Brett Halliday - Violence Is Golden

Jaime had punctuated this speech with slaps and blows. Shayne snicked back the slide of the forty-five and moved the door another inch. The robber broke the straps of the woman’s bra and turned it inside out. A small ring skittered into the aisle. He pounced on it and held it up for everyone to see.

Crane Ward finally came to his feet. “You’ve made your point. Let the woman alone.”

Jaime’s mask had huge pop eyes, a bad scar or a burn, a craggy underslung jaw. Lowering his head, he caught Ward by the front of his clerical vest and yanked him around.

“Because she hide something, I give her a kick in the pants. If a man tries to hide something, I give a crack with the gun on the side of the cheek. That way everybody knows to give me all their money.”

He walked Ward back to his seat and sat him down hard. He ground his fist deliberately against Ward’s nose and laughed.

“I spit on priests.”

He spat through the mouth hole, then wrenched the half-undressed woman around and did as he had promised-gave her a powerful kick which lifted her off the floor.

“Anyone else?” he shouted. “All of you, give everything you have and I promise we will use it for guns and ammunition to overturn the Yanqui puppets.”

His sack filled rapidly. Deciding arbitrarily that one of the old men was holding out on him, he pulled him into the aisle to be searched. Finding nothing, he apologized, gave him a pamphlet and moved on.

He bowed elaborately to the two stewardesses, in the last seat in the cabin.

“Such pretty girls. Maybe you would like to join us in the mountains? We need women to cook and mend clothes and sleep with us.”

“Thanks very much,” one of the girls said drily. “We appreciate the thought, we really do.”

Reaching down, he touched her face gently. “So pretty. Keep your money.”

He continued into the galley and bawled out loudly, “Everybody straight ahead. Look around once and I promise you-”

He dropped the sack and dried his hand on his pants. Gradually he lowered the gun until it was pointing at the floor. Shayne slid the panel open, seized the bandit’s gun hand in both his own and dragged down hard.

For that first instant, he used his full strength. The hard jerk got the movement started, and then Shayne was able to apply leverage to twist the arm. He completed the pull by releasing the wrist and delivering a short, punishing blow to the unprotected skull behind the right ear. The bandit sagged to the floor.

Moss, on the public address, was denouncing American imperialism. As far as Shayne could tell, the little flurry of movement in the galley had gone unnoticed. He ripped off the rubber mask and pulled it over his own head. Freeing the mail bag, he pulled it around to cover the Brazilian’s head and shoulders. He stood up with the forty-five.

“Got everything, Jaime?” the voice on the public address said. “You must have by now. We’ll be over Aruba in a minute. Can’t you find the buzzer? I’m worrying up here. The captain’s worrying.”

Shayne found a button labeled Cockpit and pushed it quickly. But apparently the hijackers had arranged a more elaborate signal. Moss backed into view through the curtain at the end of the passageway to the cockpit. Shayne, in his monster mask, gave him the OK signal with thumb and forefinger. Moss nodded and disappeared.

Going down the aisle, Shayne tapped Ward on the shoulder. The Negro started violently. Shayne took him back to the galley. Here he pressed the Brazilian’s thirty-eight into his hand, made a quick silencing motion, and started back up the aisle.

As he was passing Mary Ocain’s seat, the plane seemed to crash into a wall. Everything not strapped down went flying, including Mary and Shayne. He landed painfully. Mary caromed off the back of the seat in front of her and ended in the aisle beside him. She had a twenty-two automatic in one fist. He clamped his big hand over it and whispered, “Cut it out. I’m Shayne.”

“Oh, God. I was going to-”

Moss’s voice called, “Nothing to worry about. Ran into a little turbulence. Jaime, let the stews take orders for drinks. The captain wants Scotch, I’m certain. I think I’ll have the same.”

Shayne picked his way along the aisle, which was littered with bags and glasses and boxes of Kleenex. He entered the cockpit.

Moss, as he had announced, was holding a gun to the back of Lassiter’s neck. The co-pilot and flight engineer, both looking pale and scared, glanced at Shayne, then turned their heads quickly.

Moss saw the reflected mask in the windshield. “It’s OK. It’s OK. No sweat. Do you know what this madman tried to do? Kick us downstairs. I saw it coming, and luckily there’s nothing wrong with my reflexes. Get back there and tell the girls to hustle up with the Scotch.”

Shayne touched the nape of Moss’s neck with the forty-five. “Drop the gun.”

Moss’s head jerked around, then held steady. “Is that you, Shayne? Where the hell did you fall from, you son of a bitch?”

Shayne said patiently. “Open your hand and let it go.”

Moss shook his head. “Too many charges against me. Don’t be in such a hurry!” he said sharply as Shayne’s hand came up to take the gun. “I’ve got a bad rap waiting in the Congo, and I’ll be damned if I go back there quietly. You’ll do me a favor by shooting me. I’ll kill Joe to make you shoot. Shoot first if you want to, I’ll get him with the twitch.”

“We’ve got a co-pilot,” Shayne said. “He can take the plane down.”

“Mike!” Lassiter protested, his hands frozen on the controls. “Listen to what you’re saying, for God’s sake.”

Moss said hurriedly, “Make a deal, Shayne. No tricks. You’ve got your airplane back. Let me parachute over the oilfields. It’s only a fifty-fifty chance, but I generally do OK at even money-Stay where you are!” he told the copilot, who had slipped out of his seat. “Whatever you do, don’t slug me. That’s a sure bullet in Joe’s head.”

“Clancy,” Lassiter said pleadingly. “We don’t want to be vindictive with this guy. Hell, it’s politics, and who cares?”

“You don’t believe that,” Moss said with a white, crooked grin. “I never heard of the National Liberation Front before yesterday.”

“Did you take that gold at LaGuardia, Moss?” Shayne said.

“Don’t talk about gold. We’re talking about life and death.”

Clancy, the co-pilot reached around Shayne and touched Moss lightly on the neck. Moss jerked away.

“What was that?” he said sharply. “What are you trying to pull? Clancy, break out a chute. Fair’s fair. Nobody lost anything. They’ll all have a good story to tell when they get back home.”

Clancy said, “I think he’s got us by the short hairs, Joe. Why don’t we let him jump? The chances are they’ll pick him up before he can get out of the country. And the big thing is, you’ll be alive.”

“Something in that,” Lassiter agreed.

All at once, Moss’s shoulders lost their tension. He lowered the gun, turned around and smiled at Shayne.

“Mike Shayne. You look great in that mask, baby. It does something for you.”

Shayne picked the gun out of his fingers. Lassiter breathed out in relief.

“You won’t give us any more trouble now, will you, Jimmy? You’re going to put your hands out for the handcuffs.”

“Absolutely,” Moss agreed. “But it was a good try. We lost a man last night, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t think we could make it with just the two.” He leaned back against the wall. “Somebody say something about a drink?”

Shayne sent the co-pilot a questioning glance.

“A tranquilizer,” Clancy explained. He showed Shayne a small disposable syringe. “When somebody went out of his head in the old days, he could break up the plane. Now you hit him with a needle and he starts agreeing with you.”