One Night Stands; Lost weekends Page 3

Benny’s taunts had ceased, and he could hear the boy’s quiet breathing at the rear of the cave. Slowly, bit by bit, he let his fingers relax and his fist open, until the gun dropped from his grip and bounced gently upon the earth.

  Minutes passed. Then he heard movement at the rear of the cave, followed by the clean, metallic click of the switchblade knife. They would be coming soon. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing regular.

  A hushed whisper, followed by more movement and another click, informed him that Zeke was also awake. He waited, tense as a drum. His left arm began to itch insistently, but he didn’t even consider scratching it. He let it itch and bit harder on his lip until the blood came.

  There was more movement. He was able to sense, even with his eyes closed, that they stood in plain sight of him now. He could see them clearly in his mind—Zeke cautious, expressionless; Benny anxious, his eyes gleaming.

  Here they come. You can even hear them breathing. They’re getting closer, and you only get one chance. Get ready…

  Now!

  In one movement he snapped open his eyes and grabbed for the gun. They were barely ten feet away, rooted in their tracks as he came to life before their eyes. He raised the gun, hooked his finger around the trigger, and leveled it at Zeke’s chest.

  “Drop ’em,” he said. “Drop the knives.”

  Benny gaped like a fish. His hand trembled and the knife fell to the earth.

  “Now you,” Dan ordered. “Drop it!”

  There was no smile on Zeke’s face now. The deadpan expression was gone, too, and fear mingled with surprise replaced it. He dropped the knife.

  “Now kick them across the floor.” They did as he said.

  He let out a breath, finally. “Okay,” he said. “Now, you both lie down on your bellies, facing me. Zeke, you start crawling over here. Benny, you better stay right where you are.”

  Zeke inched his way forward. When he was within reach, Dan chopped him viciously across the head with the barrel of the gun. “Go to sleep,” he said. “Pleasant dreams, fella.”

  He lifted the gun and pointed it at Benny. “Now you,” he snapped. “Get over here.”

  “No! Please!”

  “Maybe you want a bullet instead, Benny? This is a big gun, you know? Makes a big hole.”

  Benny didn’t say anything.

  “Get over here!”

  The first swipe of the gun barrel knocked Benny unconscious. Dan hit him again, anyway.

  He worked quickly. He tore their clothing into strips and bound their ankles and wrists securely. They’d be unable to get loose for a good long while. Long before then Daley would arrive with the mail, and that would be that.

  Dan settled back, turned out the lamp, and went to sleep.

  THE BADGER GAME

  BARON FOLLOWED THE BELLHOP from the elevator to the room. The bellhop opened the door for him and followed him inside, depositing the single brown leather suitcase on the floor. His hand was ready at once to accept the crisp dollar bill Baron handed to him.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” The boy’s eyes indicated that “anything else” took in a wide range of possible services.

  Baron considered. A woman might be pleasant, but there would be plenty of time for that later. Besides, he liked to take what he wanted without paying for it.

  He dismissed the bellhop with a curt shake of his head and turned away from him. When the door closed behind the boy he kicked off his shoes and stretched out full-length upon the bed.

  Richard Baron did not look like a criminal. His clothes were expensive without being flashy—his shoes were black Italian loafers that had cost him thirty dollars a pair and the gray flannel suit cut in the latest continental style had set him back a little over two hundred. His shirts were all white-on-white and had been made to his measurements.

  The average Joe would have pegged him for a successful young businessman from the West Coast. Somebody with a little more on the ball might have made him for a hustler in the Organization—not a muscle boy, but somebody with an angle.

  Baron was a con man.

  It was, he reflected, a good life. For the moment he had nothing to do but relax, and it wasn’t hard to relax with a full wallet and $15,000 in his suitcase, fifteen grand in tens and twenties that he could spend whenever he got around to it. The oil man in Dallas hadn’t stopped payment on his check and wouldn’t even think of it.

  The oil man now thought he was the owner of several hundred acres in Canada loaded with uranium. As it happened, the oil man now owned a few hundred totally worthless stock certificates. By the time he found out he had been taken, he wouldn’t even remember what Baron looked like.

  The oil man had put up a little over $75,000. Baron’s end of the deal was twenty grand, and it would take awhile to spend it. Not as long as it might take most people, because Baron liked to live somewhat better than most people did. The better restaurants, the better nightclubs, and the better women all helped lift his life to a higher plane. He drank nothing but Jack Daniels and ate nothing but blood-rare steak.

  Actually, expensive living was essential in his occupation. It seems as though marks would only permit themselves to be swindled by men who appeared to be rich. A threadbare pinstripe might do for a sneak thief, but a confidence man had to come on strong if he wanted to score.

  Now he could bide his time. Tulsa wasn’t exactly the place he would choose for a vacation, but the telegram from Lou Farmer had indicated that Lou had a mark hanging fire in Denver that might be ripe any day. A trip to Miami or New York was out until the mark fell one way or the other.

  Baron hauled himself up from the bed and stripped for a shower. He was thirty-five but in better physical shape than when he’d been twenty and working the short con in railway stations, grifting hard for ten bucks here and twenty bucks there.

  He’d come a long way in fifteen years. A grifter’s money went quickly, but Baron had a growing bank account in New York and a healthy stack of dough in the stock market. Not in the kind of wild moose pasture that he sold to the marks, but a solid mutual fund that grew steadily and paid a nice dividend. A few more heavy scores and he’d be able to lay off for the rest of his life.

  He toweled himself dry after the shower and shaved with a straight razor, applying a few drops of aftershave lotion and a few more of an expensive cologne that he liked. He dressed again, changing to a pair of charcoal slacks and a light brown cashmere sport jacket.

  He locked the suitcase and left it in the closet, not really worried that the lock would be broken. It didn’t matter if it was; the money was snug in the case’s false bottom.

  It was too early for dinner and he walked leisurely through downtown Tulsa. It was amazing, he thought to himself, the way the average guy never noticed what was happening. He spotted a cannon mob grifting the other side of the street, working their way through the pockets of passing shoppers. Baron picked out the hook easily and watched him work, dipping easily into a mark’s back pocket and passing the wallet to one of the other members of the mob in a second. Smooth.

  Just for the hell of it he crossed the street at the end of the block and doubled back the other way. The cannons were moving toward him and he let one of the prat men bump him gently while he pretended to study the display in a shoe store. Only because he was concentrating was he able to feel the wire’s hand dip into his pocket, reaching for his wallet.

  Baron said: “Nix.”

  He half-whispered the word so that nobody but the wire would hear it. But the wire got the message. Instantly the hand was withdrawn and the wallet remained where it was.

  Baron smiled to himself and moved on. Again the prat man jostled him, this time mumbling “sorry” under his breath. Baron’s smile widened. The thief was indicating he was sorry he had made Baron for a mark.

  It was always a source of pleasure to him the way a thief could communicate to another thief without a mark ever catching on. He and Farmer and the others in his outfit could talk over the he
ad of a mark forever. And just the one word, “nix,” had put the cannon mob wise to who he was.

  Baron glanced at his watch. It was 6:30 now and he was hungry. He walked to the curb and caught a cab.

  “Take me to the best steakhouse in town,” he told the driver.

  At the restaurant he had a double shot of Jack Daniels on the rocks and a rare sirloin an inch and a half thick. He finished off with a pony of drambuie, inhaling the rich vapor of the cordial and enjoying the warm feeling as it trailed down his throat to his stomach. He paid the check and tipped the waiter generously.

  He bought a paper at a corner newsstand and glanced at the entertainment page. There were only a few nightclubs in Tulsa and none of them seemed particularly appealing. How would he spend the evening?

  A woman would be pleasant. He considered taking the bellhop up on his offer but gave up the idea. Later, perhaps, but not tonight.

  Instead he caught a cab back to his hotel and wandered into the bar. He’d just have a few drinks and then catch a full night’s sleep. If there was a woman to be picked up he would pick her up, and if there wasn’t he wouldn’t be too disappointed.

  At the bar he took the furthest stool from the door and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels with a water chaser. He tossed off the shot and was lifting the glass of water to his lips when he spotted the blonde.

  He saw her before she saw him. She was tall, just a few inches shorter than he was. And her hair was long and golden. The plain black cocktail dress emphasized her high, full breasts and her long, tapered legs.

  Her face was good, too, except for a slightly hard look about it. Looks, he decided. Plenty of looks, but not a hell of a lot of class.

  Automatically he wondered what angle she was working. She didn’t come on like a hustler, but it was a cinch she was pushing her looks in one way or another. He sipped the chaser and waited for her to make her play.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Her eyes surveyed the room rapidly and she walked directly to him, taking the seat beside him. She ordered a grasshopper and the bartender mixed the drink in a hurry and brought it to her.

  Baron paid for her drink.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling at him. “Are you with the convention?”

  He shook his head. “I’m working the C out of Philly,” he said, deciding to fill her in right away so she could save her time. If she was a pro she’d know enough to make her pitch straight instead of playing games; if she was in the rackets she would leave him alone.

  She didn’t seem to have heard him. “I came down with my husband for the convention,” she said. “You know, the auto merchants are having this convention. It started yesterday.”

  He nodded briefly.

  “My husband had this meeting tonight,” she said. “He won’t be back until one or two in the morning. It gets boring for a girl, just sitting alone in a room.”

  He smiled; she didn’t waste her time. He made her grift at once—it had to be the badger game the way she was planting her story. She would take him to her room and then her husband would come on with a gun, pretending to be furious. The hubby would threaten to kill him and settle for a cash settlement, and that would be that.

  But she wasn’t being very smooth about it. She should pretend to be more reluctant and make him do a little more of the work. Otherwise the mark wouldn’t swallow the bait whole.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dick Baron,” he said. “I just got finished working the rag in Dallas.” Now she would have to realize he was in the know.

  But she seemed totally oblivious to what he had said.

  “I’m lonely,” she said. “And I’ve got a bottle up in my room. Would you like to come up with me?”

  He almost broke out laughing. Now he had the whole picture. She was working the badger game, all right, but she wasn’t a professional at it. That’s why her approach was so lousy and why she was missing the lines he was throwing at her. She was a crook, but an amateur crook.

  And if there was one thing Baron couldn’t stand it was an amateur crook. They didn’t know the ropes and all they did was make things rough for the smart boys. Here was this blonde now, working like a slave to con a con man. How dumb could you get?

  “Sure,” he said, deciding to play along. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  On the way to the elevator she took his arm, which was another mistake. She should let him do all the work—that way he’d believe she was a straight chick taking a first fling. It would make him hotter for her and at the same time scare him silly when her partner came on the scene.

  “My name’s Sally English,” she said. “My husband and I are from Cedar Rapids.”

  He nodded and she tightened her grip on his arm. “I suppose you think I’m a tramp,” she went on. “I’m not, not really. Don’t you think I’m a tramp?”

  “I think you’re swell,” he said, thinking that anybody who made such a mess out of a simple badger dodge ought to starve to death.

  “I’ve never done this before,” she said. “I mean, pick up somebody I never met before and take him to my room. But I get so lonely.”

  In the elevator she leaned against him and he could feel the warmth of her flesh through the thin cocktail dress. Hell, maybe he’d wind up making it with her if he played it right. She might be dumb, but she was certainly built for action. The top of her head was inches from his nose and he could smell her perfume. It was cheap stuff and she used a little too much of it. But there was no denying that it increased his desire for her.

  Her room was on the floor beneath his. She led him inside and closed the door but didn’t turn the lock, explaining that her husband couldn’t possibly get home before one or two. Again, that was part of the pattern—but she shouldn’t have bothered with the explanation. She was being too damned obvious about the whole thing.

  She fished around in the dresser and came up with a fifth of blended rye, pouring tumblers full for each of them. He wondered idly whether she might be working it solo, planning on drugging him and picking his pocket. It was possible.

  At any rate he had better things to do than swill cheap rye. When she wasn’t looking he emptied his glass on the rug beneath the bed.

  He slipped his arm around her and she turned to him, fastening her mouth on his. He kissed her and her tongue probed his mouth. Even if she played the rest of it wrong she knew what to do once she was in the bedroom, he decided. That one kiss had been enough to make him ache with desire for her.

  Suddenly she stood up and reached behind her to unzip the dress. He stood up and helped, noting with approval that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Everything under the dress was hers.

  He had to draw in his breath. She had a superb body—firm and young and vibrantly alive.

  He took a step toward her.

  And then, right on schedule, a key turned in the lock, the door opened, and hubby walked in.

  Baron was perfectly calm as he looked first at the man and then at the girl. The man should have had a gun; it would have made the situation more convincing. Outside of that the pair were effective actors. The girl was cringing against the wall. The man had fury blazing in his eyes and his hands were knotted into fists.

  “Cut it,” Baron snapped, suddenly angry at the amateur quality of the whole thing. “It doesn’t work this time.”

  The man advanced on him, swearing.

  Baron decided he had had just about enough of the whole thing. Besides, he wanted the girl, wanted her as he hadn’t wanted a woman in a long time.

  He meant to have her.

  He met the man’s rush neatly, blocking a punch and countering with a right to the chest. The man sagged and Baron chopped him savagely on the side of the neck.

  Such a chop, properly done, kills a man. Baron had killed a man in just such a fashion several years back when he had to play it heavy for a change. This time he held back slightly with the blow. The man crumpled to the floor, alive but unconscious. He would remain unconscious for at least twen
ty minutes.

  Baron turned to the girl. She was cowering against the wall, her eyes wide with terror that was quite probably genuine.

  He laughed.

  “Didn’t expect that, did you? You ought to learn to tell who’s a mark and who isn’t.”

  “Please,” she said. “Please.”

  “This time,” he said, “you’re going to have to go through with it. Maybe you’ll learn better next time.”

  He took her by the shoulders and heaved her toward the bed. She stumbled for a few steps and sat down heavily. She didn’t move.

  Back in his own room Baron felt thoroughly relaxed for the first time in weeks. Sally English—or whatever her name might really be—was more woman than he had had in quite a while. She had one hell of a body and she knew what to do with it.

  Baron smiled, remembering and enjoying the memory. At first she had fought, but after a while she quit fighting and started to enjoy what she was doing.

  He laughed suddenly, wondering what the poor dope of a partner would think when he came to. The guy had been expecting a mark, not a guy who would knock him cold. It served him right for being such a damned amateur.

  Well, maybe they would drop out of the rackets now. The badger game was a short con to begin with and not an especially good one at that, but that pair wasn’t cut out for anything so professional. Maybe the girl would hustle and the guy would pimp for her. He decided that the guy wasn’t much better than a pimp. And the girl would make a fine hustler.

  Amateur crooks. They only got in the way, lousing things up for the boys who knew which end was up. They didn’t know who to take and who to pass up.

  And they always got caught. And when they got caught they didn’t know what to do, and so they wound up in the tank. Which, Baron reflected, was precisely where they belonged, the whole pack of them.

  The professionals got caught too—but they didn’t wind up in jail, not the smart ones. When they hit a town they found out who was the fixer and they established contact with the fixer before they started grifting. That way they stayed out of the jug.