The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (20 page)

He had thought anyone would see that, even a scatter—
headed female. A thing like this, my God, the insurance people would
be like starving tigers on a manhunt if they suspected— and of
course they would suspect, not being fools. But she did not see, she
was determined to keep that money: Mr. Skyros, sitting at his desk
that Friday afternoon worrying, mopped his brow agitatedly. Bring
them all down on her like— like the Assyrians in that poem, she
would, and eventually on Mr. Skyros too. Because she would naturally
not hesitate, come to the point, to name him, believing he was an
innocent upright businessman with all his ways open to inspection.

And, oh, God, this Domokous business . . . He had
thought the police were quite satisfied about Domokous, but were
they? Were they still investigating? God only knew. Mr. Skyros had
just returned from the funeral, where he had received another little 
shock— Domokous had been engaged, the girl was there. The girl— a
sullen— looking young woman— now what might she want, asking if
she could come to see him tomorrow afternoon? He would tell her, he
decided, that Domokous' salary had been due, and he felt she should
have it in lieu of any family. Yes. The picture of the kind, friendly
employer he had presented at the funeral. Maybe she only wanted to
ask him for a job or
something.

Domokous . . . Really a chapter of accidents, that
had not been necessary at all. These violent people— no finesse, no
understanding! Domokous had known nothing; Mr. Skyros had seen at
once that he was only too anxious to believe it a misunderstanding,
and any halfway plausible little story would have sent him away
satisfied. But not after he'd been knocked unconscious from behind.
Or even before that, after the little argument with Donovan there—

Suddenly Mr. Skyros sat bolt upright in his chair and
called upon God. He had remembered something. He saw Domokous with
that list in his hand, picked up from the desk, and Donovan swearing,
reaching for it— he heard the little snap of tearing paper. Part of
it had torn away— had it? If so, what had become of it? Did it
include anything which might be dangerous?

He must ask Donovan about it.

These terrible violent men. Killing, that was
dangerous: a prudent man found other means, did not get into
situations which might lead to such actions. But circumstances, as
the saying went, alter cases. There Domokous was, knowing that
something wrong was going on, and what to do with him? He was not the
type to be bought off, that Mr. Skyros knew: a most tiresomely honest
young man.

Two birds with one stone. Involve Bratti. One could
hope, at least. But Mr. Skyros had not at all liked anything about
that business; he had had as little to do with it as possible...

He had been worried then, sitting there in his office
thinking about it; but three minutes later his worries increased. The
phone rang and he took it up to hear the voice of one Eugene Castro,
whom he had once known well.

"Listen," said Castro, "the boss don't
like fancy tricks played on him .... You know what I mean. Big joke,
hah, telling your Frog lady-friend about how Bratti's a real
old-fashioned gangster, hot cannon man at his elbow night 'n'
day-hah?— so she tries to hire him to take off a guy she don't
like. That's a dilly of a joke, Skyros— real belly laugh!"

"What? My friend, I don't know what you're
talking about— "

"Skip the friend. It kind of annoyed the boss,
an' I wouldn't say but what it's maybe give him ideas. You can still
buy it, you know just where to go an' who to see, contact a dropper
for rent. You pull another one like that, an' the boss just might go
lookin', Skyros." The receiver thudded in his ear.

Mr. Skyros clutched his temples. Heaven above knew he
was not sorry that Bratti was annoyed, but— ! "Your Frog
lady-friend"— what had this crazy woman been up to now?

And then the phone rang
again, and it was Angelo, with the news that Prettyman and three of
his boys were in jail, and the Elite raided and the entire month's
supply confiscated.

* * *

Jackie Donovan was worried as hell, and the worst of
it was, it wasn't the kind of worry he could share aloud with
anybody. Not even Denny. God, Denny least of all— Denny always
looking up to him as the boss, Jackie the one knew all the answers,
called all the shots. Always had been. So, sure, it was just this
first little while, kind of getting back on his feet after that long
a stretch— but he didn't like this funny feeling, not being sure.

Doing things a ten— year-old kid— Like a nervous
kid on his first job.

That sap. Dropping it like that. And of course he'd
had gloves on, but he'd handled it before without, and he didn't know
whether the holding it with the gloves after would have maybe wiped
out all the prints.

He sat in the park thinking about it, worrying about
it, but worrying a lot harder about something else. About a feeling
he'd been having since he remembered about the sap, a feeling he
hadn't even dared admit to himself until just now.

That sap, maybe with a print. So they'd know. And
they'd put him back inside.

And he didn't care— he wanted to be back inside.

No! Acourse that was a crazy damn-fool thing, just
part of being first out after so long. He'd be feeling his old self,
thinking like his old self, pretty soon now, and looking back to all
this and laughing. Private-like, to himself.

Some guys did get that way. So they felt— lost—
outside. Inside, you knew about everything. Just what was going to
happen, when. You didn't have to think, and plan, and worry. Some
guys got so they didn't like it outside; it was easier in.

Jackie Donovan, my God, wasn't one of those! Fifteen
years or fifteen hundred, he'd never be one of those!

Better think about that little thing. How the hell to
get it back. Not in the car, that he was sure of, and so he'd figured
she'd must have found it. He'd been surprised it turned out to be a
dame, the name such a funny one; but all the easier, in a way— he'd
had plenty of time, go through the apartment careful, and he'd swear
it wasn't there. So then he'd figured she had it on her— and that
had gone all wrong . . .Everything, God, going wrong. He thought
vaguely maybe he oughtn't ever to've let Denny and Frank get to where
they just waited for him to give the orders: if they'd had to think
out things for themselves, maybe they wouldn't have got into such
messes when he got sent across, wasn't there no more. Well, so O.K.,
they'd made out all right, in a sort of way, but just no sense about
looking ahead. Getting tied up to pushers . . . That Angelo. Well,
all right, Angie'd been a good guy once, lot of fun sometimes, a nice
little guy, and dependable too: jobs he'd done with them, Angie'd
maybe pulled them out of a spot, couple of times— good driver,
then, he'd been. You could figure it was old times had held Denny to
Angie, and that was fine, ordinarily: nobody liked a guy ran out on
l1is pals. But the minute Angie had got onto that lay, and started
taking sleighrides himself, Denny ought to've dropped him but quick.
Instead, he let Angie take Frank into it, and— Water under the
bridge. You had to think about here and now. Damn fool Denny bunking
down with Angie— just have somebody to talk to, after Frank was
gone! Jackie hadn't got the straight of this business yesterday, if
somebody had talked or the cops had just found out something on their
own, and he didn't much care. It'd given him the excuse to pull Denny
out, anyways. To say, maybe if somebody'd talked, the cops knew about
all of them, about Angie too, and better they split up. Angie'd seen
the sense in that. Didn't matter where Angie'd gone; let him go his
own way from now on, forget him. Angie said, now this other guy was
inside, and marked, probably he'd get his job— specially as he knew
the middleman Skyros. Well, knew who he was. That kind, like Skyros,
was usually leery of getting known much, but Angie happened to know
him, account of Frank— way Denny'd got in with him too, on this
other deal.

And what a deal. Of all the crazy things: Jackie'd
got to feeling a little like how Denny did, better get shut of it any
old way.

When you came down to it, anything they got off it
was profit, like Denny said. Ten thousand for that. But it really
griped him that Skyros had to get a fifty percent cut— sure, so
he'd set it up with the dame, but what was there to that? My God, if
he'd got out sooner himself, before Denny made the deal, he could
have set it up with her just as good, and the ten thousand between
him and Denny. Skyros, this chiseler . . .

So what about that little thing he'd lost? He was
wondering now if maybe that other dame had ever had it at all. He'd
thought of the car, first place, because things did slip out of your
pockets sometimes, sitting down; but it could have happened other
ways. When he came back to the Caddy, that day, he'd been feeling
kind of mean— way that guy in there had looked down his nose at
him— and you didn't notice things much, feeling like that. Maybe
when he reached to get the keys, it had dropped out. Could be.
Dropped onto the grass in the parking there, or in the gutter.
Could've been laying there ever since— unless they cleaned up, a
gardener with a rake or something— but a little thing like that . .
. If it was in the gutter, other shorts'd gone over it, it might be
covered up with leaves and muck— Not awful likely anybody would
have found it.

But, God, how could he go and look? He thought he
could remember just about where, but in a place like that, everybody
noticing . . . He could say he'd dropped his keys or something—
yes, and ten to one a gardener, or some kids, wanting to help look.
Oh, the hell with it— if he did find it, no need let anybody see,
stick it in his pocket and pretend to keep on looking for what he'd
said he'd lost. Nobody would notice. If he didn't get it back, that
would be noticed all right.

That damned sap. If there was a print— Didn't want
get Denny in trouble. Just as well Denny didn't know anything about
it; he could say so, if—

Donovan got up and walked out of Pershing Square,
down Sixth to Main, and down Carson to the cheap rooming house where
they'd moved last night, him and Denny. There wasn't a garage; the
Caddy P was sitting on the street. The Caddy Denny'd gone and got
back for him. He got out his keys slowly, got in and started her. He
felt a little bit easier with her now.

He drove out Exposition to the park and into the
grounds, found a place to put the Caddy, and walked up to where he'd
parked that day, near as he remembered. There were parked cars almost
solid here, I damn it, couldn't go crawling under every one to see.
But he did what looking he could, peering along the gutter between
cars.

After awhile, just as he'd figured, a guy came along
and stopped and asked what was wrong. "I dropped my keys
somewheres," said Donovan, "somewheres right along here, I
think it musta been— damn fool thing to do, but you know how these
things happen."

"Oh," said the guy, "that so? Hope you
find 'em, damn nuisance all right. You don't, you better go and ask
at the Lost and Found desk in at the museum— maybe somebody's
turned 'em in."

"Gee, yes, maybe so," agreed Donovan. The
guy got into the car by the curb there and started the engine.
Donovan realized maybe he'd been suspicious he was looking her over
with an eye to hopping her. But it left a space free to look at ....
He waited for the guy to jink her out into the street, and all of a
sudden he noticed something and his heart dropped.

The car didn't have fender aprons, and as it pulled
out he could see the treads of the back tires; and on the left one,
there was an old bent metal slug of some kind half-buried in the
rubber, sticking there .... This damn hundred-and-ten weather, the
asphalt going all soft, your shoes'd stick to it sometimes, crossing
the street— a little thing like that, sticky with asphalt, getting
glued onto a tire easy, carried away God knew where. Or more likely,
ground down into the asphalt when tires went over it.

For half a minute there he felt like he could cry,
just sit down on the curb and bawl like a kid. He felt the sweat
trickling down his back, in the merciless muggy heat; and he knew for
sure that thing was gone for good, he'd never get it back. He thought
of what trouble that would make.

He thought of Angie saying, anything to do with an
ace of spades, bad luck. And maybe Angie was right.

And all of a sudden,
again, he felt kind of homesick— for the place you didn't have to
worry what was going to happen tomorrow . . .

* * *

Driscoll lay awake miserably on the hard cell cot and
worried over his sins. What the hell Howard would say to this—
wel1, all right, he knew what the hell Howard would say! And damn it,
you could say all Howard's fault in the first place— picking at
him, criticizing— so he wanted, by God, to show Howard just how
good he was— Damned cops. All bullies, taking any excuse to— And
unless he was the hell of a lot luckier than he'd been lately, this
would mean his job.

All right, so he'd just have to do what he could on
it, now. Tell the damned cops what they wanted to know, all pals
together, apologized all over the place for how he'd acted—
personal troubles, he'd say, he knew he'd been drinking too much—
lay it to that— give a guy a break, I didn't mean to— So they
wouldn't go sending any official complaint to the company. Howard
needn't ever hear a word about it, with any luck. O.K.