No Beast So Fierce (15 page)

The cabin was dark; 11:30 was too early for Red to have finished his nightly prowl through dingy bars. The door was unlocked. Red had nothing worth stealing or hiding.

I reached for the light switch and, simultaneously, kicked an empty bottle. It skidded across the room, bounced against a wall and was still spinning when the bare hundred-watt bulb illuminated the room. The scene disgusted me, the array of tawdry clutter, the sour stench pervading everything. I'd thought about staying with L&L Red for a few days, until I made a move, but now decided I'd prefer sleeping under a bridge to staying more than one night.

I opened a window for air and looked out. The cabin, for all its ugliness, sat upon a high throne over the endlessly sprawling city. A breeze had cleared the usual haze and the air was crystalline, the sky powdered with recklessly spilled stars. For all its brilliance, the sky was merely a bland proscenium for the glory of the bowl below—a bowl of jewels sparkling to the horizon. From here the earth as lighted by man was more lovely than the heavens. Streets that were dreary in day's harsh red light were now flowing rivers of diamonds and rubies from thousands of vehicles going one way or another. The panorama evoked mingled exultation and the bittersweet pain of loneliness. I was indeed God's lonely man.

“Alone against all humanity,” I said, shivering, the hanging words magnifying the thought and sensation. It was both frightening and glorious to be aided by nobody, have no creed, and be whole and secure in myself. “Alone against humanity.” The phrase was both boast and lament. I'd made my choice and wished to abide by it—yet the pang of lonely wonder aroused by the lights questioned the verities so adamantly selected in the jail. A hunger to belong and for meaning apparently is ineradicable. A man may accept truth without necessarily liking it.

Such arabesques of useless thought could only weaken my determination. I put them behind me. They were too late. By now police radios had already crackled my name and description, the photocopiers and teletypes were sending for the allpoints bulletin. No great manhunt would be inaugurated, but if I was picked up on a drunk charge, or stopped for a traffic ticket (until I had identification), or if someone tipped them off, they'd haul me in. Once I had identification, and as long as nobody tipped them off or I didn't get arrested for a new crime, I'd be safe.

I needed money—for the identification and to live. Money is the lifeblood of fugitives. I'd decided in jail on armed robbery as a livelihood, though I didn't foreclose anything else that seemed promising. Armed robbery's classic simplicity appealed to me. I would indeed “take” what I wanted. True, the penalties for capture were enormous, but danger could be reduced to the caper's frozen seconds. Unlike other crimes there was no need for an armed robber to be in a criminal milieu where the police were watching. For the crimes available to me as a fugitive, robbery offered the largest possible reward for the least risk and investment. I was wagering my life, but as it stood that was worthless. I didn't care about it if I couldn't live as I wanted.

My thoughts turned pragmatic. I needed firearms, tools of my trade, and a few dollars to live on until I could put something together. L&L Red might know where to get firearms, someone who would loan them as an investment. Johnny Taormina might have enough money to finance the crap game robbery.

It was 3:00
A.M.
when Red came up the hill on foot. The dented roadster had run out of gas two miles from home. Red was still drunk despite the long hike. He'd spent the night cadging drinks (in return for his lecherous humor) in various bistros. He was unsurprised at my presence, and only slightly curious about my three-week absence. L&L Red was most interested in the bottle I'd brought. He hadn't seen Johnny Taormina lately and didn't know if the robbery proposition was still open, but we could find out in the morning.

Red's empty gas tank and the hour dictated where I'd spend the night. Red didn't ask how long I was going to be his guest; a night, a week, or a year, it was all the same to him. My attitude was different. I needed him for transportation until something fruitful happened, but this was my last night in the cabin. Something had to be arranged during the coming day.

We shared the half-gallon of wine. Added to what was already in his system, he was pole-axed. He fell asleep on the sofa in his clothes and snored gustily.

Hanging my cheap suit over a chair so it would not become even more rumpled, I stretched out on the floor. I was drunk enough to ignore the smell of the blanket in which I was wrapped. Yet a floor and dirty blanket and the choice to live and die as I pleased were better than clean sheets and domesticity in a halfway house under Rosenthal's tyranny.

My last thought before sleep was of a sawed-off shotgun.

2

T
HE
man who got out of a twelve-year-old Chevrolet in the parking lot of a bar catering to gamblers was a frail, gray sixty. His suit had been expensive a decade before, but was worn and sadly out of fashion. I'd expected a burly Sicilian, a flashy dresser. Big John Taormina, the mafioso, looked like a sad, nervous bookkeeper. His eyes had cataracts, shifted nervously, and met mine only momentarily when L&L Red made the introductions.

“Glad to meet you,” he said, looking around the parking lot. “Let's go inside.”

“I'll drink to that,” Red said grinning with his stained teeth.

While we walked toward the side door, Johnny asked what Red had told me.

“Just that you want a heist man to rip off a crap game.”

“That's all he knew.” Johnny was showing how closed-mouthed he himself was. “You a heist man?”

“Among other things.”

“Junky?”

“No.” I answered, but I was piqued. He was no longer a big-shot gangster. Even if he was, I disliked being questioned. I said nothing more; the time would come to jerk his reins.

The barmaid, elderly for such occupation, called Johnny by his first name and smiled. She knew L&L Red, too, but ignored him except for a perfunctory nod. He leered at her despite her dowdy fifty years.

When the drinks arrived, Johnny started for his wallet, changed his mind, and told the woman to put it on his tab. She paused just long enough for it to be perceptible, then nodded acquiescence and moved away.

Before going into details of the caper, Johnny began explaining why he was fingering the game. He was impelled by guilt to justify why he was being a traitor to his friends. He was in debt, had mortgaged his mother's house (which he justified by mentioning that he'd bought it for her in the first place), and had lost four hundred thousand dollars gambling in five years, most of it to these same “schmuck” friends we were going to have robbed. All of them owed him favors when he was on top. None would help him. He needed money to pick up a bar with a cheap down payment and to set up a bookmaking operation in the General Hospital. It had thousands of employees, countless patients, and “big action”.

“What's the score worth?” I interrupted.

“Fifteen to twenty-five g's, counting the jewelry some of 'em wear. Mostly cash though.”

“What kind of end do you want?”

“Thirty percent.”

“Off the top or after the nut?”

“It's not gonna cost anything to finance it.”

“Oh, it'll cost something.” I had thought of asking him for “front” money for weapons, but if he knew I lacked firearms it would weaken my position. What kind of bandit is without firearms? “Thirty percent is pretty steep,” I said.

“I'm giving you a gift.”

“Yeah, maybe thirty is okay.” I was lying. Once I had the money he'd get 10 percent, take it or leave it. He'd be safely watching television while I risked my life; 10 percent was all he deserved.

“If you do this right, I've got some other sweetheart scores.” His voice was plaintive. He was trying to insure that I didn't doublecross him. If I did, he couldn't sue me for breach of contract. He couldn't really do much of anything. He could shoot me—if he had the nerve and if he could find me. I doubted both of these.

“Let's sweat one at a time. How many people at the game?”

“Anywhere from seven to a dozen.”

“Any guns?”

Johnny shook his head emphatically. “They've been playing together for years without any trouble. They're scared of guns.” He leaned closer, whispering urgently, his cataracted eyes beginning to water. The game was in a rear suite of a large San Fernando Valley motel. It played once or twice a week. He couldn't know the precise evening until a few hours before. A regular player would telephone him; then he'd let me know. I had to be ready. I'd be able to tell if they were there by looking outside for a yellow Cadillac convertible with a black top or a blue pickup truck with Acme Vending on its side. Regular players drove these vehicles.

“The guy that calls you … does he know you're fingering a heist?”

“Christ no! He calls because I sometimes play—when I can get a stake.”

Though the score seemed excellent, Mr Taormina might be using a salesman's license. His need for money might cause him to gloss over defects, particularly when he was taking no risk.

My manner was coldly tough, which he expected and respected. “Let me have the address. Red and me can look it over this afternoon.”

“Good. How long before you can get it?”

“Next week—if I can find the right crime partner.”

“Don't you have anybody?”

“Nobody like I want. This is going to take a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wrestler. Somebody built like Red here.”

L&L Red had been swiggling ice cubes and sucking the empty glass. At mention of his name, he looked up. “Huh?”

“Nothing.” I explained to Johnny that I needed someone big enough to knock down anyone who hesitated. “This'll be a small area with men already excited from gambling. We'll knock on the door, claim to be police, which'll get 'em more excited—but they'll crack the door. When they do the bruiser crashes in. I come behind him with a sawed-off shotgun. I don't want to blow anybody in half if I don't have to. The gorilla can flatten anybody who flinches wrong.”

Johnny nodded at the explanation, understanding the tactical situation, liking the professional ring. The casual reference to shotguns also intimidated him—as it was intended to.

His handshake was firmly enthusiastic when we separated in the parking lot.

With the first full tank of gas the M.G. roadster had had in six months, we headed northwest on the Hollywood Freeway outbound toward the San Fernando Valley. Traffic whizzed along. The wind breaking over the roadster's windshield and the sun on my neck made me feel good. Life can be delicious even for the outcast and criminal.

The white-on-black sign, Vine Street Right Lane, made me think of Abe Meyers. He might provide guns, financing, even the identification. Abe would be at the club now. The motel wasn't going anywhere in the next hour.

From a gas station five blocks away, I phoned ahead to find out if the police had been there. Abe was surprised at the call, claiming he'd learned yesterday that I was in jail. I withheld voicing my disbelief, though I was tempted to inquire where he thought I was when I failed to handle the situation with Stan Bergman. He said no police had inquired about me. “You didn't escape, did you?”

“No. I just hung up the parole. I'm comin' in for a drink.”

“Yeah, okay.” He sounded unenthusiastic.

Red circled the block and went once down the alley without stopping. No plain cars or inconspicuous men were seen. I hardly expected them. I was too small a fish for so expensive a net.

As we started down the alley a second time, another problem came to mind: L&L Red. He looked too much like what he was: a drunken, lecherous bum. His loose-lipped face was the archetype of depravity. His pullover shirt was torn at the right armpit so that hairs jutted out. I was ashamed of being ashamed—for compared to Abe he was virtuous, or at least had those virtues I esteemed: forthrightness and loyalty. Under the circumstances I couldn't risk his unpredictability. Telling him a lookout was needed, I gave him enough money for a couple of short dogs of wine and told him to wait outside the club's front door. If the police showed up he was to start kicking it. The thought of wine mollified his disappointment, and he was unable to argue against the need for a lookout. He let me off next to the alley door.

Despite Abe's assurances, and my own examination, I walked through the door with an inner coil. Police used moments like these to spring traps.

Music came from the jukebox. The lights were out and the chairs were legs up on the tables. The dim cavern was almost empty. Abe was behind the bar, facing Manny and a large baldheaded man who were seated on the stools. Spread before them was an adding machine, green ledgers, and piles of receipts. Abe saw me, gave a brief wave of recognition, and returned to the ledger and machine. The offhanded greeting indicated how much my influence of three weeks ago had declined. Manny, however, came over.

“What's to it, Max?”

“I want to see Abe and I haven't got a lot of time.”

“Man, he's hung up. That thing they're working on has to be in the afternoon mail. It means ten g's.”

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Maybe I can help,” Manny said.

Could he be trusted? Not for a moment did I suspect that he would voluntarily go to the police, but if he knew too much he'd have bargaining power if he was arrested for something minor, pandering or possession of marijuana. On the other hand, if all he could tell them was that I wanted, or had, some firearms it would be a minimal threat. It might intensify their desire to capture me, but it wasn't evidence of a crime they could use in court. As long as Manny didn't know where, when, or if they'd been used …

“Guns? More than one?”