryjane lived with her invalid father and worked as a librarian, and Gerald and she had agreed that they wouldn't get married until he was earning enough to continue sending money to his own family and also support her father. It was the sensible thing to do, Gerald would argue, although now and then he began to wonder if he ever was going to get married, or if he actually really wanted to any longer.

    In the meantime he saw Maryjane on week ends, and they did simple, inexpensive things together, like swimming and picnicking and going to the movies. Maryjane had become a habit. It was like everything else in his life, he reflected, a trifle bitterly. Dull, safe, respectable and routine.

    Gerald left Bill's apartment at ten to one and drove up the Drive to the Triborough Bridge and out to Long Island, Traffic was light when he reached Northern Boulevard and headed east. He obeyed all stoplights and stayed well within the speed limit. He was still thinking about that seven of clubs when he passed through Great Neck and reached the outskirts of Manhasset.

    He was thinking of the seven of clubs and he was thinking of the incredible dullness of his own life. Until he was almost parallel to the Gorden-Frost Jewelry store he was completely oblivious of his surroundings, driving through the all too familiar streets by sheer instinct and with his mind a thousand miles away.

    

    

    Jake had been optimistic about the time it would take to smash through the partition separating the theater from the jewelry store. It was closer to a half hour than to twenty minutes. Jake himself handled the heavy sledge hammer, not trusting Vince to use it for fear of his making too much noise.

    Vince stood behind the older man, holding the pencil flash and wishing there was something he could do. The inactivity intensified nervousness and try as he might, he was unable to control the shaking of his hands.

    For the first time since he had embarked on the venture, he began to have serious misgivings. It couldn't work. They were bound to fail. The wall wouldn't break down and even if it did, they would enter the jewelry store only to find the private detective waiting for them with his gun drawn. He was suddenly sure, now that it was too late, that the entire thing was impossible. Someone was bound to hear the heavy blows of the sledge and set up an alarm.

    Vince strained his ears, trying to catch the wail of the police sirens he was positive must be approaching.

    For a moment the flashlight wavered in his hands and in that instant, Vince had an irresistible desire to drop it and turn and flee for the rear exit of the theater. He half turned, prepared to put the thought into action, when Jake's quick curse penetrated his mind.

    "Jeeze, hold that light still," he said in a husky whisper. "How the hell can I see."

    Vince quickly refocused the light. But he was unable to keep his mind from wandering.

    He would have given anything, at that moment, to be back home in his own bed. Back home with Sue. Sue had been right. She was always right. If he didn't behave himself, sooner or later he would end up in real trouble. God, if he'd only listened to her. But it was too late now, too late to do anything but go ahead. He was trapped; there was no turning back.

    Jake was through with the sledge now. He'd broken through the plaster and had encountered the tough wire lathing. Jake had hoped that he'd encounter wood lathing, but he'd taken no chances. The heavy tin shears were in the bag and he lowered the gas mask in order to ask Vince to hand them to him.

    Jake's shirt was wet with sweat as he worked and Vince knew that the man's face must be dripping under the gas mask. He could feel the water running down his own face and the plastic goggles kept clouding up with steam. He had to admire the way Jake handled things, the deliberate, steady pace with which he went about making the hole in the wall. Vince envied the other man his coolness under tension. He was feeling anything but calm and cool himself.

    And then, before he realized it, they were through the wall and in the jewelry store.

    It was just as Jake had said it would be. The Pinkerton man must have been sitting in a chair in the inner office when gas reached him and he had slipped and fallen to the floor.

    Jake took a few seconds out to go over and check on him. He was breathing heavily and the two of them dragged him out into the hallway and Jake opened a window to clear out the air after quickly binding the detective's wrists with wire. He didn't bother to gag him; they wouldn't be there long enough to make it necessary.

    The safe itself was as simple as Jake had said it would be. It was only necessary to use the sledge to break it open and within minutes of entering the room, Jake was filling the bag with the jewels.

    In less than ten minutes they were through. Jake went with him to the front door and handed him the bag. He pulled the gas mask from his face then, to speak.

    "Give us five minutes to get the car and get around in front. If we are not there by then, it will mean something has gone wrong. Wait five minutes; no longer. If we're not here, you'll be on your own. Don't use your flashlight to see your watch. Count. Count to five hundred. You'll be able to see the car when we pull up in front."

    He slipped the gas mask back over his face and turned and quickly headed back through the store.

    Vince began to count, moving his mouth silently.

    

    

    Sergeant Clarence Dillon was driving, and he would never in the world have seen it if it hadn't been for young Don Hardy, the probationary cop who was on his first night's tour of regular duty and had been assigned to Dillon for the evening. The Sergeant, who was happily married and the father of three youngsters but who had a dangerous weakness for women, was thinking of the new carhop down at the all-night soft drink and hamburger stop. He was wondering just what his chances of making a successful pass might be if he should stop by when he got off duty.

    She was a pretty kid, probably Italian, and she couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen. But she'd given him that certain look a half hour ago when they'd stopped for coffee and he was wondering about her and so his mind wasn't on his job. He never even noticed the car parked at the curb in front of the new branch of the Gorden-Frost Jewelry Company-the car with its headlights off and its motor softly purring.

    Hardy, who did spot the car, knew the motor was running because he could see, in the reflection of their own headlights, the exhaust fumes coming from the tailpipe.

    They were almost opposite the car by the time Hardy got his companion's attention and by then it was too late to do anything but pull up several yards in front of the car.

    Hardy hadn't seen anyone, but the second he swung out of the door and to the pavement and turned back, he realized what must have happened. The occupants, and there were apparently two of them, had ducked down as the squad car passed. Now the doors of the sedan were opening and a man was getting out from each side.

    Probationary Patrolman Hardy reached for his police positive.

    In spite of his preoccupation with young women, Sergeant Dillon was a good cop and a thoroughly experienced man in his business.

    The situation was obvious. There was a car parked with its engine running, its lights extinguished. The car was in front of a jewelry store. It was very late at night and the neighborhood was deserted.

    The Sergeant didn't look back at the car; his eyes went to the front of the store and he was just in time to see the figure leave the shadowy entrance and run toward the curb.

    A city cop might have fired first and then yelled. But the Sergeant worked out of Mineola, the county seat, and most of his experience had been with prowlers and petty criminals.

    His gun was in his hand as he called out the command.

    "Hey, you! Hold it right there!"

    In that second, Dommie forgot everything they'd ever rehearsed. He lifted the machine gun and it was pointed directly at Sergeant Dillon. The first finger of his right hand pressed hard on the trigger and stayed that way. Stayed that way while the weapon leaped and chattered and the stream of leaden slugs buried themselves one after another in the Sergeant's body.

    Probationary Patrolman Hardy didn't lose his head. His eyes had been on the figure leaving the doorway, but the moment Dommie pressed the trigger of the submachine gun, Hardy swung to face him. His first bullet struck the radiator of the sedan, but the second caught Dommie in the stomach as the last of the bullets left the barrel of the tommy gun.

    He swung the revolver then, taking the chance that his shot had gone home, and aimed it at Jake, who was running directly toward him. The two fired in the same instant and each shot was effective. Jake staggered, a bullet in his chest just below the heart, and slowly dropped to the pavement.

    But the gunman's shot also found its mark, striking Hardy in the right temple and glancing off without actually penetrating the skull itself. The shock was enough to drop him, and Hardy's gun fell from his hand as he went down. He was unconscious for several seconds.