Night Squad (20 page)

      Kingsley patted Corey on the shoulder. “You're in,” Kingsley told him. “You got yourself a contract.”

      “What terms?”

      “The price you quoted. One third off the top.”

      “Regardless of the take?”

      “That's right. The take is what you say it is, you walk away with five hundred grand.”

      Ernie let out an anguished yelp. “That's way outta line.”

      “Close your head,” Lita hissed at Ernie.

      “But you can't let him have all that.” Ernie was very agitated. “It don't make sense.”

      “Close it,” Lita hissed.

      “Don't you tell me nothin',” Ernie yapped back at her. “I wanna holler, I'll holler. Christ's sake, I got a right to holler. I have stock in this corporation—”

      “Me too,” the colored man cut in quietly, and yet it sounded loud in the room.

      Kingsley looked at the colored man. “What's the matter, Gene?”

      “It's rotten eggs,” the colored man said. “This time I go along with Ernie.” And indicating Corey, “He's taking us. He gets that one third, he's cutting our throats.”

      “No he ain't.” Kingsley spoke softly, soothingly. With his eyes he coded a message to Gene, and Gene's eyes relayed the message to Ernie.

      Kingsley said to Corey, “Now here's what we do—first you spill. You gimme the location, the exact location where the loot is stashed. I go there with Lita and we pick it up and come back here—”

      Corey was shaking his head.

      “What's the objection?”

      “Them,” pointing to Gene and Ernie. “You leave me here with them, I won't be sitting in this chair when you come back. I'll be on the floor with a hole in my skull.”

      “Why do you say that?” Kingsley frowned.

      “Because that's what'll happen if I let it happen. Because all it needs is one bullet. And that leaves me out and they get a bigger slice.”

      “Now look, I give you my word—”

      “It's gotta be more than that.”

      “Such as what?”

      “That's up to you,” Corey shrugged. “You're the dealer here.” And in his brain he looked at the cards he was holding. He saw four cards, a ten, a jack, a queen and a king. He sat there waiting and hoping.

Come on
, he spoke without sound to Delbert Kingsley.
Come on, dealer, deal me that ace.

      Kingsley was gazing thoughtfully at the floor. Some moments passed and then he said to Corey, “All right, let's try it this way—you make the trip with me and Lita. That is, you'll navigate. We pick up the loot, you get your split then and there. If it's cross-up, you get this,” and from under his shirt he pulled out a .38.

      Without sound Corey said,
Thank you dealer man.

      Ernie was saying, “What about me and Gene?”

      “You and Gene stay here,” Kingsley said.

      “What for?”

      “A caper like this, the less the better.”

      “How you mean?”

      “Less chance of a foul-up,” Kingsley said.

      “That ain't how I see it,” Ernie grumbled. “The way I see it, we oughta—”

      “You starting again?” Lita frowned at Ernie.

      “I'm only saying—”

      “You're saying nothing,” Kingsley cut him off. “You'll do what you're told and that's all. I'm getting tired of your goddam yapping. I'm trying to do some thinking here, and you stand there running your fat mouth. With noise coming out. Just noise.”

      “It's more than noise,” Ernie stood his ground. “I'm makin' a point and you know it. You hit for that cash, me and Gene should be there when it happens. Ain't that right, Gene?”

      The colored man looked at Ernie, looked at Kingsley, then at Ernie again. Kingsley and Lita exchanged a glance. Kingsley smiled pleasantly at Ernie and Gene and said to them, “Now look, you two wanna talk it over, that's all right with me.”

      They hesitated a moment. Then they moved off to one side and commenced a whispered conference. They had their backs to Kingsley. His pleasant smile remained pleasant as he aimed the .38 and pulled the trigger and almost in the same split second, aimed again and pulled the trigger.

      On the floor the colored man was facedown, motionless. Ernie was on his knees, coughing and bringing up blood. He crawled toward Delbert Kingsley. He was weeping and the tears dripped down, mixing with the blood that spilled out of his mouth. He said to Delbert Kingsley, “Why'd you do that? Did you hafta do that?”

      Kingsley nodded slowly.

      “No,” Ernie wept. “No, you didn't hafta do that. Not that.” He coughed again and fell over on his side. His mouth opened wide, making an effort to pull some air into his lungs. But before he could do that, his body became rigid.

      “Check him,” Kingsley said to Lita.

      She went over to Ernie, examined him and said, “He's done.”

      “Check the jig.”

      Lita went to Gene and felt his pulse and told Kingsley there was no pulse. She walked back to Kingsley and stood beside him. They both looked at Corey Bradford.

      “Up,” Kingsley said, motioning with the gun. Corey got up from the chair. Kingsley and Lita moved behind him.

      “Let's travel,” Kingsley said.

      The three of them walked out of the room.

13

      There was no talk as they went through the hallway and down the stairs. Lita had switched on a light in the hallway, flicked another switch to illuminate the parlor. They moved slowly, going through the parlor, toward the front door. Corey was slightly in front with his hands at his sides. Kingsley prodded him with the gun and told him to clasp his hands behind his back. Then Kingsley told Lita to take a look outside. It was possible the shots had awakened some neighbors, and he didn't want heads sticking out of windows. Lita opened the front door, gave the street a long careful look, said there were no eyes out there. The gun nudged Corey's spine and he walked out of the house, Lita beside him, Kingsley close behind, letting him feel the gun as they moved along the narrow street. Corey said, “Why the pressure with the rod? We got a contract, ain't we?”
      “Just wanna be sure you don't break it,” Kingsley said.
      Corey slackened his pace and glanced over his shoulder, giving Kingsley a look, and in the same moment aiming the look past Kingsley, checking the address of the house from which they'd emerged. The number was chalked on the splintered front door. It was four-thirty-one. He told himself to file that number, and went through the memory trick of adding one to three and getting four, then repeating the arithmetic until it was engraved in his brain.
      There was a street sign posted at the intersection. In the darkness he could barely make it out. It read Harold Street. He'd turned his head only slightly to look at the street sign, but Kingsley noticed and said, “Whatcha lookin' at?”
      “Nothing.”
      Kingsley prodded him with the gun. “Keep your eyes where they belong. In front.”
      Corey came to a stop.
      “Move,” Kingsley said. “Keep moving.”
      Corey stood still. Kingsley jabbed him with the gun, but he didn't budge. Kingsley and Lita frowned puzzledly at each other. Then Kingsley pushed the gun very hard against Corey's spine and gritted, “You feel this?”
      “Get it off me,” Corey said quietly.
      The gun kept pushing against his spine. It was spreading pain through his back. He winced and squirmed. He heard Kingsley say, “You'll move or I'll split you in half.”
      “No you won't. You burn me, you're losing a million dollars.”
      Kingsley decreased the pressure of the gun, then gradually eased it away from Corey's spine.
      “That's better,” Corey said.
      “Then move.”
      Corey started walking, Lita again at his side and Kingsley close behind him.
      They were crossing the intersection. Lita was saying to Corey, “What was all that about? That stubborn-mule routine?”
      “Forget it,” Corey muttered, making it sound as though he was bitterly resentful of the clobbering he'd taken from the gun.
      Kingsley said to Lita, “Don't pay him no mind. He's just sensitive, that's all.”
      “Only at times.” Corey accented his resentment. “Like when I'm gettin' pushed around. It didn't call for strong-arm and you know it.”
      “What a crybaby,” Lita said.
      “We'll hafta buy him a balloon,” Kingsley said. “That's what you do with a crybaby.”
      “Screw that noise,” Corey faked cold anger. He turned his head to let Kingsley see the ice in his eyes. “It ain't the black and blue marks that bother me. What bothers me, you clubbed me with the gun because you're jittery. And that makes it sloppy. Christ's sake, this ain't no small-time heist; it's strictly major league. We gotta handle it smooth and I mean smooth all the way.”
      “Listen to the man,” Kingsley said to Lita. “The man talks big.”
      “And that's how it should be,” Corey spoke firmly. “It needs big talk because the money is big. And I got every right to open my mouth—”
      “With a gun at your back?”
      “The hell with the gun,” Corey said. “There's more important items on this schedule. We gotta make sure there ain't no slip-ups when we get where we're going. Because one mistake and we're all loused.”
      “He's right,” Lita said. “He's absolutely—”
      “Shut up,” Kingsley barked at her. And then quietly, to Corey, “What gives here, exactly? Whatcha tryin' to prove?”
      “Not a goddam thing. It's just that I wanna see gold instead of grief. I'm looking to get that percentage, that thirty-three-and-a-third.”
      Kingsley smiled. “You'll get it, partner. You'll get all you're entitled to, don't worry.”
      They were approaching the Oldsmobile. It was parked across the street. They crossed and Lita climbed in first, getting behind the wheel. Kingsley told Corey to get in the back seat, then followed and sat down beside him. Lita started the engine and said, “Where we going?”
      “The house,” Corey said. “Grogan's house.”
      The car moved off. Corey leaned back, his head resting against his folded hands. He didn't look at Kingsley or at the gun in Kingsley's hand. Kingsley sat half-facing him, the gun held low, somewhat loosely, not really aimed at Corey.
But it's loaded
, he reminded himself.
It's a wall of fire and there's no hotter fire than a .38 slug.
      Lita was driving slowly, carefully. The car turned a corner, made another turn and then another, and they were on Addison going toward Second. It was still very dark. There was no activity on Addison; the only sound was the engine's noise and Kingsley's breathing. Kingsley was breathing very heavily.
So he's worried too
, Corey thought.
He's plenty worried and that breathing tells it, all right. It's a sure sign his blood pressure is way up. He's jumpy as a cat in an unfamiliar alley, because this party we're on, it's the kind that would scare any third-rate thug accustomed to third-rate jobs. He got jolted when you gave him the hint he was biting off more taffy than he could chew, when you told him this job was major league. And I'm betting if you put your hand on his chest right now you'd feel his pump banging away full-blast.
      The car made the turn onto Second Street.
      Corey said to Lita, “Drive past the house.”
      “Why do that?” Kingsley asked. “Why not just park outside and go right in and—”
      “Use your head,” Corey cut in quietly. “Before we make a move, we check the layout. We take a good careful look at them windows. To see if there's any lights.”
      “There won't be any lights,” Lita said. “When I left the house, he was sound asleep.”
      “He's a sound sleeper?” Corey asked.
      “He sleeps like a stiff,” Lita said.
      “But it's best to be sure,” Corey spoke with quiet urgency. “Just drive a little ways past the house—”
      The Oldsmobile slackened speed. It was crawling at less than ten miles per hour as it passed Grogan's house. The windows were dark. On the other side of the street the Spanish automobile was parked. Lita braked the Oldsmobile, then put it in reverse, cut the engine and the Oldsmobile coasted back, coming to a stop directly in front of the Spanish automobile.
      Lita opened the car door and started to get out. Corey said, “Hold it.”
      “What for?” Kingsley demanded.
      “Instructions,” Corey said.
      “Not from you,” Kingsley gritted through heavy breathing. “I'm running this show and I'll give the instructions.”
      “All right,” Corey shrugged. “I'm listening.”
      Kingsley took a very deep breath, through his nose. Then he opened his mouth to talk but all that came out was air. He tried again and the same thing happened. When it happened a third time, Lita turned her head slowly and looked curiously at Delbert Kingsley. Her eyebrows lifted, her lips were tight at the corners. Without sound she was making a sarcastic comment. Then she said to Corey, “Go on, call the signals. Somebody's gotta call the signals.”
      “God damn it,” Kingsley sputtered. “If you'll just gimme time to think.”
      “There's really nothing to think about,” Corey said mildly. “It comes to instructions, there's just one thing we gotta remember. From here on in we move like cats. I mean absolutely quiet. We get in the house and we hafta talk, we'll talk in whispers. Another thing, we can't switch on any lamps. I'm gonna need a flashlight.”
      “Why no lamps?” Kingsley asked tightly, suspiciously.
      Corey sighed patiently. “Police cars,” he said. “They drive past the house and see a light, they might come knocking on the door. Just to ask Mr. Grogan if everything's all right. Because Mr. Grogan is a very important man and he's buddy-buddy with the precinct captain. And the police in this precinct, they give Mr. Grogan the best of protection.”
      “All right, all right,” Kingsley muttered. “You don't hafta hammer it in.”
      Lita had opened the glove compartment. She took out a three-cell flashlight with a large lens and handed it to Corey. As Corey tested the glow on the floor of the car, Kingsley snatched the flashlight from him and handed it back to Lita.
      Corey gave Kingsley a mild questioning look.
      Kingsley smiled thinly. “She'll hold the flashlight. That is, if you don't mind.”
      “It makes no difference,” Corey shrugged.
      “It makes plenty of difference,” Kingsley spoke slowly to get the point across, mostly for Lita's benefit—to let her know he was still in charge and that he knew what he was doing. He kept smiling thinly at Corey. “If I let you hold the flashlight, and you switched it off when we're in the house, then I wouldn't be able to see you. Which means I couldn't cover you with this,” indicating the gun. “Because it's this that binds you to the contract.”
      “I'm wise to that fact,” Corey smiled lazily. He didn't bother to look at the gun.
      Kingsley said, “We ready?”
      “Ready,” Lita said.
      “Ready,” Corey said.
      “Let's roll it,” Kingsley gritted.
      They got out of the car and walked slowly across the street, then they quietly went up the steps. Lita took a key case from her skirt pocket, Corey at her side and Kingsley slightly behind Corey, the gun lightly touching Corey's side. Lita delicately put the key in the lock, turning the key noiselessly. Only a slight clicking sounded as the lock gave way. She opened the door and they went in. Kingsley carefully closed the door as they stood close together in the darkness of the vestibule. Then Lita switched on the flashlight and they went through the vestibule into the parlor. The glow from the flashlight was very bright and covered a wide area. The yellow-white brightness was reflected back at them from the shiny ebony and teakwood furniture, the jade and quartz lamp-bases and ornaments, the oriental brass fireplace and the glimmering bronze bulk of the placid-faced observer, the Buddha.
      Lita half turned her head, whispering to Corey, “Where do you want the light?”
      “On the fireplace,” Corey whispered.
      She aimed the flashlight at the fireplace. The light shone for an instant on the ornately designed brass andirons, then focused on the brass poker in its holder, and then back to the andirons.
      “In closer,” Corey whispered, and Lita moved forward going toward the fireplace. Corey followed close behind and Kingsley right behind Corey. The gun was pushing against Corey's ribs and there was a hissing noise as Kingsley breathed in hard through his teeth. The hissing noise became louder and Corey turned his head and whispered to Kingsley, “Quiet—quiet—”
      Kingsley tried to calm his breathing; his mouth stretched tightly as he made the effort. He was staring past Corey, his eyes very wide and glittering, aiming at the fireplace.
Like the eyes of an animal
, Corey thought.
A starving animal going stark raving crazy with knowing it's there. It's the feast and it's really there.
      “Get it,” Kingsley whispered, trembling. “Get it, get it.”
      Corey motioned to Lita, then pointed to the floor of the fireplace. She focused the flashlight in that direction, and Corey got down on his hands and knees, inching forward with Kingsley staying close to him, the gun now aiming at his head. He knew it was aiming at his head and he said to himself,
well, here we go, and it's all or nothing, and come on dice be nice.
      He was crouched at the side of the fireplace, reaching in behind the andirons, pretending to be very deliberate as his hands went sliding slowly across the brick floor of the fireplace.
      “One of them bricks?” Kingsley whispered. “It comes loose?”
      Corey nodded. Then he shifted slightly and bent lower and reached in deeper along the floor of the fireplace. Lita moved in from the side, the flashlight extended to provide more light. Kingsley stepped closer to Corey and hissed feverishly, “Which brick is it? Show me.”
      “Look there,” Corey whispered, but didn't point to any particular brick. His pointing finger was waving vaguely. “Right there.”
      Kingsley leaned closer. He was peering over Corey's shoulder. Corey crouched lower, as though to give Kingsley a better view of the bricks along the back wall of the fireplace. As he did that, his shoulder was just a few inches away from the brass holder supporting the brass poker. And then, faking it, making it appear accidental, he swerved just a little to the side and his shoulder bumped against the brass holder and it was tipping over.
      As the holder and the poker toppled toward the andirons, Kingsley reacted instinctively to prevent the sound of brass crashing against brass. He made a grab for the falling holder, and in that fraction of a second he was an open target and Corey delivered a slashing blow with his hard clenched fist, the knuckles bashing Kingsley's jaw. Corey followed with another right hand to the jaw, then a sizzling left hook that hit Kingsley in the throat. Kingsley, now semiconscious, was losing his grip on the gun but still tried to bring up the gun and aim it and squeeze the trigger. Lita stood there motionless, frozen, unable to believe what she was seeing. The flashlight was loose in her hand, her brain incapable of functioning technically. Without knowing it, she was aiming the flashlight at Kingsley, the glow showing Kingsley on his knees as he kept trying to bring up the gun. Corey hit him again on the jaw and he dropped the gun. Then he rolled over, flat on his back, his eyes closed.
      Corey picked up the gun. He did it with his left hand, his right hand bent limply, the knuckles swollen and bleeding. He brought his right hand to his mouth and licked some of the blood from his knuckles. He had the gun pointed at Lita, smiling dimly, with pity. She didn't seem to know he was there. She remained motionless, the flashlight still focused on the prone senseless form of Delbert Kingsley. The sight of Kingsley stretched out cold was too much for her to take and her green eyes were wide and glazed, as though she was in a trance.