Invitation to Violence

    

    

    
From Kirkus Review

    Gerald Hanna is rudely jolted out of his humdrum existence as an insurance actuary-with a longstanding librarian fiancee-when a dying man with a big boodle in gems lands in his car. Disposing of the body, Hanna keeps the jewels and manages to get the best of both the cops and the robbers who are on his tail… Progressively tricky and tense.

    

    

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    Ignoring the legal aspects of the matter, the question still remains. Is Gerald Hanna a rogue and a criminal? Is he, in fact, a cold-blooded murderer; a man who callously permitted another man to be killed so that he could profit to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars?

    Or, as some believe who were intimate with him and thoroughly conversant with the details of the situation, is Gerald Hanna merely a fearless, public-spirited citizen who did his duty as he saw it?

    There are a number of opinions on the matter and it is significant that these opinions vary widely. Certainly Sue Dunne, herself deeply involved in the incidents surrounding the case, has her opinion. And so does Miss Maryjane Swiftwater, who, although she really knows nothing of what went on, has been Gerald's fiancee for more years than she cares to remember and certainly knows him well.

    It is a coincidence that Fred Slaughter should have shared the opinion held by Detective Lieutenant Hopper, as each man was vitally concerned, but from completely different sides of the fence.

    Young Vince Dunne himself might have formed a very firm attitude about the thing, but unfortunately Vince didn't live long enough really to know Gerald Hanna. He met Gerald only once in his life and then but for a few moments. Although the contact was very brief, it was extremely intimate. The thing is that Vince was really in no condition to form any opinions about anything, at the time of their encounter.

    One thing is sure. When Vince sneaked away from the small apartment he shared with his sister Sue on that fatal Saturday evening to keep his rendezvous with Dommie and Jake, he had no idea that such a person as Gerald existed, let alone that he would ever meet him.

    It is more than probable that any conjecture concerning the matter of Gerald's character would be more or less pointless and without value, unless one were to sit back and, calmly and with dispassion, review the events which actually took place and learn at firsthand exactly what did and what did not happen.

    These, then, are the facts.

    

    

    Vince Dunne was the first one to show up at the tavern where they agreed to meet shortly after ten o'clock. He carried the black leather jacket, the gas mask and the peaked cap in a small zipper bag, along with the .38 and the half box of cartridges.

    There was something vaguely furtive about his manner as he pushed through the wide, half-curtained door and entered the place. He was aware of this characteristic and it annoyed him. He was nineteen years old, old enough to walk up to any bar and order a drink. But he felt the shyness and the hesitancy he always felt when he went into a barroom, or in fact, any public establishment.

    He looked his age, but no more, and he always worried that a bartender would turn him down when he walked to the mahogany counter and ordered a drink. The idea of having to prove his age, in front of a lot of strangers, embarrassed him and as a result, his manner was not only furtive but a little defiant as well. He walked as though he carried a chip on his shoulder and being rather slight and of no more than medium height, this tended to give him a somewhat tough and arrogant manner.

    He didn't want to be mistaken for a kid, but if it had to be that way, he wanted people to know that at least he was a tough kid. It was a little unfortunate as actually he was normally a pleasant-looking boy with wide-spaced eyes in an overly sensitive face. He had a slightly snubbed nose, a generous mouth, but a rather weak chin. It may be said that these identical facial characteristics in his sister made her an extremely attractive girl.

    Vince didn't look at all like a boy who would be carrying a .38 revolver.

    He had left the house a little before he had to, knowing it might be tough getting out. Sue was home and she would, quite naturally, want to know where he was going and why.

    Any other night but this particular Friday would have been fine. Sue worked evenings, but this was her night off and she was home. She was home, and as always, she was suspicious. She'd been suspicious about everything he did since they'd let him out on probation.

    Sue was nineteen also; his twin sister. Her attitude really burned him up, but Vince was in no position to complain. He was fresh out of the can and Sue was paying the bills.

    Vince was the man in the family, but it was Sue who'd been holding things together since the death of their mother. He rebelled against her, but it was a silent sort of rebellion and never flared into open resentment. In his heart Vince knew that Sue really cared for him; really wanted to keep him out of trouble.

    So Vince had told her that he wanted to hit a late movie and although she hadn't believed him, she'd let him go and now he was here and waiting. Waiting for Dommie and Jake.

    He could count on Dommie being punctual. Dommie was twenty-one and he still lived with his mother and father and he, too, would have trouble getting away from his house. Like Vince, he'd foresee the trouble and make his alibi early. Dommie was a lot more afraid of his father and his mother than he was of the police.

    Only Jake would be able to stroll in at exactly the moment he was expected to arrive. Jake was in charge of the job, had even helped plan it with the big wheel who was backing them and who was the real brain; the one who would take the stuff off their hands and dispose of it.

    Vince had heard a lot about this man-this big heel. He didn't know him by name because Jake was a lot too smart to throw names around, but Vince had a pretty good idea who he was. He'd met several of Jake's friends and knew that Jake had important connections. Jake usually introduced them as "Mr. Smith" and there was one particular "Mr. Smith" who'd been taking a lot of interest in Vince lately. He had his own ideas all right, but he'd been much too smart to get nosy. It was one thing he'd learned while doing his stretch-don't get nosy. It didn't pay, not if a guy wanted to get places.

    When Dommie came into the place, some fifteen minutes after Vince himself showed, he didn't as much as acknowledge Vince's presence with a nod. He just walked right past him and went up to the bar and ordered a shot, although Jake had warned him against it.

    "A beer, nothing else, while you're waiting," Jake had said.

    It was no problem as far as Vince was concerned. He didn't like whisky and only took a beer now and then to show that he was grown up. But Dommie liked his booze. Not that he was a lush or anything like that; he just liked a quick shot now and then to give him a lift. Vince couldn't blame him for disobeying Jake's orders. He would very likely need that lift before the night was over.

    Dommie had the tricky job. He was the one who would handle the chopper and he had to be on his toes, had to be keen.

    As Jake explained it while they'd been making the plans, "You have to have perfect coordination; a submachine gun is a lot different than a sawed-off shotgun or an automatic."

    "Not that there's much chance you'll have to use it," Jake said. "But if you do, you gotta be right. There's just twenty shots in each clip and there won't be any chance to change clips once you get into action. With perfect timing, you can limit a burst to five or six shots. That means you get three bursts. Four at the most. Then you are through.

    "You gotta remember that and you gotta be absolutely calm and cool. If you do have to use the thing, it's going to mean we're in a jam and that's the one time it isn't easy to be calm. So you have to remember. Three rounds, four at the most. No time to reload if anything goes wrong. If you blow up and hold your finger on the trigger and let all twenty shots go at once, the last ten of them are going to be up in the air because that's the way a chopper works. And you won't be getting any second chances."

    Later on they'd driven up to the place in the Catskills, the farm that belonged to one of Jake's "Mr. Smiths," and Jake had taken the machine gun out of the case and had let Dommie get familiar with it. Dommie had shot off one clip, and right away he knew what Jake had been talking about. He'd had to be satisfied with the single clip as Jake didn't want to take any chances on creating curiosity and attracting attention.

    Dommie was finishing his drink when Jake walked into the tavern. Jake didn't look at either of them, but went at once to the men's room. Vince turned away from the juke box and went out and climbed into the rear of the Ford sedan standing at the curb a couple of doors down the street. The parking lights were on and the engine was idling.

    Dommie got in a moment later, sitting in the front, and then Jake was back behind the steering wheel and they were pulling away from the curb.

    "Any trouble about the car?" Vince asked, leaning forward as Jake swung into Northern Boulevard and headed east down the island and away from Corona.

    "None. Don't talk."

    He's touchy, Vince thought. Edgy. Well, he couldn't blame him. They were all edgy. Hell, who wouldn't be, starting out on a caper like this?

    

    

    It is an ironic coincidence that at this very moment, the moment Jake Riddle, driving east on Long Island, ordered Vince not to talk, Gerald Hanna should have pushed his hand into the discard, yawned widely and said, "There's too much talk."

    Gerald leaned back in his chair and looking a little bored and a little amused, shrugged his shoulders and continued.

    "I think I'll just call it quits for the night and take off," he said. "Have to be up early, you know. I'm about even and I should be getting…"

    They didn't give him a chance to finish.

    "It's early, kid," Herb Potter said. "You can't quit now. We need you. Stick it out for another hour. You'll bust up the game if you leave now. Come on boy, just another hour."

    Gerald sighed as the others joined in with Potter, urging him to stay.

    Well, what the hell. He might just as well hang on for a little longer. It really didn't matter too much. The game bored him, but so did everything else. Even the idea of leaving and going home and getting the sleep which he wanted and needed, bored him.

    "O.K," he said. "O.K, deal 'em out, boy. If you insist on making me a rich man, what can I do about it?" Gerald laughed and pushed his ante toward the center of the table.

    "I guess you're right. It really doesn't make any difference if I leave now or I leave later."

    He couldn't, of course, have been more wrong. It made all the difference in the world and to a great many persons, none of whom, with the exception of Maryjane Swiftwater, Gerald's fiancee, he had ever met or even suspected existed.

    

    

    Jake drove at a reasonable speed, careful about stoplights and signs. He tried to concentrate on his driving and think of nothing else, but it was impossible to devote his entire attention to the road, methodically unfolding in front of his headlights. His mind kept going back to Sammy.

    My God, Jake thought, in another few years Sammy would be as old as that punk in the back seat. In less than six months the boy would be having his bar mizvah, and then, if time went as fast as it had been going these last few years, before he knew it, the boy would be a man. A man in body and in heart and in mind.

    Well, there was one thing for sure. Sammy wasn't going to turn out like young Dunne, or like Dommie, sitting here beside him. Sammy was going to keep on going to school. To high school and then to college and after that, by God, if he wanted to be a doctor or something, he could still go on learning. Jake was going to make sure of that, if it was the last thing he ever did. Sammy wasn't going to end up like these other kids. He was going to learn something, going to be a gentleman.

    Sammy was his and Belle's son, their only child. But it wasn't even that which mattered. If they'd have had ten kids, he'd have felt the same way about it. They would all have the same opportunities, all be brought up right. To have respect for their parents and to be good, decent members of society.