Operation Breakthrough (18 page)

“She’s right,” Hazel chimed in.

They advanced upon me in tandem. Together they relieved me of shirt, holster, and undershirt, then stood by while I climbed onto one of Chen Yi’s massage tables. Naked to the waist I stretched out on my back while she worked liniment of some kind onto her hands and then spread it onto my shoulder and upper arm and began working it deep beneath the surface.

At first it hurt like hell, but then a soothing warmth began to spread through the shoulder. Hazel was standing on the other side of the table from Chen Yi. “Don’t you think you should postpone the attempt until tomorrow night?” she asked.

“No,” I said. The tied-up watchman was added inducement not to postpone the job for another twenty-four hours. And I’ve found when the critical point in a project is reached, postponement always seems to be the start of an unraveling process in even the best-laid plans. “I’ll go while I’ve got the momentum.” A chill little breeze started at my beltline and ran up my back. “Do you have a window open in here?” I asked Chen Yi.

“No,” she said. Her strong, skillful fingers were probing ever more deeply into flesh and tissue. “Does the shoulder feel better? You are really going to have a livid bruise.”

“It feels a lot better,” I said truthfully. “My only concern now is about the seagoing end of the expedition.”

“You can depend upon Hurricane Ronnie,” Chen Yi said tranquilly. “When he says he will tie up at pier nine next to the oil company wharf at 1:30 tonight, he will be there.”

Hazel looked fidgety standing there. “How about making me a cup of coffee?” I asked. I wanted to give her something to do.

“Right away,” she said. She walked around the massage table and passed through the curtain hanging over the booth entrance. There was the sound of a collision and a breathless squeal. Two voices spoke simultaneously.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” Hazel exclaimed.

“I’m here for my regular massage,” the other feminine voice said huskily, “but if Chen Yi is busy — ”

The curtain was parted again.

Flaxen blond hair surrounding a beautiful face with an English, schoolgirl complexion was thrust into the booth. Two bright blue eyes examined me curiously in the instant before Chen Yi flung a sheet over me.

“Oh, you’re busy,” the newcomer said. “I’ll come back later.”

The curtain fell again.

I felt paralyzed. The beautiful face belonged to Hermione, my erstwhile partner that first brandy-fogged night at Candy’s.

Hermione, who intimately knew my chest scars, which she had just seen again.

Hermione, who had turned Candy in to her syndicate boy friend, resulting in Candy’s hospitalization.

Hermione, who could be expected to do no less for me.

Hermione, who had just overheard that I would be rendezvousing with Hurricane Ronnie on pier nine at 1:30
A.M
. tonight.

I
BOLTED
from the table with a lunge that set my shoulder to throbbing all over again. “Stop her, Hazel!” I shouted at the same instant I heard a slamming door.

I burst through the booth doorway and ran into Chen Yi standing just beyond the concealing curtain. Hazel was at the front door, peering up the street. “She’s gone,” she said. “Was it important? I don’t see her. Should I go after her?”

“It will do no good,” Chen Yi said. “Her boy friend lives somewhere near here.” Her tone was bitter. “Why didn’t I remember that Candy had given her a key?”

“Never mind,” I said, struggling into my undershirt. “We just move up the timing of the operation, that’s all. Chen Yi, run upstairs and get word to Hurricane Ronnie to get started now.”

“Do you think Hermione overheard about the boat?” Chen Yi asked quietly, already on her way to the door leading upstairs.

“We won’t worry about it.” Chen Yi disappeared. I hoped my voice carried conviction. I wasn’t feeling too confident at the moment.

Hazel closed the massage parlor front door and came over to me. “What will you do now, Earl?”

“What I planned to do, except we’ll move it up two hours.” I couldn’t leave Hazel and Chen Yi here by themselves now that Hermione was sure to start syndicate henchmen moving in the direction of Candy’s place. “Tell Chen Yi I said you should both change into something warm. We’ll all be leaving here together.” One of the very minor problems confronting me afterward would be what to do with Chen Yi.

“But will you be able to — ”

“Move!” I blazed at Hazel. “If Hermione’s boy friend lives close by, we haven’t much time!” Hazel trotted through the doorway which led to the upstairs apartment.

I was three-quarters of the way into Candy’s work clothes again when I realized I didn’t want them. Hermione could describe them for one thing. And for the job at the back of the jail I had something better upstairs, the black sports outfit Hazel had purchased for me in Miami.

I drew my .38 and checked its action a couple of times. Then I removed the beret and work gloves from pockets of the work clothes before pulling the clothes off. I bundled everything under my arm and carried it up the stairway. I really had to lean on the bell before Hazel opened the door. “Chen Yi can’t get hold of Hurricane Ronnie at the marina,” she said.

“Tell her to stop trying and get dressed,” I said. “It’s not important.” I tried to say it as though I believed it. “We’ll just have to kill a little time until he shows up.”

I went into our bedroom and opened dresser drawers until I found the black sportshirt and slacks. I strapped on my shoulder holster over the sportshirt, then did a couple of deep knee bends to make sure there was no binding. I was ready to go when Hazel and Chen Yi entered the bedroom. Both were dressed in dark, snugly fitting trousers and high-necked coolie jackets of quilted material secured down the front by decorative frogs. I was pleased to see that both wore shoulderbags which left their hands and arms free.

Hazel had her hair skinned tightly to her head, held in place by a silk scarf knotted into a headband. Chen Yi had on some kind of form-fitting, wrap-around headgear that contained her long black hair. Both wore flat, thick-soled Chinese slippers that enabled them to move almost noiselessly. They looked villainous enough to be Chinese river pirates.

Chen Yi removed a dark green windbreaker from her arm and handed it to me. “Put on this jacket of Candy’s,” she said. “It will be chilly on the water.”

If we make the water, I thought to myself, but I took the jacket. “You two go downstairs and around to the back and get the truck started,” I said, handing Hazel the keys. “Don’t use too much choke. I’ll be right there.”

They left the bedroom. I slipped into the windbreaker and zipped it up. Then I experimented with high and low zipper levels while I practiced drawing the .38 until I was sure I had complete freedom of movement.

When I was satisfied, I stuffed the work gloves into a hip pocket, pulled on the beret again, and started downstairs after the women. Two-thirds of the way down to the ground floor level, I froze. A harsh masculine voice was yelling something inside the massage parlor. I drew the .38 again and crept down the remainder of the stairway and tiptoed to the open door.

Hazel and Chen Yi were standing slightly apart, each confronted by a man. Both men held guns. “Hell, this one’s a broad, too,” the man in front of Hazel was saying disgustedly. He was a stocky type with dark jowls. “What do we do now, Leo?”

“Where is he?” the dapperly dressed Leo snarled menacingly at Chen Yi. Both men had on white Panama hats. Hazel was closest to me and in my line of fire. I knew that anything less than an outright kill and these two would cut down on the two women. “All right, Cisco,” Leo continued when Chen Yi remained silent. “Give this one about three raps in the teeth with the butt of your gun.”

The stocky Cisco started past Hazel toward Chen Yi, his right arm already drawing back. I saw Hazel’s right hand snake into her opened shoulderbag and emerge swathed in a handkerchief, and I knew what was coming. The unsuspecting Cisco walked right into Hazel’s roundhouse swing.

She unloaded the roll of nickels in her clenched fist alongside his jaw so hard his hat popped off his head. He lurched into a silly, sideways stagger as his gun clattered to the floor. He hit the wall and caromed from it, then slid to the floor and sprawled there unconscious.

Leo had turned his head at the sound of the SPLAAAAT! of Hazel’s wallop landing. Before I could move, Chen Yi had clamped both hands on the dapper gunman and swung him clear of the floor completely above her head. She had discarded her slippers and was barefoot. Leo yelled hoarsely as Chen Yi slammed him down so violently that he bounced. His white hat rolled away. Chen Yi leaned down and slapped the gun from his limp hand, kicked him in the throat, then stamped twice on his Adam’s apple with her heel, crushing it beneath her weight.

It all happened so fast one of the white hats was still rolling on the floor when I came out of my trance and sprinted into the room. Hazel was blowing on her knuckles. Chen Yi was stepping into her slippers again. “You two kind of make a guy feel like a fifth wheel,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

I ripped down a cubicle curtain and tore it into strips to serve as tie cords. If I’d been alone, I’d have put a bullet into each man on the floor, but I couldn’t see the women doing life for a murder rap if we didn’t make it all the way. I tossed the strips to Hazel, and she knelt quickly and began tying up her victim as deftly as a calf roped for branding.

“You will not need to tie this one,” Chen Yi said. She wasn’t even breathing hard. There was a strong note of satisfaction in her voice. “He was the worst in what they did to Candy.”

A closer look at Leo indicated what she meant. The least that had happened to that formerly dapper individual under Chen Yi’s lethal footwork was a badly damaged larynx and voice box. He wouldn’t be making a sound for a long time, if ever.

I gagged Cisco with a strip of curtain material, then herded the women outside. The syndicate rat pack was sure to have reinforcements on the way. We rounded the building and crowded into the truck’s front seat. “What will you do now?” Hazel asked in a hushed voice.

“What I planned,” I repeated. Psychologically, once an operation is initiated, its outcome should never be questioned. Lay it out and follow it through is the basic rule. Improvise only when you find a need for it.

The panel truck started up with a jerk as I headed for Cartwright Street. This time I remembered to keep to the left-hand lane. The equipment in the back of the truck began to rattle as we hit a few potholes in the side streets I drove on to avoid the main intersections.

Hazel twisted around in the front seat to peer into the body of the paneled rear. “What’s that thing that looks like a length of steel tubing?” she wanted to know.

“That’s a burning bar. It’s what will spring Karl.” There was a dull thud as the heavy oxygen tank hit the floor of the truck after a bounce. “And that’s a tank of oxygen to fire up the bar.”

“A left turn here will eliminate a main street,” Chen Yi interposed. Her voice was composed. The Chinese girl had a lot of mustard in her system.

I turned left, then nudged Hazel with my elbow. “The bar and the tank make it a two-man job, kid, so buckle up your girdle. You’ll be the second man. After we get rolling and I tell you to do something, you do it like five minutes ago, catch?”

“I catch.” There was a moment’s silence in the swaying truck. “You sound awfully confident.”

“I am.”

And I was at least about getting Karl Erikson out of his cell. The walls of the building holding him would be about as effective as papier-mâché against the assault of the burning bar. After that I wasn’t nearly as confident Since I’d had to move the operation up, there was a knotty question about where we were going to spend our time until the
Matilda
showed up and I was able to slip Erikson aboard.

I switched off the lights of the truck as we turned into Cartwright, and I located the alley. I tried to remember how far along it the loose board in the fence had been, then braked to a stop. We all climbed out into the alley’s pitch blackness.

Hazel and Chen Yi waited at the rear of the truck while I trailed my hand along the fence in search of the loose board. It was farther away than I expected, but when I found it, I wrenched it free as rusty nails squealed shrilly, a heart-stopping sound in the stillness.

I tried the opening to make sure I could actually get through the gap. There was no problem. I returned to the women at the rear of the truck. “Chen Yi, after we unload the stuff, you move off in the truck and circle the block. Do it slowly. Keep your lights off in the alley and keep looking for Hazel. She’ll come through the hole in the fence first and my partner and I will follow in a couple of minutes. If we don’t show in that length of time, you two take off. No waiting, understand? You keep circling with the truck until Hazel comes back through the hole in the fence. Got it?”

She nodded, and I squeezed her arm. I caught a flash of her white teeth as she smiled. I opened the truck doors, hauled out the burning bar, and handed it to Hazel. I muscled the oxygen tank to the ground with a reminding twinge from my shoulder. It hit the alley dirt with a dull clank, but it didn’t bother me. At a certain point in any operation a little boldness affords its own concealment.

I disregarded the hand truck. Speed was important now, and I didn’t want to take the time to work it through the hole in the fence and drag the oxygen tank to it. “Follow me,” I said to Hazel. I took a deep breath, muscled the tank up into my arms, inched my way sideways through the fence gap, and trotted to the back of the building wall. I could hear Hazel right behind me lugging the burning bar. I could also hear the diminishing sound of the truck’s engine as Chen Yi drove out of the alley.

My shoulder felt like an aching tooth, and I was panting heavily when I set the tank down against the building wall, then lowered it until it was flat on the ground. There was no sound from inside. Only a single faint light showed from the left hand end of the building. I counted windows until I located the one where I’d seen Erikson that afternoon. “Climb up — when I make a leg — and see if you — can see him,” I whispered to Hazel between rasping breaths.

I leaned bent kneed with my back supported by the dried-brick wall. Hazel climbed up on my knee cap platform. I’d barely locked my hands around the back of her leg to steady her when she dropped to the ground. “I saw him,” she breathed against my ear. “But there’s another man in there with him. I didn’t see any guards.”

“Some goddamn drunk thrown in with him who’ll get underfoot,” I said in disgust. “Well, the hell with it. Squat down here.” I sat her astraddle the oxygen tank. “We could have used a little practice with this, but listen closely to me now.”

I tapped the top of the tank. “See this hose and handle attachment?” I continued. “That’s the pressure control valve that meters the flow of oxygen into the bar. The hose attaches to the base of the bar — ” I screwed the coupling together as I spoke “ — and feeds oxygen through the bar’s hollow center to its ignited muzzle. The oxygen powers burning thermite which produces a flame about seven degrees cooler than a reactor pile.”

“What controls it?” Hazel whispered.

“You do.” I placed her hand on the oxygen flow control knob. “The higher the pressure, the hotter and more concentrated the flame becomes. It’s really just a variable-length torch but with nearly the heat capacity of a solar flare.”

I thought back over the procedure in my mind to be sure I’d covered everything. “When I say ‘Now!,’ you turn the knob and feed the bar a steadily increasing supply of oxygen. And when I say ‘Go!,’ you turn loose of everything and get the hell out through the hole in the fence. We’ll be right behind you. All set?”

“Yes.” I could hear the tension in her voice.

“Relax, baby,” I told her. “This is the number on the wheel we came here to play.”

The tank’s high pressure hose and the length of the burning bar brought me to within six inches of the wall. Much too close. I backed off while I carefully unscrewed the threaded cap that covered the business end of the bar. In the darkness I couldn’t see the greasy substance smeared around its muzzle, but the strong odor of its chemical compound assailed my nostrils.

I glanced upward to make sure I was directly beneath Erikson’s window, pulled on my work gloves, then worked my hands backward until they were almost half the length of the bar away from the torch end. “Now!” I said. I heard the faint hiss of oxygen as Hazel turned the knob that opened the valve to permit the oxygen to flow through the tube. The grease at the torch end of the bar began to smoke and stink unpleasantly; chemical reaction had been initiated, the forerunner of combustion.

In two seconds a licking blue flame surrounded the tip of the bar. The flame changed to a dull red, then to a bright orange. Finally with a faint sputtering sound the entire rim of the tube burst into an intensely white phosphorus glare.