Jack of Diamonds (84 page)

After three more nights, nights in which I’d wake with a start, my mind fuzzy but nevertheless filled with terror, I’d still heard nothing from the two cops. I tried to convince myself that they were busy and that my pathetic performance had put them at their ease. Directly after their visit I’d asked not to be given any sedation other than my normal drip, which was now down to the very minimum. I was by no means pain free, but there was a reason for this. One kind of addiction is bad enough; two, a disaster in the making. Being a poker addict without a stake combined with having a morphine addiction would likely lead to heroin, an even more addictive opiate. I was aware there would be times when I needed to get away from my depression, but ‘horse’, as it was known in my world, could make my future life impossible and destroy anything creative I may have left in me. The physical pain was bearable – you can grow accustomed to pain – but I was finding it almost impossible to adjust to the mental anguish I felt when its effects started to wear off. This was the real fight that lay ahead of me.

However, I was determined to endure both the physical and mental torment. Dr Light, that very afternoon, had said that in another few days, a week at the most, I’d be fit enough to leave for the East Coast.

Two nights before I was due to leave, the nurses had settled me down, almost begging me to take a painkilling injection or at least sleeping tablets. I had resisted both and lay awake, trying to cope with the pain as all the familiar hospital sounds died away and I was left with the extra tyranny of almost complete silence.

It was after midnight when I heard a
squeak, squeak
coming along the passageway leading to my own and the other private rooms. For god’s sake, you’d think the night cleaner would have the brains to oil the wheels of his trolley, I thought. Then my door was slowly eased open and a thin shaft of light penetrated from the passageway. Moments later, Bridgett appeared in the doorway. She was holding a finger to her lips and beckoning someone behind her to follow.

She came quickly to the bedside. ‘Jack, are you awake?’ she asked, just above a whisper.

‘Bridgett? What the hell? It’s past midnight. What’s going on?’

‘We’ve got to get you out of here tonight, Jack.’

‘Tonight?’

She was carrying a small canvas bag, which she placed on the bed. ‘Lenny’s been killed.’ Her voice cracked, but she quickily regained control.

‘No!’ I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘How?’

‘He was shot some four hours ago in his quarters. Someone from the late-night kitchen staff came to my quarters to tell me; they thought I might be in danger. Jack, if they’ll murder Lenny, one of their own, you’re certain to be next in line.’

I looked past her and realised the person who had followed her in was Chef Napoleon Nelson.

‘They’re tidying up, Jack, getting rid of the evidence. Time to go,’ Bridgett said firmly. I knew she would have been as shocked as I was by Lenny’s murder but for now her feelings were in lockdown.

Thank Christ I hadn’t taken any sleeping tablets or morphine. My heart was thumping but my mind was more or less clear; nevertheless, I was still attempting to come to terms with what she’d just told me. ‘Lenny? Jesus! Yeah, right. But where do I go? They wouldn’t . . . ? I mean, Chicago? Lenny’s their —’

‘Jack, listen to me!’ Bridgett said urgently. ‘This is serious. The police have obviously told Chicago about the interview with you, and they, just as obviously, don’t trust the signed statement the police prepared.’ She paused momentarily. ‘You have signed it, haven’t you?’

‘No, they haven’t been around. But Lenny, killing Lenny, how is that tidying up?’ I asked.

‘Mobster mindset, it’s how they think. They want Lenny to look like another Bugsy Siegel. Money, Jack, it’s always about money. Lenny was the old Giancana side of the family that Accardo never trusted; he was also your friend and had gone to your rescue.’ Bridgett began to unzip the canvas bag. ‘Jack, it’s no longer just Sammy. He couldn’t have authorised Lenny’s murder and he couldn’t have done it himself. Both his thugs are dead. He couldn’t recruit new muscle so quickly, not from hospital. This is the godfather himself and the Chicago Mob. If Chicago thought it necessary to have Lenny killed because of his involvement in your rescue and for organising the cement to fill the basement, they’ll see you as a lot more dangerous to them as a hostile witness than Lenny ever could have been.’

‘Where can I go? I’m due to go to Albany.’

‘Go to Albany. Only Dr Light and I will know, and now Chef Napoleon Nelson and Booker T. Dr Irwin Light and his wife Erica are among my few friends in Las Vegas. They’ve long known about the Chicago Mob and the casino, which isn’t exactly a state secret.’

The door was closed so I switched on the light. Almost immediately the door eased open again. It was Dr Light, carrying a small tin box with a red cross on the lid and looking decidedly concerned. He acknowledged me with a nod and a single ‘Jack’, then turned and spoke directly to Bridgett. ‘I’m worried. The night sister just told me there were two guys downstairs ten minutes ago, asking about Jack. They said they were old school friends from Toronto, Canada, and were travelling to San Diego by car overnight. They knew it was late but hoped an exception could be made, as they had heard Jack was in hospital. Lynette – I mean, Sister Barry – knows a Chicago accent when she hears one. She was born and raised in K-Town, a poor area of Chicago. She claims she’d recognise the accent in her sleep. She told them to go away and come back during visiting hours on their way back from San Diego. She said she didn’t like the look of them one little bit; both were thoroughly nasty pieces of work, in her opinion.’ Dr Light was over-explaining to hide his nervousness.

‘So soon!’ Bridgett whispered.

Chef Napoleon Nelson stepped forward. ‘Jack, we can get you out o’ here widout you bein’ seen. I got two of my church buddies outside who work here in da hospital laundry. Dey waitin’ in da hallway and dey gonna remove you by da magic of da unseen basket trolley.’

I rose from my bed. ‘I haven’t got any street clothes; they were too bloodstained to keep.’

Bridgett drew the canvas bag towards her and managed a wan smile as she pulled out a blue tracksuit. ‘I found this in your dressing-room. I know you sometimes change into it to walk home. But I haven’t got any undies . . . er, Jockey pants,’ she corrected. She placed the tracksuit on the bed and lifted the top. ‘I’ve cut out the left arm . . . .to make it a bit easier.’ She helped me into it, then turned to Dr Light and handed him the pants, and turned her back as he helped me out of my pyjamas and into the tracksuit pants.

‘Jack, I’ve got to go,’ Dr Light said nervously, ‘but I’m giving you a small shot of morphine now. I’ve given you plenty of morphine sulphate in one-use syrettes. As a medic, you’re familiar with them, right?’

I nodded.

‘There’s also plenty of bandages and dressings, and some analgesics as well. There’s iodine for when you change the dressings. There’s also penicillin in vials and some hypodermics for if you get an inflammation. Do you think you can handle the dressing and medicating yourself?’

I nodded again. ‘Yes.’ There didn’t seem any point reminding him I was off morphine. He hastily prepared a syringe and administered the drug. Within moments it kicked in and I can’t say it didn’t feel good. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to repay you.’

‘Stay safe and get to Albany, Jack.’ He grinned; partially, I suspect, to hide his nerves. ‘It’s been a real pleasure. Give my regards to Dr Haghighi. I’ll send him a message in medical code, in case someone around here is snooping.’ He turned, opened the door and left, his hurrying footsteps echoing down the hallway.

‘It be okay now, Miss Bridgett,’ Chef Napoleon Nelson said softly. ‘Now we gon’ move, Jack.’

‘How is this going to work? They must be watching the hospital exits,’ I said.

‘Like I sayed, Jack. We got the wicker laundry basket on wheels outside your door. Ain’t nobody even looks at us black folks when dey lookin’ for a white man. We just go right past dem, up the ramp and into da laundry van.’

‘Jesus! What about you, Bridgett? If these guys are waiting outside and see you, they’ll know something’s up.’

‘He right, Miss Bridgett. You all better go in de basket also. Don’t worry, it plenty big enough, so long you be good friends,’ he chuckled. ‘We drop you off later. My niece, Lizabeth – she bin named after da queen o’ England, because she born da same day – she grow’d up woman now and kin take you all up to Fremont, to catch you a cab this late time o’ night. Jack, you be stayin’ Westside while we get ourself organised. We be taking you to stay wid Pastor Jake Moses, his res-e-dence. You already met him at Sunday meeting. Booker T., his wife say he be arriving tomorra afternoon, leave to go back east last train night-time da day follow. Let’s go, people,’ he commanded. He wasn’t a head chef for nothing and had assumed complete control.

He helped me through the door and there stood the biggest wicker laundry basket I had ever seen. It looked to be about four feet wide, seven feet (or a little more) long, and must have been four feet high, with a wicker lid and a big LAUNDRY sign on each side. Two coloured men with LAUNDRY embroidered in red on the backs of their white coats were waiting. Other than them, the corridor was completely deserted. The two men helped me over the side of the basket and into it. I bumped my hand but it caused little pain, the morphine having blessedly already kicked in. I would have to be more careful, though; I wasn’t going to use Dr Light’s kit unless I had to. They’d placed a couple of doubled-over blankets and a pillow on the floor of the basket and now eased me down onto my back. Then Bridgett climbed in and squeezed beside me, lying on her side against my body, one arm draped loosely over my stomach. The laundry guys then placed a sheet over us and we felt the basket begin to move, the squeak of wheels marking our departure.

Bridgett kissed me on the side of my face. ‘God, Jack,’ she whispered, ‘you didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to get me between the sheets. All you had to do was ask.’ As the basket rolled along, and despite the desperate situation I was in, we tried unsuccessfully to stifle our giggles.

‘Now you tell me!’ I whispered back.

‘You two be quiet now, you hear?’ Chef Napoleon Nelson ordered as we squeaked along in the dark. I was very aware of Bridgett beside me, and of the perfume she always wore.

I was on my way to god knows where, Chicago’s thugs were outside, waiting to finish off the job they’d been sent to do, and I had a raging hard-on. Bridgett’s arm was too close to the offending erection for comfort; all she had to do was lower her hand six or eight inches and I was a goner.

Thank Christ it was dark inside the laundry basket and we were covered by the sheet. A woollen tracksuit with no Jockeys doesn’t exactly conceal the only male part below the neck that has a mind of its own.

We were jolted up what seemed like a ramp and I heard the van doors slam. The basket lid was lifted and Napoleon asked, ‘You two be okay down dere?’

‘Sure, Chef Napoleon,’ I said. It wasn’t quite pitch dark, as the driver had his cabin light on. Bridgett must have felt insecure going up the ramp and her hand clasped my arm just above the wrist. She was now even closer than previously. Thank god Bridgett wasn’t Juicy Fruit or she’d have twigged immediately and embarked on an exploration. But, then again, the result might have been even better than the shot of morphine. ‘I gotta sit in the front wid da driver, Luke. You holler you want something, you hear now, Jack, Miss Bridgett,’ Chef Napoleon Nelson said, barely above a whisper. ‘But only when maybe we be gone some.’

He replaced the lid, and the back of the stationary van shook slightly as he moved forward and climbed into the front seat. A few moments later, the engine fired and we moved away. After a short time, Chef Napoleon Nelson called out, ‘Okay, folks, we now headin’ Westside. Road gonna get a little bumpy.’

Moments later we hit a fairly big bump and Bridgett said, ‘Oops!’ and at that moment her hand slid down and brushed the tracksuit pants, bumping against the veritable tent pole under the sheet. Her fingers remained motionless for a few seconds, then came to life and curled around the sheet that covered my erection. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ I said softly.

Bridgett giggled. ‘No, Jack, not even the Virgin Mary,’ she whispered.

‘I . . . I . . .’

‘Shhh!’ she whispered again, and kissed me. ‘What a lovely surprise, Jack.’ Then she removed her hand and, next thing, she’d removed the sheet covering us. ‘Keep your bad hand above your head, Jack,’ she whispered. ‘Does it hurt? The hand, I mean.’

‘No, er . . . it’s fine. Morphine . . .’

I felt her leg move across my body until her knee was cushioned between me and the side of the laundry basket, and then she was suddenly straddling me. With her arms pressed down on either side of my body, she started to slide downwards. ‘Close your legs, Jack,’ she whispered. Moments later I felt her thighs rub against my belly and then meet the rampant pole, pause a second, then lift to pass over, just brushing the tip straining at my track pants. She kept moving downward a little and I felt her straddling my legs. I hadn’t said a word. I thought I knew what was happening but couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say, or perhaps remaining silent
was
the appropriate thing. I felt her grab the elastic around the waist of my tracksuit bottom, my penis bending at the base then jerking erect. I raised my butt to allow her to pull the track pants further down. Moments later I felt Bridgett’s sweet mouth and soft lips come into play.