Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

The biggest one had said, “Gus, we found this cutey peddling on our route.”

Lench had frowned. “You look like somebody I knew once, friend. Who are you?”

“Larry Hask. West Coast. A big fix on a number broke my little combine out there, so I came here where it’s soft.”

“Soft, he thinks it is!” Lench had said in slow wonder.

“Soft is right,” Lawrence had said. “You’ve got no penetration in your area. Stinking little candy stores and horse rooms and newsboys. Hell, you’ve got half a hundred big plants in your area. One out of every three foremen and sweepers and setup men ought to be peddling for you.”

Lench had picked up Hask’s crude pool tickets and had looked them over. “Amateur work,” he had said. “Hand-stitched, mimeographed. How could you unload these?”

Lench had flinched when Larry reached for his inside pocket, but one of the route men had said, “He’s clean, Gus.” Larry had thrown a pack of stubs onto the desk.

“You sold all these?” Lench had said.

“Yes, and right in the middle of your area, friend.”

Lench had put his fat white fingertips together. After a long pause he had said, “I can use you.”

“So can a lot of other people. But I come high. Three hundred a week and expenses.”

“You think a lot of yourself, eh?”

“So much that I don’t like your pet poodles laying their fat little hands on me. That’s the offer. Take it or I go in business for myself. And I import some talent for protection.”

Lench had hedged for two days, and Lawrence knew that he was checking higher up. Approval had come through and Lawrence Hask went on the combine payroll at the figure he requested, under the very sedate title of promotion manager. And it had taken a full year. One full year of gently prodding Gus Lench, of telling him how smart he really was, of how unappreciated he was by the higher-ups.

Carter was the top and Lench was one of the three main underlings. Carter, at Lench’s party, looked as out of place as a banker at a crap game. Tall, heavy, he had a massive dignity.

Lench had asked plaintively, “Why are you all the time pushing me? Why should you want a bigger cut for me, Larry?”

“Bigger for you, bigger for me,” Larry said.

And so the germ, once planted, had grown.

Two nights before, he had arranged the meeting with Gail. She had left Lench snoring at the city apartment, had stood on a corner with the spring wind whipping her long coat, standing where the streetlight touched her face.

When he had parked on a quiet block in the Seventies, Gail had come into his arms, half moaning, half sobbing, “Why so long, Larry? Oh, why do you make us wait so long?”

“Gus is no dummy.”

With her face at his throat, she ground her forehead hard against the line of his jaw. “Oh, how I hate him, Larry!”

He had the bottle in the glove compartment. She tilted it often. Each time, as before, he only pretended to drink, letting a slur creep into his speech.

She giggled emptily then and said, “Gus is going to be really big. Really the tops. It’s all set for the cocktail party, Larry. Mr. High-n-mighty Carter is going out.”

And then, with a sort of primitive caution, she refused to say any more, and he didn’t dare pump her.

He dropped her near the apartment. After she had gone, quickly, swayingly, around the corner, he had mopped the caked lipstick from his mouth, had rolled down the window and spat out onto the dark asphalt.

During the next two days Lench had acted much as usual, moaning because there were three five-hundred-dollar hits to be balanced against a twelve-thousand take on the first day, and gloating because, on the second day, there were no hits at all. The route men left their take at the drop-off points as usual, picking up the tickets for the following week.

Only once did Lench give Larry a slight clue that Gail had been talking the truth. He said, “How would you like a nice fat district of your own, kid? A new district with a lot of promise.”

“Carter gives out the districts in this combine.”

Lench had pawed at his loose chin. He had grinned. “Maybe he’ll let me do that. You could make a G and a half a week instead of the peanuts you’re getting.”

“When you can give it to me, Gus, I’ll take it.”

“Having a cocktail party tonight, kid. Out at the Westchester house. You know where it is. Come around about five, hey?”

“Thanks.” That solved a problem. It saved having to angle for the invitation.

Lawrence dressed quickly, came out in the trunks onto the apron of the pool before Carter left the dressing room. The water was almost unpleasantly tepid. He came up from the long dive, shook the water out of his eyes, thrust strongly out for the far edge of the pool.

Gail sat on the edge in a brief white two-piece suit. Her feet were in the water. In spite of the heat her smooth shoulders were pimpled with an odd chill and she hugged herself.

He looked up at her from the water and said, “All set?”

“For what, Larry? For what?” she asked in a flat empty tone.

He pushed off and floated on his back, looking up at the night sky through the overhead glass. When he rolled on his side he saw Lench walk out of the dressing room. Lench looked as though he were made of white wax, as though he were a clumsy Buddha that had begun to melt and then had cooled again in the moment of melting.

Lochard did not swim. He stood, sweating in the steamy heat. The redhead had changed to a golden suit. She clung to his arm and giggled up into his perspiring face.

Lawrence saw the color of the man’s face and knew that the heat had gotten to the drinks and that he would soon be ill. Carter walked out with dignity and made a fairly respectable dive into the pool. The pool began to fill up, the green water dancing, smooth limbs flashing, soft music coming from the loudspeaker over the bar. No, it would not be long now. But how were they going to do it? It had to be almost foolproof. If murder were suspected, retaliation in the line of work of Lench and Carter was likely to be rather severe.

Lawrence kept his eyes moving. He saw Lench pad wetly toward the light switches. He looked quickly for Carter. Carter was coming down the far side of the pool. Lawrence launched himself toward Carter just as the lights went out.

The air was filled with shrill screams and giggles and hoarse laughter. Closer at hand Lawrence heard a gasp of surprise, then a grunt of alarm and the beginning of a yell for help, smothered by the water before it could attract attention.

He hadn’t counted on the lights being out. In sudden fear he made a surface dive, reaching out under the water. He could find nothing. He went up, gulped air, went down again. His fingers lightly brushed smooth flesh, but his wind was almost gone. The third time he went down, his hand tangled in long hair.

He pulled as hard as he could, struggled to the surface. When he broke into the dark air, a hand splatted against his face and teeth sunk into his arm. He smashed his fist out into the darkness, missed completely. And then she was gone; he had sensed that it was a woman.

He then did what he should have done before. He made the side of the pool, hauled himself out and ran for the light switches.

There was a chorus of disappointment as the lights went on, as people moved hastily away from each other.

He said loudly, “I thought I heard Carter call for help.”

“Where is he?” Lochard bellowed. “Where’s the boss?”

Lawrence did not miss Lench’s look of venomous fury. Water stung the tooth marks in his arm.

He walked to the side of the pool, poised, dived deep, keeping his eyes open. Near the tile bottom of the pool Carter floated, his gray hair drifting silkily in the water, his face composed, his eyes half open.