James Chase - Knock, Knock! Who's There?

He saw a movement through the open window and his hand flew to his gun. Then he relaxed as he saw Freeman coming across the clearing, carrying a burlap sack that jerked and writhed in his grasp.

Snakes!

Johnny grimaced.

What a way to earn a living!

Five minutes later, Freeman came into the bedroom, carrying two glasses of ice cold beer.

“How’s the ankle?” he asked, giving Johnny one of the glasses and then sitting on the end of the bed. “Still hurts, but nothing bad.”

“I’ll take a look at it in a moment.” Freeman drank, sighed, then set down the half-empty glass. “I found three Cottonmouths. You’ve brought me luck.” He smiled, “Do I ask your name, friend or would you rather I didn’t?”

“Call me Johnny.” A pause, then Johnny said, “Do you always treat strangers the way you’re treating me?”

“You’re the first. Yes, I believe in helping people when I can. A long time ago I needed a lot of help myself and someone came along and helped me. It’s something I remember. Cast your bread upon the waters.” Freeman chuckled. “I’m not a religious man, but that saying makes sense to me. There’s one thing I’ve learned, living the way I do and that’s not to ask questions and to accept people on face value.”

“That’s as good a rule as any,” Johnny said quietly.

“I guess I’m lucky you found me.”

“Let’s have a look at the ankle, then I’ll help you undress, I’ve got a spare pair of pyjamas you can have.”

Gently, he removed the bandage, soaked it in ice water, and replaced it. Then he helped Johnny out of his jacket.

Only for the briefest moment did Freeman pause when he saw the gun holster and the gun. Then he waited until Johnny unbuckled the harness and put the gun down by his side.

“That’s part of my trouble, Johnny said.

“I guess it’s part of a lot of people’s troubles these days,” Freeman said. “Let’s get your pants off,” and he gently drew Johnny’s trousers over the injured ankle.

There was a tinkling sound and Freeman looked down. He bent and picked up something, then looked at Johnny. “Is this yours?” he asked. “It dropped out of your trousers’ cuff.”

He held out his open palm.

Lying in the middle of his palm was the St. Christopher medal.

Johnny lay staring out of the open window at the moon-lit jungle. From the other bedroom, he could hear Freeman snoring softly. He held the St. Christopher medal in his hand.

It had come back to him, he was thinking, but at what a cost!

All the time he had been searching for it, it had been in his trousers’ cuff as if jeering at him! Had it not been for the medal he would have still been working for Massino, helping him in the search for the missing money! Because he panicked, believing the medal was in Andy’s office, he was now on the run. He felt like throwing the medal out of the window and cursing it, but he was too superstitious to do this.

As long as you have it, nothing really bad can happen to you.

He could hear his mother’s sad, weary voice as if she were in the room with him.

Well, he had it back! So maybe the organization wouldn’t find him. Maybe, after all, he would have his boat. Maybe he would be the first man in history to escape the Mafia’s death sentence!

He hooked the medal onto the chain and squeezed the hook tightly shut.

But lying there, watching the rising moon, listening to the sounds of the wind in the trees, the medal cold against his sweating chest, gave him no comfort.

He lay sleepless until the dawn came and then he slept and while he slept two cars, with the pick of Massino’s mob, converged on the scene of the truck accident.

Lu Berilli was in charge of the operation. The cars pulled up as the sun began to climb, lighting the jungle.

Berilli surveyed the dense jungle facing him and grimaced. This, he now realized, was going to be a hell of an operation. If Johnny was hiding somewhere in these thickets, someone could get hurt, and Berilli had no stomach to come up against a man with Johnny’s reputation for fast shooting. He wished he had kept his mouth shut, but it was now too late. Eight men crowded around him, waiting. They were all tough and trigger-happy: specially picked by Massino.

“This is the spot,” Berilli said, trying to sound confident. “We’ll split up. Three of you to the left: three to the right. Freddy, Jack and me go down the centre. Watch it! He’s in there somewhere. Don’t take any chances.”

The two he had picked to go with him—Freddy and Jack—were button men who had worked for the Mafia and had been loaned to Massino as the New York police were hunting for them: ruthless killers, utterly without nerves.

Freddy was in his late twenties: thin, hard, dark with stony eyes and an irritating habit of whistling through his teeth. Jack was five years older than Freddy. He was a garotte artist, short, squat with restless flat eyes and an inane grin that was a fixture on his fat face.

The men split up and moved into the dark jungle.

Reaching the burned-out truck, Berilli paused.

“Some smash,” he said. He looked down the path that led deeper into the jungle. “Jack, you go ahead. I follow you. Freddy keeps in the rear. Take it slow. He could be holed up anywhere in this goddamn mess.”

Johnny came awake as Freeman opened his bedroom door.

“Good night?” Freeman asked and gave Johnny a cup of tea.

“Fair.” Johnny sat up and gratefully sipped the tea.

“I’m off into the jungle,” Freeman said, “but I’ll take a look before I go.” He went out and returned with a bowl of ice water, changed the bandage, then nodded his satisfaction. “It’s coming along, the inflammation has gone. I won’t be back for seven or eight hours. I’ll leave you some cold stew. You want a book?”

Johnny shook his head.

“I don’t read books. I’ll be okay.”

“I’ll lock you in and pull the shutters. You don’t have to worry. No one ever comes here, but let’s play it safe.”

Johnny’s fingers touched his gun.

“I’ll be fine… and thanks for everything.”

With a bowl of cold rattlesnake stew by his side, a supply of cigarettes and a flask of ice water, Johnny settled down on his hard little bed. Freeman swung the heavy slatted wooden shutter’s closed.

“It’ll be hot later,” he said, “but better too hot than sorry.” He seemed to sense the danger Johnny was in. “Sorry to leave you, but I’ve got to find a cranebrake rattler. The hospital is yelling for its serum. Could take me all day.”

“I’m fine,” Johnny said. “Maybe I could use a book… anything but the Bible.”

Freeman went into the living-room and, after a while, came back with a copy of The Godfather by Puzo.

Johnny hadn’t read a book since he had left school. When he found this book was the story of the Mafia organization he became absorbed in it. Time fled away. So absorbed was he that he forgot to eat the cold stew and it wasn’t until he found the light was fading as it came through the slatted shutters and he had difficulty in seeing the print that he realized he was hungry, that his ankle no longer ached and it was 17.20 by his watch.

“If books are as good as this one,” he thought, “I’ve been missing something.”

He was finishing the cold stew and about to light a cigarette when he heard the lock turn in the cabin door. Hurriedly, he dropped his cigarette and reached for his gun.

“It’s me,” Freeman called and came into the small bedroom. “I think there’s trouble. There are three men heading this way. They didn’t see me. They’re all carrying guns.”

Johnny struggled upright.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes or less. Come on, Johnny, I can hide you where they won’t think of looking.” Freeman hoisted Johnny up on his left foot. “You hop. Don’t put any weight on your bad foot.”